[sofs16]

𝘴𝘰𝘧𝘴16⋆｡°✩

📂 sof. f1 rookie. music enthusiast. cl16. ln4. marvel.

requests. for 𝘤𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘭𝘦𝘴 𝘭𝘦𝘤𝘭𝘦𝘳𝘤 and 𝘭𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘰 𝘯𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘪𝘴 fics:) i mostly write social media aus🫀

inbox. i am also very open to talking through pms or my inbox! feel free to say or ask anything! not guaranteed i’ll do all reqs:)

001. 𝗺𝗮𝘀𝘁𝗲𝗿𝗹𝗶𝘀𝘁 | 002. 𝗳𝗶𝗰 𝗿𝗲𝗰𝘀 ⋆⭒˚｡⋆

[my-dailydreams]

[landoslog]

On Call | Two of Two

Pairing: Lando Norris x EX!Personal Assistant!Reader

Description: You're Lando Norris's former personal assistant—fired eighteen months ago after he told you he loved you in a Qatar hotel room, then panicked. Now he's a World Champion with a new girlfriend and a mess of an assistant, and he needs you back. Just for two weeks of training, he says. Except Lando's never been good at keeping things professional, and some feelings don't stay buried.

Genre: second chance romance, forced proximity, angst with a happy ending, workplace-adjacent tension, emotional groveling, he's down BAD

WC: 21k

Note: Firstly, I want to apologize for how long this took to put out. I really struggled with finding the ending that felt right. And the paragraphs may feel overwhelming in length—I hit the 1,000 block limit like 40 times and had to condense everything. I proofread, stopped, then proofread again because it didn't feel good enough, and the cycle continued. So, about half is proofread and half isn't, which means there could be errors. Thank you for your patience and your kind words. I want to wish you Happy Holidays if you celebrate, and I'll continue doing my best with this little hobby of mine.

Leaving your job is the best thing that's ever happened to you. That's what you tell yourself, anyway. That's what you've been telling yourself for a year and a half now, and if you say it enough times, eventually it might feel true. The severance package Lando gave you was obscene. Guilt money, obviously, even though you're not calling it that out loud, but that's what it is—guilty money, hush money, please don't sue me for firing you thirty seconds after I came inside you money. Enough that you don't need to work. Enough that you're free.

Free. You're so fucking free that you've tried pottery three times and hated it every single time. You're so free that you've reorganized your closet by color, then by season, then by color again because the first way was better. You're so free that last Tuesday you stood in the shower and counted to three hundred just to see if you could.

The clay fights you. That's what they don't tell you about pottery. Your hands cramp and the instructor keeps saying feel the clay's energy like the clay has energy, like the clay is anything other than wet dirt that collapses the second you think you're getting somewhere. You even tried running. Running is just you and your thoughts for however many miles you can stand. Not ideal. Not even close to ideal. Guitar's gathering dust in the corner. Duolingo sends you passive-aggressive notifications about your streak. You've considered learning Portuguese but that feels pointed, feels like something you shouldn't examine too closely.

Two weeks ago, Lando Norris won the World Championship. You watched it from your apartment because you're a masochist, apparently. You sat on your couch in Monaco and watched him spray champagne and cry and lift the trophy, and you thought, good for him. You thought, I'm happy for him. You thought those things and none of them were true.

Last Friday he went to the FIA Prize Giving ceremony in Rwanda with his beautiful girlfriend to collect his trophy. The photos were everywhere. Every sports website, every F1 account, probably on the fucking news in countries that don't even have racing. His girlfriend, Magui, wore a black dress that made her look like a goddess reincarnated. He wore a tuxedo. They looked like they were attending their own wedding. That's a thought you're not examining. That way lies madness.

You abandon your collapsing bowl. Scrub the clay off your hands—it gets under your fingernails, stays there for hours. The instructor asks if you're signing up for next week. "I'll think about it," you say.

You're not signing up. You already know you're not signing up. Outside, Monaco is cold for December. Your apartment is fifteen minutes away if you walk fast, twelve if you're really moving. You've timed it. You don't go home, and you tell yourself you're just walking. Just getting some air. Just clearing your head after an hour of fighting with clay that had no interest in becoming anything other than a lopsided mess. That's what you tell yourself, and maybe it's even true. Except you're walking toward the harbor instead of toward your apartment, which is the opposite direction, which means you're either lost in your own city or you're lying to yourself. Probably the second one.

And the wonderful thing about Monaco is that it's small. Stupidly small. You can walk from one end to the other in under an hour. Which means you can't really avoid anything, can't really escape anyone, can't really pretend you're not living in the same two square kilometers as—you stop that thought before it finishes.

There's a sports bar on the corner. The kind that has screens covering every available wall, the kind that shows every race, every match, every game that matters. You've walked past it a hundred times. You've never gone in.

Today, you're going in. Just for a drink, you tell yourself. Just for one drink because it's cold outside and your apartment is empty and you're allowed to get a drink at a sports bar without it meaning anything. The bartender is maybe twenty-five, definitely Australian, probably works here because Monaco is where F1 people end up when they're not important enough to actually work in F1. He looks up when you walk in.

"What can I get you?"

"Vodka tonic." He makes it. You don't drink it. Instead, you just hold it and look at the screens because that's what you do in sports bars, you look at the screens. There are eight screens total. Three of them are showing football. Two are showing tennis. One is showing some sport you don't recognize—maybe rugby, maybe something else entirely. And one is showing a replay of the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix. The final lap. Lando crossing the line. The radio message. The celebration. You watch him climb out of the car. Watch him collapse into his team's arms. Watch the whole thing you already watched two weeks ago from your couch, except now you're watching it in a bar in Monaco while a drunk British guy three seats down yells "FUCKING LEGEND" at the screen.

The bartender notices you watching. "You follow F1?"

"Not really," you lie.

"Shame. That race was incredible. Norris finally did it, you know? After all these years."

"Yeah. I heard."

"Best season I've ever seen. Guy's a machine." He's polishing a glass, still talking. "And his girlfriend, mate. You seen her? Absolute smoke show."

You finish your vodka tonic in one go. It burns. "Another?" the bartender asks.

"No. Thanks." You pay and leave. Outside, the cold air hits you like a slap. You start walking. Not toward home. Just walking again. The thing about Lando firing you is that you still don't understand it. You've had a year and a half to make it make sense and it doesn't. It will never make sense.

He'd looked at you. Really looked at you, the way he used to in hotel rooms and empty conference rooms and all those in-between moments when it was just the two of you and nothing else in the world mattered. He'd touched your face. You'd touched his. For one perfect second, you'd thought maybe this is it, maybe this is where everything gets fixed. Then his expression changed and he'd pulled away and gotten dressed like he couldn't stand to be near you anymore.

I fucking love you, he'd said. In that hotel room in Qatar, buried inside your cunt, saying it like it was being torn out of him. Like he couldn't help it. Like he actually meant the fucking words. And then ten minutes later, boom, you're fired.

Just like that. You're fired. Two words that ended everything. You've spent eighteen months trying to figure out how someone tells you they love you and then removes you from their life entirely. How someone can look at you like you're the only person who matters and then just stop. Just move on. Just win a championship and fall in love with someone else and be happy, be so fucking happy that you can see it in every photo, every interview, every goddamn Instagram story.

He touches her differently than he touched you. He touches her casually. His hand on her waist, his fingers interlaced with hers, easy and comfortable and public. Like he's allowed to. Like it's simple. He never touched you like that. He touched you like he was desperate. Like he was trying to memorize the feeling. Like he was afraid—of what, you still don't know. Afraid you'd disappear, maybe? Afraid someone would see? Afraid it meant something.

It did mean something. It meant everything. At least it did to you. You miss him. That's the pathetic truth of it all. You miss him so much that sometimes you can't breathe. You miss his 3 AM phone calls. You miss fixing his disasters. You miss the way he'd look at you when he thought you weren't paying attention, like he was trying to figure out a puzzle he couldn't solve. You miss the feeling of him. His hands, his mouth, the weight of him, the way he'd say your name like it meant something.

You miss all of it and he's moved on and you're walking through Monaco at sunset thinking about someone who fired you eighteen months ago and probably hasn't thought about you since.

Your doorbell rings at 9:16 PM on December 19th. You're not expecting anyone. You consider ignoring it—consider pretending you're not home, consider going back to the book you're not reading. mBut, then, the doorbell rings again.

You should just pretend you're not home. Should pretend a lot of things that aren't walking to the door. You walk to the door anyway. Look through the peephole and your heart stops. Actually fucking stops in your chest. Lando Norris is standing in your hallway. He's wearing a cream Loewe sweatshirt and jeans, one hand shoved in his pocket while the other coddles his phone, and he's looking at it like he has all the time in the world. His hair is also shorter than it was in Qatar.

So, you do the only rational thing, the totally rational thing, and open the door. "Finally." He looks up from his phone. "I was about to use the spare key."

"You don't have a spare key."

"Don't I?" He walks past you into your apartment before you can stop him. "Nice place. Very clean and entirely very sad."

"Excuse me?"

"It looks like no one actually lives here." He's examining your bookshelf now, tilting his head to read the spines. "When did you become this person?"

"What are you doing here, Lando."

"Came to see you, obviously." He picks up a book, flips through it, puts it back in the wrong spot. "How've you been?"

"How have I been? Are you fucking kidding me?"

"Yeah. How are you? What've you been up to? Pottery, I heard. That's cute."

Your stomach drops. "How did you know about pottery."

"I know things." He sits on your couch. Your couch. Like he belongs there. "You quit that too, I assume. Seems to be your pattern lately."

"My pattern."

"Quitting things. Pottery, yoga, that book club." He gestures at your apartment. "Living like a goddamn ghost."

"Get out."

"In a second. I need to talk to you about something first." He leans back, arms spread across the back of your couch. "The new assistant isn't working out."

You stare at him. "Emma. She's trying, I'll give her that. But she's not you. Doesn't think like you. Doesn't anticipate things like you did." He says it so casually. Like he's commenting on the weather. "She's kind of useless, actually."

"And?"

"And I need you to train her."

The audacity. The fucking audacity of Lando Norris. "Are you insane?"

"No. Why would I be insane?"

"You fired me."

"I know. I was there."

"You fired me eighteen months ago and now you're asking me to train your replacement."

"She's not your replacement. That would imply she's anywhere near as competent as you were. Which she's not." He examines his nails. "I'm asking you to train her so she can be at least seventy percent as useful as you were. That's all."

"Get out of my apartment."

"Why are you being so difficult about this? It's a simple request. A few weeks of your time. I'll pay you whatever you want. You're not exactly busy." His eyes flick around your apartment. "Are you."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

"The point is you fired me. The point is you told me I was done. The point is you haven't spoken to me in a year and a half and now you show up here like nothing happened."

"Something happened?"

You want to hit him. Want to actually punch the asshole in the face. "Qatar. Something happened in Qatar."

"Oh, that." He waves a hand. "Ancient history. We've both moved on."

"Have we."

"Haven't we? You have your pottery classes. I have my championship." He smiles. That smile. The one that used to make you feel like you were in on a joke and now just makes you want to scream. "We're both doing great."

"Lando."

"What?"

"Get the fuck out."

"I'm at the Fairmont. Room 412." He stands up, stretches. "Think about it. I need an answer by tomorrow morning."

"The answer is no."

"Sure it is." He's walking toward the door. Pauses with his hand on the doorknob. "You look good, by the way. Tired, but good."

He leaves before you can respond. You stand there in your apartment. Your very clean, very empty apartment. Your heart is doing something in your chest and your hands are shaking. Lando Norris showed up after eighteen months and asked you to train his assistant like it was the most reasonable request in the world. Made you feel crazy for being angry. Commented on your home and your pottery classes and the fact that you're living like a ghost. How does he know about the pottery classes. How does he know anything?

You walk to your couch. The cushion where he sat is still slightly compressed and you stare at it. He knows about pottery. About yoga. About the book club you got kicked out of. He's been watching. Or keeping track. Or something. For eighteen months you thought he'd forgotten about you entirely. That you'd been erased from his life as cleanly as you'd been erased from his Instagram captions. And now it turns out he's been aware of you this whole time. Aware enough to know about pottery classes in Monaco. Aware enough to know you quit.

The Fairmont is twelve minutes from here if you walk fast. You're not going to the Fairmont. You're not training Emma. You're not doing any of it. You lasted forty-seven minutes before you grabbed your keys.

When you enter Fairmont hotel, you walk past the front desk without making eye contact with anyone, past the bar where well-dressed people are having well-dressed conversations, past the elevator bank to the one marked for floors three through six.

You press the button. Wait. Watch the numbers descend. Four, three, two, one. The doors open and you step inside before you can change your mind. Fourth floor. Room 412. The elevator is playing jazz, soft and inoffensive, the kind of music designed to make you forget you're in a metal box suspended by cables. You watch the numbers climb. One, two, three, four. The doors open.

The hallway is long and carpeted in a pattern that's probably meant to be elegant but just makes you slightly dizzy if you look at it too long. Room 412 is at the end, past eleven other rooms, past the ice machine, past the window that overlooks the harbor. You stand there for a moment. The door is dark wood with a brass handle and a number plaque that's slightly crooked. You can hear voices from one of the other rooms, muffled by walls and distance. Someone's watching television. Someone else is laughing. You knock on Lando's door.

The door opens immediately, like he was standing right there, like he was waiting.

"Took you long enough," Lando says. He's changed. Different sweatshirt, this one grey, same jeans. His hair is still damp like he showered after leaving your apartment, and you can smell his soap from here—clean and you don't recognize it but that fits him anyway, fits this version of him that exists in hotel rooms and galas and Instagram posts with his girlfriend.

"Can I come in or are you going to make me stand in the hallway?"

He steps aside and you walk in. The room is bigger than you expected, bigger than it needs to be for one person. There's a king bed with white sheets, a sitting area with a couch and two chairs, a desk by the window with a view of the harbor that's probably spectacular in daylight but right now just shows darkness and distant lights. His suitcase is open on the floor, clothes spilling out in a way that's chaotic and familiar and makes your fingers itch to organize it. There's a bottle of champagne on the desk. Two glasses next to it.

"You knew I'd come," you say.

"Of course I knew." He closes the door behind you. "You always come." The certainty in his voice makes you want to scream.

"Don't flatter yourself."

"I'm not flattering myself. I'm stating facts." He walks past you to the desk, picks up the champagne bottle, examines the label like it matters. "You lasted, what, an hour?"

"Forty-seven minutes."

"Forty-seven minutes." He looks at you now, really looks at you, and there's something in his expression that you can't read, something that might be satisfaction or might be something else entirely. Either way, you don't entertain the thought. "You counted."

"I count everything now."

"I know you do." He says it so casually, like it's obvious, like of course he knows. And maybe he does know. Maybe he knows about the counting and the pottery and the book club and every other pathetic thing you've been doing for the past eighteen months while he's been winning championships and falling in love.

"How do you know about the pottery classes?" you ask.

"I told you. I know things."

"That's not an answer."

"It's the only answer you're getting." He pours champagne into both glasses even though you haven't said you want any. "Emma will be there on Monday. I need you there by nine."

"I didn't say yes."

"You're here, aren't you?"

He hands you a glass and you take it. You're not sure as to why you take it but you do, and now you're standing in his hotel room holding champagne and trying to remember how you got here, trying to remember the exact sequence of decisions that led from your apartment to this moment. "This is insane," you say.

"Probably."

"You fired me."

"I remember."

"You told me you loved me and then you fired me."

Something flickers across his face. Fast, there and gone before you can identify it. "That was a while ago."

"So?"

"So we've both moved on." He takes a sip of his champagne, watching you over the rim of the glass. "Haven't we?"

"I don't know, have we?"

"You tell me." He sets his glass down on the desk, leans back against it. "You're the one who showed up at my hotel room at ten PM."

"You literally asked me to."

"I asked you to think about training Emma. I didn't ask you to come here." He tilts his head, studying you in that way he used to. "But here you are anyway."

You hate that he's right. Hate that he knew exactly what would happen when he showed up at your apartment. Hate that after eighteen months of nothing, he can still make you do exactly what he wants with barely any effort at all. "Why me?" you ask. "Why not hire someone else to train her? Someone who doesn't have a history with you?"

"Because no one else knows how I work."

"That's not a good enough reason."

"It's the only reason." He crosses his arms. "You know my schedule better than I do. You know what I need before I need it. You know how to fix problems before they become problems. No one else can do that."

"Emma could learn."

"Emma is twenty-three years old and terrified of me. Every time I ask her a question she looks like she's going to cry." He says it without sympathy, just a simple observation, a simple fact. "She's not you."

Your stomach lurches, "Good. She shouldn't be me."

"Why not?"

"Because being me got me fired."

"No." He pushes off from the desk, takes a step closer. "Being you got you promoted from assistant to whatever we were. Getting fired came after."

"After you decided you were done with me."

"I never said I was done with you."

"You fired me. That's pretty definitive."

"Is it?" He's close enough now that you can see the exact color of his eyes in the hotel room lighting—that blue-green that changes depending on what he's wearing, what the weather is, what mood he's in. Right now they're darker, more blue than green, and fixed on you with an intensity that makes your stomach twist. "Because here you are. In my hotel room. Eighteen months later. Doesn't seem very definitive to me."

You should leave. Should put down the champagne glass you're still holding, should walk out of this hotel room, should tell him to train Emma himself or hire someone else or figure it the fuck out on his own. You don't leave.

"Monday," he says. "Nine AM. MTC. I'll have everything ready for you—schedules, systems, all of it. Two weeks. That's all I need."

"And after two weeks?"

"After two weeks you go back to your life. Pottery classes or whatever else you're doing to pass the time." The dismissiveness in his tone makes you want to throw your champagne in his face.

"I want double your normal consulting rate," you say instead.

"Done."

"And I'm not working with you directly. Just Emma."

"Fine."

"And if she's actually incompetent, if she can't learn this, I'm out. I'm not babysitting someone who can't do the job."

"She can learn. She's not stupid, she's just not you." He picks up his champagne glass again. "Anything else?"

"Yeah. What does your girlfriend think about this?" The question comes out before you can stop it. You watch his expression carefully, looking for any sign that it bothers him, that the mention of Magui does something to him the way the thought of her does something to you.

Nothing. His expression doesn't change at all. "Magui doesn't care about my work arrangements," he says.

"You told her you're hiring your ex-assistant as a consultant?"

"I told her I'm getting help training the new hire. She said that's great." He takes another sip. "She's very supportive." Of course Magui is supportive and understanding and completely unthreatened by the fact that her boyfriend is hiring the woman he fired after sleeping with her. Of course she's goddamn utterly perfect.

"Monday," you say. "Nine AM. Two weeks. Then I'm done."

"Deal." He sets his glass down, extends his hand like this is a business transaction, like you're colleagues making an agreement and not two people who destroyed each other eighteen months ago.

You shake his hand. His palm is warm, rough with calluses from the steering wheel, and the touch of it against your skin makes something in your chest crack open. He doesn't let go immediately. Just holds your hand for a beat too long, his thumb brushing once against your knuckles in a gesture that might be accidental or might be completely intentional.

"It's good to see you," he says quietly.

You pull your hand back. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't do that. Don't make this into something it's not."

"What am I making it into?"

"You know what."

He smiles. That smile. The one that used to make you feel like you were the only person who mattered and now just makes you feel like you're losing a game you didn't know you were playing. "Monday," he says again.

You leave before you can do something stupid like stay. The hallway is the same length it was before—forty-three steps from his door to the elevator. You count them again anyway. Count them and try not to think about the way his hand felt against yours, the way his eyes looked in the hotel lighting, the way he said it's good to see you like he meant it.

The elevator arrives. You step inside and watch the numbers descend. Four, three, two, one. The doors open to the lobby and you walk out past the bar, past the front desk, past all the well-dressed people living their well-dressed lives. The night air hits you when you step outside and it's cold, colder than it was before, or maybe that's just you.

Monday. Nine AM. Two weeks. You just agreed to spend two weeks training Lando Norris's new assistant, in the same building as him, probably seeing him multiple times a day, pretending that Qatar never happened and that the past eighteen months of pottery classes and counting ceiling tiles were a completely normal and healthy way to process getting fired by someone who said they loved you.

This is fine. You're fine. Everything is completely fine. You walk the twelve minutes home and try to convince yourself that you haven't just made a catastrophic mistake.

Monday arrives with the kind of crystalline Monaco morning that makes you hate how beautiful everything surrounding you is. The sky is aggressively blue. You stand outside the MTC building at 8:47 AM because you're not going to be late, not going to give Lando the satisfaction of waiting for you.

The severance money means you don't technically need this. Could've said no. Should've said no. But here you are anyway, in black trousers and a cream cashmere sweater, your hair pulled back, looking professional and composed and like someone who definitely didn't spend three hours last night googling "how to train someone when you're emotionally compromised."

The building looks the same. Glass and steel and McLaren orange accents, you've been here a thousand times. Walked these halls, sat in these conference rooms, fixed Lando's disasters in every possible corner of this building. You take the elevator to the third floor. Lando's offices are on the fourth, but you're meeting Emma in the conference room, neutral territory. The elevator doors open and she's already there.

Emma is standing outside Conference Room B, clutching a tablet to her chest like it's a life preserver. She's twenty-three, with dark hair in a neat ponytail and wide brown eyes that get wider when she sees you. "Oh my god," she says, and her voice is high and nervous and sweet. "You're here. You're actually here. I'm Emma. Obviously. You know that. Lando said you'd be here at nine but I got here at eight-thirty because I didn't want to be late and I've been standing here for—sorry, I'm talking too much. I do that when I'm nervous. I'm Emma."

"You said that already," you say, but you're smiling despite yourself because she's like a puppy, earnest and eager and probably thirty seconds away from peeing on the floor from excitement.

"Right. Yes. Sorry." She clutches the tablet tighter. "Thank you for doing this. Lando said you were the best and he wasn't exaggerating, I've read all your notes, like all of them, the system you set up is incredible and I've been trying to follow it but I keep messing things up and last week I accidentally booked him on a flight to Barcelona instead of Budapest and he didn't even yell, he just looked at me like I'd kicked a puppy and that was somehow worse—"

"Emma."

She stops mid-sentence. "Yeah?"

"Breathe." She takes a breath. Then another one. "Sorry. I'm nervous. You're kind of a legend around here."

"I'm really not."

"You are, though. Everyone talks about how you could predict what Lando needed before he even asked, how you saved the Singapore weekend when his passport got stolen, how you once fixed a PR disaster with seventeen minutes' notice—"

"That was fifteen minutes."

"See?" Emma's face lights up. "That makes it even more impressive."

You can't help it. You laugh. It's been eighteen months since you laughed in this building, maybe longer. "Come on. Let's get started."

Conference Room B hasn't changed. Same long table, same uncomfortable chairs, same view of the parking lot where you can see Lando's cars if you crane your neck. You don't crane your neck. You spend the first hour going through systems. Calendar management, how Lando color-codes everything but never looks at the color-coding so you have to verbally remind him anyway. The specific way he likes his schedule printed—landscape, not portrait, because he's a psychopath. His coffee order, which changes based on what country he's in but follows a pattern if you pay attention.

Emma takes notes on everything. Actual notes, handwritten in a neat script, asking questions that are surprisingly intelligent. "What about when he's being difficult?" she asks around 10:15. "Like when he just doesn't want to do something?"

"Give me an example."

"Last month he had a sponsor call with Tag Heuer and he just didn't show up. Turned his phone off, then I found him at the gym."

You nod. "That's a Marcus problem."

"Marcus?"

"The Tag Heuer exec. Lando hates him. Too corporate, talks in buzzwords, makes Lando feel like he's in a business school presentation." You pull up the calendar on your tablet. "Did you reschedule?"

"I tried. Marcus was pissed."

"Marcus is always pissed. Did Lando at least send him something? Gift basket, signed merch, something to smooth it over?"

Emma's face falls. "I... uhhhhhh, no?"

"Rule one," you say, and you sound exactly like you used to, competent and certain and completely in control. "When Lando fucks up with a sponsor, you fix it before it becomes a problem. Send Marcus a bottle of something expensive with a handwritten note from Lando. I'll show you where we keep the stationary. Lando won't remember doing it but that's fine. That's the point."

"That feels like lying."

"It's not lying. It's managing expectations. Lando's job is to drive fast and look good in photos. Your job is to make sure he can do both without accidentally destroying his entire career." You look at her. "Can you do that?"

She straightens up. "Yes."

"Good." You're explaining the intricacies of Lando's travel preferences—aisle seat but only on long-haul flights, hates flying commercial but won't admit it's because he's claustrophobic, needs noise-canceling headphones or he gets migraines—when the door opens.

You don't have to look up to know it's him. You can feel it, the way the air in the room shifts, the way Emma's posture goes rigid. "Morning," Lando says, and his voice is casual, easy, like this is completely normal. Like he didn't show up at your apartment four days ago asking you to do exactly this.

You look up. He's in McLaren team gear, black joggers and a papaya polo, his hair still damp from a shower. He looks good. He always looks good. You hate that you still notice. "We're in the middle of something," you say.

"I know. Just wanted to check in. See how it's going." He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, and his eyes are on you. Just on you. Not on Emma, not on the conference room, just you. "How's she doing?"

"She's sitting right here," Emma says, and there's a tiny bit of spine in it that makes you like her more.

"Right. Sorry." But he doesn't look at Emma. Still looking at you. "How's she doing?"

"Fine. We're going through travel protocols."

"Riveting." He pushes off the doorframe, walks into the room like he owns it. Which, technically, he does. He owns this whole building, or at least McLaren does and he's their golden boy so it's basically the same thing. He stops at the head of the table, one hand braced on the back of a chair. "Mind if I sit in?"

"Yes," you say, at the same time Emma says "No, of course not."

Lando smiles. That smile. "Majority rules." He sits down across from you. Emma looks between you like she's watching a tennis match and can't figure out who's winning.

"Continue," Lando says, gesturing at you like a professor encouraging a student. "Don't let me interrupt."

"You're already interrupting."

"Am I?" He leans back in his chair, arms behind his head. "I'm just sitting here. Very quietly. Being super helpful."

You want to throw your tablet at his head. "Emma, where were we?"

"Um." Emma's looking at her notes but you can see her hands are shaking slightly. "Travel preferences?"

"Right. So Lando needs—"

"I need a lot of things," Lando interrupts. "Very high maintenance. Must be exhausting to keep track of."

You ignore him. "Lando needs at least seven hours of sleep before a race. Which means you're coordinating with his trainer and his PR team to make sure he's not scheduled for anything after nine PM on Saturday nights."

"Unless it's important," Lando adds.

"Nothing is more important than you not crashing the car because you're tired."

"I would never crash because I'm tired. I'd crash because someone else did something stupid."

"Abu Dhabi 2023."

He sits up straighter. "That was different."

"You were exhausted. You'd done press until eleven the night before and you missed the apex on lap forty-three because you were too tired to focus."

"I missed the apex because Ocon was being a dick."

"Lando." You level him with a look. "Are you going to let me train Emma or are you going to argue with me about things that happened two years ago?" Something flickers across his face. Something that might be hurt or might be anger or might be something else entirely. "Fine. Continue."

You continue. Emma asks about race weekend protocols. You explain the specific way Lando likes his debriefs, bullet points, not paragraphs, because he won't read paragraphs. The way he gets quiet before qualifying, needs space, don't try to cheer him up or pump him up just let him be.

"He's a headphone person," you explain. "If he's wearing them, don't bother him unless the building is on fire."

"What if it's actually important?" Emma asks.

"Then text me first— sorry, text whoever his performance coach is and they'll handle it."

"You mean text you," Lando says quietly.

You don't look at him. "Text whoever is listed as his primary contact."

"That's you."

"I'm not his primary contact anymore."

"Yes, you are." He says it with complete certainty. "Never changed it. It's still you."

The room goes very quiet. Emma is looking at her tablet very intently, like she's trying to disappear into it. "We should take a break," you say, standing up. "Emma, fifteen minutes?"

"Yeah. Yes. Absolutely." She practically bolts from the room.

You start gathering your things. Lando stays seated. "You're still my primary contact," he says again.

"Change it."

"Why?"

"Because I don't work for you anymore."

"You're working for me right now."

"I'm consulting. It's temporary."

"Right." He stands up, walks around the table. He's too close now, close enough that you can smell his cologne and your head spins. "Two weeks."

"That's what we agreed."

"Then what?"

"Then I go back to my life and you figure out how to not destroy Emma's will to live."

"C'monnnn, I'm not that bad." You finally look at him. Really look at him. There's a small scar on his left eyebrow that wasn't there before—probably from a crash you didn't see, didn't hear about, weren't there for. He's broader in the shoulders. More defined. Like he's been training harder, pushing himself harder.

"You called her useless," you say quietly. "Emma. You told me she was useless."

"I said she wasn't you."

"Same thing."

"It's really not." He takes another step closer. "You were terrifying. Efficient and cold and you knew exactly what I needed before I needed it. Emma's trying but she's not—"

"She's twenty-three years old and you make her cry."

"I don't make her cry."

"You make her feel like she's failing even when she's doing everything right. That's worse than making her cry."

His jaw tightens. "That's not what I'm doing."

"Isn't it?" You cross your arms. "She accidentally booked you to Barcelona instead of Budapest and you looked at her like she'd killed your dog."

"It was a stupid mistake."

"It was an honest mistake. A mistake I made three times in my first six months working for you and you just laughed and fixed it."

"That was different."

"Why? Because you were fucking me?"

The words hang in the air between you. Lando's expression shutters closed, that thing he does when he doesn't want you to know what he's thinking. "That's not fair," he says finally.

"Nothing about this is fair." You grab your tablet. "I need air."

"Wait—" But you're already leaving, walking out of Conference Room B, past Emma who's hovering in the hallway pretending to look at her phone, toward the elevator. You hit the button. Wait. The doors open.

Lando catches them before they close.

"Move," you say.

"No."

"Lando, I swear to fucking god."

He steps into the elevator. The doors close behind him. It's just the two of you in this small space, and he's looking at you with an intensity that makes your stomach flip. "You're right," he says.

"About what?"

"About Emma. About me being too hard on her." The elevator starts moving down. "I don't mean to. I just—"

"You're comparing her to me."

"Yeah."

"Then stop."

"I can't." His voice is quiet now, raw. "You set an impossible standard and now everyone else just feels wrong."

"That's not my problem."

"Isn't it?" He moves closer. "You're here, aren't you? Training her. Which means some part of you still cares."

"I care about her. Not about you."

"Liar." The elevator dings. Ground floor. The doors open to the lobby and you walk out without looking back. You can feel him following you, his presence like a heat at your back. Outside, the Monaco sun is aggressive and bright. You walk toward the parking lot, no destination in mind, just moving because if you stop moving you might do something stupid like turn around.

"Where are you going?" Lando calls after you.

"Away from you."

"Your car's the other direction." You stop and turn around. He's standing there in the middle of the parking lot, hands in his pockets, looking at you like this is all some game and he's already won.

"What do you want from me?" you ask.

"I want," he stops. Runs a hand through his hair. "I don't know."

"Yes, you do."

"Fine. I want you to stop looking at me like I'm the villain in your story."

"Then stop acting like one."

"I fired you because," He stops again, and this time he looks genuinely frustrated, like the words won't come. "It was getting complicated."

"You said you loved me and then you fired me. That's not complicated. That's just fucking cruel, Lando."

"It wasn't— I wasn't trying to be cruel."

"Then what were you trying to be?" He doesn't answer. Just stands there in the parking lot while people walk past, employees and engineers and team members who definitely recognize both of you and are definitely going to talk about this later.

"Two weeks," you say finally. "I'm going to train Emma for two weeks and then I'm done. I don't want to have this conversation again. I don't want to analyze what happened in Qatar. I don't want closure or explanations or whatever it is you think you need to give me."

"What if I want those things?"

"Then you should've thought about that eighteen months ago." You walk back to the building, back to Conference Room B where Emma is probably still trying to make herself invisible. Lando doesn't follow you this time.

When you get back upstairs, Emma looks up nervously. "Everything okay?"

"Fine," you lie. "Let's talk about how to handle media obligations." You make it through the rest of the morning. Make it through lunch—salads in the cafeteria, Emma chattering nervously about her girlfriend and her apartment in Nice and how she got this job. Make it through the afternoon session on crisis management.

At 4:47 PM, your phone buzzes.

You stare at the messages. Emma is explaining something about how she organized his sponsor contacts but you're not listening anymore. "I need to take care of something," you tell her. "Can you review the crisis management protocols we just covered? I'll quiz you when I get back."

"Yeah, of course." She's already pulling up the documents, eager and focused.

You take the elevator to the fourth floor. Lando's office is at the end of the hall, corner office with windows overlooking the harbor. The door is half-open. You knock anyway.

"Come in," he says. His office is exactly how you remember it. Sleek brown desk, nice chair, shelves lined with trophies and helmets and racing memorabilia. There's a new addition—a photo from Abu Dhabi, him holding the championship trophy, surrounded by his team. You're not in it. Obviously.

Lando is standing by the window, back to you, still in his team gear. "Close the door," he says without turning around.

You close the door. Stay by it. Keep your hand on the handle. "What."

"I owe you an explanation." He turns around finally. His face is serious, none of that cocky confidence from this morning. "About Qatar."

"I don't want a fucking explanation."

"I know you don't want to hear it. I'm telling you anyway." He leans back against the window ledge. "I fired you because I was in love with you and I didn't know what the fuck to do about it."

You stare at him. At Lando Norris standing in his corner office with the nice windows and a championship trophy on his shelf, telling you he fired you because he loved you like that makes any fucking sense at all.

"No," you say.

"No?"

"No. You don't get to do this." You take a step forward, then another, until you're in the middle of his office and your hands are clenched into fists at your sides. "You don't get to rewrite this to make yourself feel better."

"I'm not rewriting anything. I'm telling you what happened."

"What happened is you fucked me and then you panicked and then you got rid of me. Don't dress it up as some grand romantic gesture."

"It wasn't—" He pushes off from the window, agitated now. "I wasn't trying to get rid of you. I was trying to protect you."

"From what?"

"From me. From this." He gestures around the office, at the trophies, at everything. "From being the person everyone whispers about. 'Oh, she's only here because she's sleeping with Lando Norris.' From having everything you accomplished reduced to who you were fucking."

You laugh. It comes out sharp and bitter. "How noble of you. Firing me to protect my reputation."

"It wasn't just about reputation."

"Then what was it about, Lando? Because from where I'm standing, it looks like you got scared. You said something you didn't mean in the heat of the moment and then you couldn't take it back so you just removed the problem entirely."

"I meant it." He takes a step closer. "I meant every fucking word."

"Then why—"

"Because I couldn't keep you and race at the same time!" His voice rises, echoing off the glass walls. "Because every time I got in the car I was thinking about you instead of the track. Because in Suzuka I nearly crashed in turn seven because I was wondering if you were watching. Because I was so gone for you that it was making me dangerous."

You open your mouth. Close it and try to find words that make sense. "You don't get to blame me for your driving," you say finally.

"I'm not blaming you. I'm explaining."

"You're making excuses."

"Jesus Christ." He runs both hands through his hair, messing it up completely. "Why are you being so difficult about this?"

"Difficult?" Your voice is rising now too. "You fired me, Lando. You looked me in the eye and told me I was done and then you disappeared from my life for months. You moved on for fucks sake! You found someone else. You won a fucking championship. And now you want me to what? Thank you for protecting me?"

"No, I want you to understand!"

"I understand perfectly. You wanted me gone so you could focus on your career. Mission accomplished. You got everything you wanted. Congratu-fucking-lations!"

"Everything except you."

The words hit you like a physical blow and you take a step back. Lando closes the distance. He's too close now, close enough that you can see the flecks of gold in his blue-green eyes, close enough that you're breathing the same air.

"You think I moved on?" His voice is lower now, dangerous. "You think I just forgot about you?"

"You're with Magui—"

"Magui is—" He stops. His jaw works. "Magui is uncomplicated. Easy. She doesn't make me feel like I'm losing my fucking mind."

"How nice for you both."

"You're not listening to what I'm saying."

"I'm listening. I just don't believe you."

"Why not?"

"Because if you actually loved me, you would've fought for it. You would've figured it out. You wouldn't have just thrown me away like I was—like I was disposable."

"You were never disposable." His hands come up like he's going to touch you, then drop. "You were the opposite. You were so important it fucking terrified me."

"Past tense."

"What?"

"Were. You keep saying were." You're shaking now, with anger or something else you refuse to name. "Past tense, Lando. Because whatever you felt, it's over now. You made sure of that."

"Is it?" He moves even closer, so close now that his chest is almost touching yours. "Because you came to my hotel room. You agreed to train Emma. You're standing in my office right now when you could've said no to all of it."

"I came because you manipulated me—"

"I asked. You chose."

"Fuck you."

"Yeah?" His voice drops even lower, rough and intimate and infuriating. "Is that what you want?"

Your breath catches. "Don't."

"Don't what? Don't point out that you're still here? That you haven't left even though you could? That you're looking at me right now like you want to hit me or kiss me and you can't decide which?"

"I want to hit you."

"Liar." He reaches up slowly, giving you time to move away. You don't. His fingers brush your jaw, the same way they did in that hotel room in Qatar, and your traitorous body remembers. Remembers everything. "You're still the worst liar I've ever met."

"And you're still an asshole."

"Yeah." His thumb traces along your bottom lip. "But you liked that about me."

"Past tense."

"Sure." He's smiling now, that devastating smile that means he thinks he's winning. "Keep telling yourself that."

You should leave. Should push him away, walk out of this office, text Emma that she's on her own, block Lando's number, and get on the first flight to literally anywhere else. You don't leave. "You're with someone else," you say, but your voice comes out breathy, unconvincing.

"Am I?"

"Magui—"

"Isn't here." His other hand comes up to cup your face, tilting it up toward him. "Hasn't been here. Not in any way that matters."

"That's not—you can't just—"

"I know." His forehead drops to yours. "I know it's fucked up. I know I have no right to any of this. I know I'm the villain in your story and I probably deserve it. But I can't," His voice cracks slightly. "I can't keep pretending I don't still feel it. Can't keep watching you in that conference room teaching Emma things you used to do for me and act like it doesn't make me want to flip the fucking table."

"Lando."

"Tell me you don't feel it too." His eyes search yours. "Tell me Qatar meant nothing. Tell me you don't think about it. Tell me you're over it and I'll back off. I'll let you train Emma and I'll stay away and I'll never bring this up again."

It would be so easy to lie. To say the words he's asking for and walk out and go back to your empty apartment and your pottery classes and your carefully constructed life without him. "I can't," you whisper.

"Can't what?"

"Can't tell you that."

His grip on your face tightens. "Why not?"

"Because it's not true." The admission feels like it's being torn out of you. "I think about it every day. I think about you every day. And I hate it. I hate that you still have this much power over me. I hate that you fired me and moved on and I'm still—I'm still stuck in that hotel room in Qatar waiting for you to explain why you ruined everything."

"I'm explaining now."

"It's too late."

"Is it?" He's so close now his lips are almost touching yours. "Tell me it's too late. Mean it. Make me believe it."

"Lando, don't."

"Don't what? Don't tell you I haven't stopped thinking about you? Don't admit that Magui was supposed to help me move on and it didn't work? Don't say that I've been keeping track of every pottery class and yoga session and book club meeting because I couldn't stop myself?"

"That's creepy."

"I know." He laughs, but it sounds broken. "I know it is. I know I'm fucked up about this. About you. But I can't."

You kiss him before you can talk yourself out of it. It's not soft. It's not sweet. It's eighteen months of anger and hurt and want colliding all at once. Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer, and he makes a sound low in his throat that you remember, that you've heard in dreams and hated yourself for missing. His hands slide from your face to your hair, tilting your head to deepen the kiss, and it's exactly like Qatar and nothing like Qatar at all. In Qatar, it was desperate and finite, both of you knowing it was ending even as it was happening. This feels different. More dangerous.

This feels like a beginning. He walks you backward until your back hits his desk, and his hands are on your waist, lifting you onto it like you weigh nothing. Your legs wrap around him automatically, muscle memory from all those times before, and he's between your thighs and you're both breathing hard. "Fuck," he mutters against your mouth. "Fuck, I missed this."

"Shut up." You pull him back in, kissing him harder, meaner, putting all your anger into it. He takes it, gives it back, his teeth catching your bottom lip hard enough to sting.

His hands slide under your sweater, palms hot against your ribs, and you arch into the touch. You've been so cold for eighteen months and now you're burning up. "We can't," you gasp when he moves to your neck, biting down on that spot below your ear that makes you see stars. "Lando, we can't."

"Why not?" His voice is muffled against your skin, and his hands are still moving, thumbs brushing the underside of your breasts through your bra.

"Because—because Emma is downstairs, because this is your office, because you have a girlfriend."

"I'll break up with her." He says it so casually, like it's already decided. "I'll call her right now."

"Don't be stupid."

"I'm not being stupid. I'm being honest." He pulls back to look at you, and his eyes are dark, pupils blown wide. "I don't want her. I want you. I've always wanted you."

"You fired me."

"Worst decision I've ever made." His hands frame your face again, forcing you to look at him. "And I've made a lot of bad decisions, so that's saying something."

You want to laugh. Want to cry. Want to pull him back in and forget everything that happened between Qatar and now. "This is insane," you say.

"Probably."

"We'll ruin everything. Again."

"Maybe." His thumb brushes across your cheekbone. "Or maybe we'll figure it out this time."

"You don't know that."

"No." He leans in, presses a soft kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then the corner of your mouth. "But I'm willing to risk it if you are."

Your phone buzzes in your pocket. You both freeze. "Don't," Lando says.

"It might be Emma—"

"It can wait." But the spell is broken. Reality is seeping back in through the cracks—the fact that you're sitting on his desk with your sweater rucked up and your lipstick definitely smeared. The fact that Emma is downstairs waiting for you. The fact that Magui exists, whether Lando wants to acknowledge it or not. You slide off the desk, putting distance between you. Your hands are shaking as you pull your sweater back down, try to smooth your hair.

"This was a mistake," you say.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Pretend it didn't mean anything. You're shit at it." He's watching you with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. "Always have been."

"It meant something in Qatar too. Look how that turned out."

"This is different."

"Is it?" You find your tablet where you dropped it on the floor, clutch it to your chest like Emma did this morning. "Or are you going to fire me again in two weeks when you remember why this is a bad idea?"

"That's not going to happen."

"You don't know that."

"I do, actually." He takes a step toward you. You take a step back. His jaw tightens. "Don't run."

"I'm not running. I'm leaving. There's a difference."

"Is there?" You open the door. Emma is definitely going to know something happened—your face is probably flushed, your lips probably swollen. But you can't stay here. Can't keep looking at him without wanting to touch him again. "Two weeks," you say without turning around. "I'm training Emma for two weeks. That's all this is."

"If that's what you need to tell yourself."

You walk out. Down the hallway, into the elevator, down to the third floor. Emma looks up when you walk in, takes one look at your face, and wisely says nothing. "Sorry," you manage. "That took longer than expected."

"It's fine." She's studying you though, those wide brown eyes taking in everything. "Everything okay?"

"Fine. Let's go over crisis management one more time." You make it through the rest of the day. Make it through Emma's questions and the review session and the walk to your car. Make it all the way home before you finally let yourself fall apart. Your apartment is exactly as empty as you left it. Clean and sad and full of the ghost of pottery classes and yoga sessions you quit.

Your phone buzzes and you brace yourself.

You throw your phone onto the couch. Pour yourself a glass of wine you don't drink. Stand in your living room and touch your lips where they're still tender from his teeth. This is going to end badly. You can see the car crash coming from a mile away and you're walking toward it anyway. Monday down. Thirteen days to go, and you are so undeniably fucked.

Tuesday passes in a blur of Emma and schedules and carefully avoiding the fourth floor. You arrive at 8:45 AM, earlier than necessary, because if you're early then you're in control. Emma is already there—of course she is, eager puppy that she is—with coffee for both of you and questions written neatly in her notebook.

"I was thinking about what you said yesterday," she starts, and you're grateful she doesn't mention the fact that you came back from Lando's office looking like you'd been thoroughly kissed. "About anticipating his needs before he asks?"

"Yeah?"

"How do you do that? Like, how do you know what he's going to want before he knows?" You think about all the times you just knew. Knew he needed silence before quali. Knew he needed distraction after a bad race. Knew he was spiraling before he even realized it himself. "You pay attention," you say finally. "To patterns. To mood shifts. To the things he doesn't say."

"That sounds exhausting."

"It is."

You spend the morning going through his sponsorship portfolio. Emma takes notes on everything—which sponsors require more hand-holding, which ones Lando actually likes, which ones are just obligatory. "Tag Heuer," she says, reading from her tablet. "You mentioned Marcus yesterday. What's the deal there?"

"Marcus is—" You stop, because Lando's walking past the conference room. You can see him through the glass wall, talking to someone from engineering. He doesn't look at you. Doesn't even glance in your direction.

Good. That's good. "Marcus is old-school corporate," you continue, dragging your attention back to Emma. "Thinks racing should be serious and professional. Doesn't understand that half of Lando's appeal is that he's not those things."

"So Lando hates him."

"Lando tolerates him because Tag Heuer pays extremely well."

Emma makes a note. "Got it. Tolerate with expensive gifts."

"Exactly."

Lando walks past again twenty minutes later. Still doesn't look. Wednesday is worse because Lando isn't there at all. "He had to fly to London," Emma explains when you arrive at 9 AM to an empty building. "McLaren board meeting. Won't be back until late."

"Oh." You hate the disappointment that floods through you. Hate that some part of you was expecting him to show up, to push, to do something. "Okay. Good. We can focus without distractions."

Emma gives you a look that suggests she's not as oblivious as you thought. You spend Wednesday going through worst-case scenarios. PR disasters, contract disputes, the time Lando accidentally liked a tweet criticizing the team principal and you had to do damage control for six hours straight.

"The key," you tell Emma, "is to fix it before it becomes a story. Lando's going to fuck up. That's not the question. The question is whether you can contain it before it explodes."

"That's kind of dark."

"Welcome to Formula 1." Your phone stays silent all day. No texts from Lando. No calls. Nothing. Which is fine. Which is what you wanted. You definitely don't check it seventeen times. Wednesday evening you're back in your apartment, staring at your laptop without seeing it, when Charlotte, your close friend finally calls.

"You're avoiding me," she says without preamble.

"I'm not avoiding you. I'm busy."

"Busy doing what? I thought you were living your best unemployed life."

"I'm consulting."

There's a pause. "Consulting for who?"

"It's temporary."

"Babe. Consulting for who?"

You close your eyes. "Lando."

Charlotte makes a noise that's somewhere between a laugh and a groan. "You're kidding."

"I'm training his new assistant. Two weeks. That's it."

"Two weeks of seeing your ex-boss who you were definitely in love with and who fired you after fucking you? That Lando?"

"I wasn't in love with him."

"You counted ceiling tiles for four months after he fired you."

"That's not—that's different."

"Babe." Charlotte's voice goes soft. "What are you doing?"

"I'm helping someone who needs help. Emma's sweet and she's trying and Lando's going to destroy her confidence if someone doesn't teach her how to handle him."

"Very altruistic."

"It is altruistic."

"So nothing's happened?" You think about Monday. About his office and his hands and the way he kissed you like he was drowning.

"Nothing's happened," you lie.

"You're such a bad liar." But Charlotte doesn't push. "Just be careful, okay? I don't want to watch you fall apart again."

"I'm not going to fall apart."

"Promise me."

"I promise." You hang up and immediately check your phone. Still nothing from Lando, which is good. Which is what you need. Right? Right? You make it to 11 PM before you break and text him.

You stare at that last message for longer than you should. Beautiful. He used to call you that, in hotel rooms and early mornings and moments when he thought you weren't paying attention. You plug your phone in across the room so you won't be tempted to respond. It doesn't help. You lie awake until 2 AM thinking about his hands and his mouth and the way he said I'll break up with her like it was simple.

Thursday morning Emma is vibrating with excitement when you arrive. "Okay so I have a question about the simulator sessions," she says before you've even sat down. "How often does he do them and do I need to coordinate with the engineers or does that happen automatically and—"

"Emma. Breathe."

"Right. Sorry. I'm just," She pauses. "He texted me last night."

Your stomach drops. "Lando texted you?"

"Yeah. Just to say I'm doing a good job and he appreciates me being patient while I learn." She's beaming. "That was nice, right? That he took the time to do that?"

"Very nice." Your voice sounds strange even to your own ears.

"He's not as scary as I thought he'd be. I mean, he's still intense, but you can tell he cares about getting things right."

You think about Monday, about the way he looked at you in his office, the way his voice cracked when he said I can't keep pretending. "Yeah," you manage. "He cares about getting things right."

You're midway through explaining the intricacies of coordinating with his performance coach when the door opens. Lando walks in with two coffees and that fucking smile. "Morning," he says, like this is casual, like he didn't disappear for two days. He sets one coffee in front of Emma. "Vanilla latte, right?"

Emma lights up. "You remembered!"

"Course." Then he turns to you and sets the second coffee down. "Oat milk cappuccino. Extra shot."

You stare at the cup. It's from the specific café three blocks away that you used to make him stop at every morning when you worked for him. The one with the good oat milk, not the shit oat milk. "I didn't ask for this," you say.

"I know." He sits down at the table, directly across from you. "But it's 9:30 AM and you've been here since 8:45 and you haven't had your second coffee yet. You get mean after 9:15 if you don't have caffeine."

"I'm not mean," you say.

"You're terrifying." But he says it like it's a compliment. "So. What are we covering today?"

"We?"

"I'm sitting in again. Making sure Emma's getting the full picture." He leans back in his chair, arms crossed. He's in team gear again—black joggers, papaya polo. His hair is messy like he didn't bother styling it. "That okay?"

"Do I have a choice?"

"Not really."

You want to throw the coffee at him. You take a sip instead. It's perfect. Exactly how you like it. The bastard remembers everything. "Fine. We're covering travel coordination. Emma, pull up Lando's schedule for Japan."

The next hour is torture. Lando sits there asking questions, making comments, watching you explain things to Emma with an intensity that makes your skin prickle. Every time you look at him he's already looking at you. "So when we're coordinating flights," you say, pulling up a calendar, "you need to account for jet lag. Lando needs at least two days in-country before a race weekend if it's long-haul."

"What if there's not two days?" Emma asks.

"Then you make it work. But he'll be pissy about it."

"I don't get pissy," Lando interjects.

You level him with a look. "Singapore 2024. You had one day in-country and you snapped at everyone for three days straight."

"That was different."

"How?"

"I had food poisoning."

"You were jet-lagged."

"I was dyyyyying."

"You had a very mild stomachache." Emma is trying very hard not to laugh. Lando is glaring at you, but there's something else in his expression. Something that looks almost like fondness.

"Anyway," you continue, turning back to Emma. "Two days minimum. Schedule accordingly."

At 11 AM, Lando's phone rings. He glances at the screen and his expression shutters. You make it through another twenty minutes before Lando comes back. His expression is carefully neutral, but you can see the tension in his jaw.

"All good?" Emma asks brightly.

"Fine." He sits back down. "Where were we?"

"Simulator sessions," you say. "Emma needs to know how to coordinate."

"Actually," Lando interrupts, "I need to talk to you about something. Work thing. Won't take long."

Emma looks between you. "I can step out—"

"No need." Lando is already standing. "Conference room down the hall. Five minutes."

He walks out. You have no choice but to follow. The conference room is smaller than the one you've been using, no windows, just a table and six chairs and fluorescent lighting that makes everything look slightly sickly. Lando closes the door behind you.

"What's the work thing?" you ask.

"There is no work thing."

"Then why—"

"I needed to see you alone." He's standing too close again, crowding into your space. "Needed to know if Monday was real or if I imagined the whole thing."

"Lando—"

"Did you think about it?" His voice is low, urgent. "The past two days. Did you think about it?"

"That's not, we can't do this here."

"I texted Emma. Told her she's doing a good job. Did she tell you?"

"Yes."

"I did it so you wouldn't think I was only here for you. So you wouldn't accuse me of using this as an excuse." He takes another step closer. "But I am here for you. I'm always here for you."

"You were in London."

"McLaren board meeting. Had to present the championship review. Couldn't get out of it." His hand comes up to your face but doesn't quite touch. "Thought about you the entire time. Especially during the part where they asked about my personal life."

Your breath catches. "What did you say?"

"Said it was complicated." His thumb brushes your cheekbone, so light you might be imagining it. "Said I was working on fixing something I broke."

"Did they ask about Magui?"

Something flickers across his face. "Yeah."

"And?"

"And I told them we were taking a break."

The world tilts. "You what?"

"Called her last night. Told her I needed space to figure some things out." His eyes search yours. "She was surprisingly understanding about it."

"Lando, you can't just do this."

"Can't what? Can't be honest? Can't admit that I've been in a relationship with someone I don't love because I was too fucked up over you to be alone?"

"That's not fair to her."

"I know. Which is why I ended it." His hand is fully cupping your face now. "I'm not doing this halfway. I'm not sneaking around or lying. If we're doing this, I'm all in."

"We're not doing anything—"

"Liar." He's so close now you can count his eyelashes. "You're still the worst liar I've ever met."

"You're being crazy."

"Probably." His lips brush against yours, barely a kiss, more a promise. "But I'm done pretending I don't want this. Want you."

You should push him away. Should remind him that Emma is down the hall, that this is insane, that he broke your heart eighteen months ago and you're not giving him the chance to do it again. You kiss him instead. It's different from Monday. Slower, deeper, less angry and more inevitable. Like you're both finally admitting something you've been avoiding. His hands slide into your hair and you press closer, your back hitting the wall, and he makes that sound again, the one that's half-groan and half-surrender.

"We have to stop," you gasp against his mouth.

"Why?"

"Because Emma is waiting. Because we're in an office building. Because—"

"Because you're scared."

"I'm not scared."

"You're terrified." His forehead rests against yours. "But that's okay. So am I."

"Then why are you pushing this?"

"Because eighteen months without you was worse than being scared." His eyes meet yours. "Because I'd rather risk everything than spend another year and a half counting how long it's been since I touched you." You're saved from responding by your phone buzzing in your pocket. You pull it out, grateful for the interruption.

"Shit." You step back, putting distance between you. "We need to go back."

"In a second." He catches your hand. "Tonight. Come over."

"Lando."

"Not to my place. Neutral ground. There's that restaurant you like on Avenue Princess Grace. The one with the good risotto."

"I know the one."

"Seven PM. Just dinner. Just talking."

"And if I say no?"

"Then I'll respect it." His thumb traces circles on your palm. "But you won't say no."

"You're very sure of yourself."

"I'm sure of you." He lifts your hand to his lips, presses a kiss to your knuckles. "Seven PM."

He leaves before you can argue. You stand there in the conference room, heart racing, lips tingling, completely and utterly fucked. When you get back to the main conference room, Emma takes one look at your face and mercifully says nothing. You make it through the rest of the day. Make it through explaining simulator protocols and race weekend logistics and all the things Emma needs to know.

Lando doesn't come back. At 6 PM, Emma starts packing up. "Same time tomorrow?"

"Yeah. Tomorrow's our last day of basics, then we'll start shadowing some actual events."

"Sounds good." She hesitates. "Can I ask you something?"

"Sure."

"You and Lando. You have history, right?"

You should lie. Should definitely keep it professional. "Yeah," you say instead. "We have history."

"I figured." Emma adjusts her bag. "For what it's worth, I think he's different around you. Lighter. Like he can actually breathe."

She leaves before you can respond. You sit in the empty conference room staring at your phone. At the time. 6:03 PM. You could go home. Pour wine. Pretend tonight isn't happening. Instead, at 6:47 PM, you're standing outside La Maison du Caviar in a black dress you haven't worn in two years, watching Lando get out of his car.

He's in dark jeans and a white button-down, no tie, sleeves rolled up. He looks unfairly good. "You came," he says, and he sounds surprised.

"Don't gloat."

"Wouldn't dream of it." He offers his arm. "Shall we?" Day three. Tension officially at breaking point. This is going to end in flames.

"Wine?" Lando asks once you're seated.

"I can order my own wine."

"I know you can. I'm asking if you want wine."

You do. You desperately do. "Red."

He orders a bottle of something French and expensive without looking at the menu. The sommelier practically bows before walking away. "So," Lando says, leaning back in his chair. "How am I doing?"

"At what?"

"At this. Dinner. Normal human interaction."

"It's been five minutes."

"And?"

"And you're doing fine. Very restrained."

He smiles. That dangerous smile that means trouble. "Just wait."

The wine arrives. It's good. Too good. The kind of good that makes you forget you're supposed to be maintaining boundaries. "Emma's doing well," you say, because work is safe. Work is neutral territory.

"She is. Thanks to you."

"She's a fast learner. She actually listens."

"Unlike me?"

"You listen. You just choose to ignore half of what people tell you."

"Not true. I listened when you told me I needed to be nicer to Emma."

"You texted her once."

"And I brought her coffee this morning. And I'm letting her leave at reasonable hours instead of texting her at midnight about random shit." He takes a sip of wine. "See? Growth."

"Impressive. Want a gold star?"

"I want you to admit I'm trying."

"You're trying," you concede. "Doesn't mean it's working."

"Ouch." The waiter comes to take your order. You get the risotto because Lando was right, it is good here. He gets something with fish that you know he'll eat half of before getting distracted. Once the waiter leaves, Lando leans forward. "So. Eighteen months."

"We're not doing this."

"Doing what?"

"The post-mortem. The 'where did we go wrong' conversation."

"Why not?"

"Because I already know where we went wrong. You fired me."

"Before that. You're skipping the part where we were in love."

Your grip tightens on your wine glass. "We weren't in love."

"I was."

"Don't."

"Don't what? Don't tell you the truth?" He stops, frustrated. "Why are you being so difficult about this?"

"Difficult?" Your voice rises slightly. An older couple two tables over glances your way. You lower it. "You think I'm being difficult?"

"I think you're refusing to have an actual conversation because you're scared of what might happen if you do."

"I'm not scared of anything."

"Bullshit. You're terrified. You've been terrified since Monday when I kissed you and you kissed me back and realized that maybe you're not as over this as you want to be."

"You're so fucking arrogant."

"And you're deflecting."

"I'm being realistic. You broke my heart, Lando. You don't get to just decide we're doing this again because you're bored of your girlfriend."

His jaw tightens. "That's not what this is."

"Then what is it?"

"It's me finally having the balls to fix the worst mistake I ever made."

"By taking me to dinner? By kissing me in conference rooms? That's your plan?"

"My plan is to show you that I'm serious. That this isn't just—" He gestures vaguely. "—nostalgia or whatever you think it is."

"It's been two days."

"It's been eighteen months. Two days is just how long it took me to get you in the same room as me." He refills your wine glass even though you haven't asked. "And before you say it—yes, I know I'm the one who caused those eighteen months. I know I fucked up. I know I hurt you. But I'm here now and I'm trying and you won't even give me a chance to explain. I've had eighteen months to figure out exactly how miserable I am without you." His voice drops. "Because I've tried to move on and I can't. Because every time I get in that fucking car I still think about you in Qatar watching me in FP2 and smiling like you were proud of me."

Your chest aches. "Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't say things like that."

"Why not? It's true."

"Because it's not fair." You set your wine glass down too hard. "You don't get to fire me and disappear and show up eighteen months later with pretty words and expect me to just—"

"Just what?"

"Just forget. Just forgive. Just let you back in like you didn't completely destroy me."

The silence that follows is sharp enough to cut. "I know," Lando says finally, quietly. "I know I destroyed you. You think I don't know that? You think I didn't see what I did to you?"

"Clearly not, since you still did it."

"I did it because I was fucking terrified. Because I'd never felt that way about anyone and it was making me insane. Because every time I looked at you I wanted things I didn't know how to want." His hands are clenched on the table. "And I know that's not an excuse. I know it doesn't make it better. But I'm trying to explain—"

"I don't want an explanation. I want you to leave me alone."

"Liar."

"Stop calling me that."

"Then stop lying." He leans forward. "You want me to leave you alone? Fine. Tell me Monday meant nothing. Tell me you felt nothing when I kissed you. Tell me you're not sitting here right now wishing we were anywhere else so you could do it again."

"You're delusional."

"Am I? Because your pupils are dilated and your breathing is uneven and you've been staring at my mouth for the past thirty seconds." Fuck. He's right. You have been.

"That's—I'm not—"

"You're a terrible liar," he says again, and there's something almost gentle in it now. "Always have been. It's one of my favorite things about you."

"I need to use the bathroom." You stand up before he can respond. Navigate through the restaurant on unsteady legs—from the wine or from him, you're not sure. The bathroom is in the back, single-stall, the kind with a heavy wooden door and a lock that actually works.

You close yourself inside and immediately brace your hands on the sink. Your reflection looks back at you—flushed cheeks, bright eyes, lips slightly parted. You look like someone who's losing an argument. Worse, you look like someone who wants to lose. Deep breath. You can do this. You can go back out there, finish dinner like a professional, go home, and forget this ever—

The door opens and Lando steps inside and locks it behind him. "What are you doing?" Your voice comes out breathy, unconvincing.

"What do you think I'm doing?" He's crossing the space between you in two strides, and then his hands are on your waist and he's lifting you onto the sink.

"Someone could—"

"Let them." His mouth finds your neck, that spot below your ear that makes you gasp. "I'm done pretending. Done watching you try to convince yourself you don't want this."

"Lando."

"Tell me to stop." His hands slide up your thighs, pushing your dress higher. "Tell me you don't want this and I'll walk out right now. I'll finish dinner, take you home, never bring it up again."

You should. You should absolutely tell him to stop. "I hate you," you say instead.

"I know." His mouth moves to yours, kissing you hard enough to bruise. "Hate me louder."

Your hands fist in his shirt, pulling him closer even as you're trying to push him away. It's all contradiction—your mouth saying one thing while your body says another, and he can read every single signal.

"This is insane," you gasp when he bites down on your lower lip.

"Probably." His hands are everywhere now—in your hair, on your waist, sliding up your ribs. "Don't care."

"We're in a restaurant bathroom."

"I know." He pulls back just enough to look at you, and his eyes are dark, dangerous. "You want me to stop?"

"Yes."

"Liar." His hand slides higher, fingers tracing the edge of your underwear. "Try again."

"I—fuck—" Your head drops back against the mirror as his fingers slip beneath the fabric, teasing. "This doesn't change anything."

"Doesn't it?" He's watching your face, cataloging every reaction. "Because you're shaking. And your breathing's gone all uneven. And you're so wet I can feel it through your underwear."

"That's not—" You gasp as he presses exactly where you need him. "—not fair."

"Nothing about this is fair." His mouth is on your neck again, biting, sucking, definitely leaving marks. "Been thinking about this for eighteen months. Eighteen months of wondering if you tasted the same, if you'd make those same sounds, if you'd still fall apart the same way."

His fingers slide inside you and you bite your lip to keep from making noise. "Don't." He uses his free hand to pull your lip from between your teeth. "Want to hear you. Want everyone in this fucking restaurant to know what I'm doing to you."

"You're insane."

"And you love it." He adds another finger, curling them just right, and your hips buck against his hand. "There she is. There's my girl."

"Not your girl."

"No?" He slows his movements, teasing. "Then whose girl are you?"

"I'm not—I don't belong to—fuck, don't stop—"

"Say it." His thumb finds your clit and you actually whimper. "Say you're mine."

"Go to hell."

He laughs, and it's dark and possessive and makes you clench around his fingers. "We're already there, beautiful. Might as well enjoy it." He works you with devastating precision—eighteen months and he still remembers exactly what you need. The pressure, the angle, the rhythm that makes your thighs shake. You're gripping his shoulders, nails digging in through his shirt, and he's muttering against your neck in a voice gone rough and desperate.

"So fucking perfect. Missed this. Missed you. Missed making you fall apart on my fingers like you're mine, like you've always been mine—"

"Lando—" You're close, embarrassingly close, everything building sharp and inevitable.

"I know. I can feel it. Can feel you getting tighter." His mouth finds yours, kissing you through it. "Come on, beautiful. Show me. Show me you still want this as much as I do."

You come with his name on your lips and your hands fisted in his hair, and he works you through it, drawing it out until you're shaking and oversensitive and pushing his hand away. "Fuck," you breathe.

"Yeah." He's breathing hard too, forehead pressed against yours, and you can feel how hard he is against your thigh. "So that happened."

Reality comes crashing back. You're in a restaurant bathroom with your dress rucked up and Lando's fingers still inside you and at least twenty people on the other side of the door who definitely heard something. "Oh my god." You push at his chest. "Oh my god, we just—in a public bathroom—"

"Technically a private bathroom." But he's pulling back, giving you space. "No one's going to say anything."

"Everyone's going to say something." You slide off the sink on shaky legs, trying to pull your dress down with trembling hands. "They're going to see us walk out and they're going to know—"

"So what if they know?" He's watching you in the mirror, his reflection overlapping with yours. "I told you. I'm done pretending."

"That's easy for you to say. You're Lando Norris. You can do whatever you want."

"And what are you?"

"I'm the girl who got fired for sleeping with her boss and now everyone's going to think I'm pathetic for coming back."

"No." He steps behind you, hands on your hips, meeting your eyes in the mirror. "You're the girl I've been in love with for two years who I was too much of a coward to keep. And if anyone says anything about you being pathetic, I'll personally destroy them."

You want to argue. Want to list all the reasons this is a terrible idea. Want to protect yourself before he has the chance to hurt you again. Instead you turn around and kiss him. Slower this time, softer, and when you pull back his eyes are closed like he's savoring it.

"This doesn't mean I forgive you," you whisper.

"I know."

"And it doesn't mean we're back together."

"Okay."

"And I still think you're an asshole."

"Fair." He opens his eyes. "But you're here. You came to dinner. You let me—" He gestures vaguely at the sink. "—do that. So maybe we're not as hopeless as you think."

"We're absolutely hopeless."

"Probably." He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear. "But I'm willing to risk it if you are."

You should say no. Should walk out, go home, block his number, and never look back.

"One chance," you hear yourself say. "You get one chance, Lando. You fuck this up, I'm gone. For real this time."

"I won't fuck it up."

"You don't know that."

"Yes, I do." He kisses you again, quick and sure. "Because I'm not losing you twice."

You fix your makeup as best you can. Lando runs his fingers through his hair, trying to make it look less like you've had your hands in it. You both look thoroughly fucked and there's nothing to be done about it.

"Ready?" he asks.

"No."

"Me neither." He unlocks the door. "Let's go anyway."

The meal continues in a strange sort of limbo. Lando orders dessert—some chocolate thing that's probably obscenely expensive—and insists you try it even though you say you're not hungry. He feeds you a bite from his fork and you let him, and somewhere in the back of your mind you're aware that this is a turning point, that you're crossing a line you swore you wouldn't cross.

"Good?" he asks.

"It's fine."

"Just fine?" He takes another bite, considering. "I think it's better than fine."

"You think everything here is better than fine. You probably have stock in this place."

"I don't have stock in this place." He pauses. "I know the owner, though. Nice guy. Makes excellent risotto."

"Of course you do." By the time the check comes, it's nearly 10 PM. The restaurant has thinned out—just a few tables left, couples lingering over wine, the staff starting their closing routines. Lando pays without looking at the total, leaves a tip that's probably more than your entire meal cost.

"Ready?" he asks, standing and offering his hand. You look at it for a moment. At his palm, open and waiting. At the decision you're about to make. You take his hand. Outside, Monaco is cold and beautiful. The kind of night where the Mediterranean is dark glass reflecting city lights, where everything feels suspended and possible. Lando's car is waiting where the valet brought it around—matte black Porsche,

"I can walk," you say, even though you're not letting go of his hand.

"It's cold."

"It's twelve minutes."

"It's twelve minutes in heels." He opens the passenger door. "Let me drive you. Please." There's something in the please that gets you. Something vulnerable and honest that wasn't there before. You get in the car. Lando slides into the driver's seat and the engine purrs to life. He doesn't immediately drive. Just sits there with his hands on the steering wheel, staring out at the street.

"You okay?" you ask.

"Yeah." He glances at you. "Just thinking."

"About?"

"About how I'm going to convince you to let me come upstairs."

Your stomach flips. "Lando."

"I know, I know. You said one chance. I'm not fucking it up." He pulls out into traffic, smooth and controlled. "But I also know that if I drop you off and drive away, you're going to spend the entire night convincing yourself this was a mistake."

"It might be a mistake."

"Or it might not be." He takes the turn toward your apartment, like he's made this drive a thousand times. Maybe he has, in his head. "Either way, I'd rather find out tonight than spend another eighteen months wondering."

You don't respond. Just watch the city slide past through the window, trying to organize your thoughts into something coherent. Trying to figure out when exactly you decided to let this happen. Your apartment building appears too quickly. Lando pulls into a spot on the street—not in front, not obvious, but close enough. He kills the engine and the sudden silence is deafening.

"So," he says.

"So."

"This is the part where you invite me up for coffee that we both know we're not going to drink."

"Is it?"

"Or—" He shifts to face you properly. "—this is the part where you tell me to leave and I respect that and go home alone and hate myself for approximately six hours before texting you something stupid at 4 AM."

"Those are my only two options?"

"Probably not. But they're the most likely ones." His hand finds yours in the dark. "For what it's worth, I'm hoping for the coffee."

You should tell him to leave. Should protect yourself, keep the boundary you've barely managed to maintain. Should remember that this is Lando Norris, who broke your heart eighteen months ago and has given you no real proof that he won't do it again.

"Do you actually want coffee?" you ask instead.

His smile is slow and dangerous. "Not even a little bit."

"Then why did you offer?"

"Because you need the plausible deniability. Need to tell yourself we're just having coffee, just talking, just two adults having a completely professional and appropriate conversation at 10 PM in your apartment." He brings your hand to his lips, kisses your knuckles. "And I'll play along. I'll make coffee and sit on your couch and keep my hands to myself until you give me permission to do otherwise."

"You're very confident I'm going to give you permission."

"I'm not confident about anything right now except that I want you. Have wanted you for two years. Will probably want you for the rest of my life." His eyes meet yours in the dim light. "But I can wait. I'm good at waiting now. Eighteen months taught me patience."

Your heart is doing something complicated in your chest. "One coffee."

"One coffee," he agrees.

You get out of the car before you can change your mind. Lando follows, keeping a careful distance as you walk to your building's entrance. You're aware of his presence behind you—not crowding, not pushing, just there. Patient in a way he never was before. The elevator ride is silent. You're both watching the numbers climb—three, four, five, six, seven. Your floor. The doors open and you lead him down the hallway to your apartment.

Your hands shake slightly as you unlock the door. Lando notices but doesn't comment. Inside, your apartment looks exactly the same as it did when he was here four days ago. Clean and empty and sad. You see it through his eyes again—the bookshelf organized by color, the lack of personal photos, the overall sense that no one actually lives here.

"Coffee," you say, moving toward the kitchen. "How do you take it?"

"However you're making it." He's still standing by the door, hands in his pockets. Not moving. Not presuming. "Nice place."

"You said it was sad last time you were here."

"I said it looked like no one lives here. Different thing." He finally moves, but only to the living room, sitting on the edge of your couch like he's not sure he's allowed. "Do you actually live here or do you just exist in it?"

"That's a very philosophical question for 10 PM."

"I'm a very philosophical guy."

"Since when?"

"Since I spent eighteen months thinking about what I did wrong." He watches you move around the kitchen, getting mugs and grounds and trying to remember how your coffee maker works. "Lots of time to think when you're alone."

"You weren't alone. You had Magui."

"I told you. That was—"

"Uncomplicated. I remember." You measure out coffee with more precision than necessary. "How is she taking the break?"

"She said she saw it coming."

You turn to look at him. "She did?"

"Yeah." He runs a hand through his hair. "Apparently I talk about you. A lot. Even when I'm trying not to."

"That's—" You don't know how to finish that sentence. "—unfortunate for her."

"She's already seeing someone else. Some photographer. They've been friends for a while." He says it casually, like it doesn't bother him at all. "She's happy."

"And you're here."

"I'm here," he confirms.

The coffee maker gurgles to life. You lean against the counter, arms crossed, watching him watch you.

"Why did you really come to Monaco?" you ask. "Not the story about Emma being useless. The real reason."

He's quiet for a moment. "You want the truth?"

"That would be nice."

"I came because I couldn't stay away anymore. Because I won the championship and the first person I wanted to tell was you and you weren't there. Because I went to the Prize Giving with Magui and spent the entire night wishing it was you in that dress." He stands up, finally, moving toward the kitchen. Not quite entering it, just leaning in the doorway. "Because I've been tracking your pottery classes and your yoga sessions and every other thing you've tried to distract yourself with, and I realized I was being a creepy stalker instead of just coming here and saying what I should've said eighteen months ago."

"Which is?"

"That I love you. That firing you was the worst decision I've ever made. That I'm sorry." His voice cracks slightly on the sorry. "That I don't expect you to forgive me but I'm asking anyway."

The coffee maker beeps. You don't move.

"How were you tracking my pottery classes?"

"Really? That's your question?"

"It's a relevant question."

He sighs. "Charlotte."

"Charlotte?" Your voice rises. "Charlotte's been spying on me for you?"

"Not spying. Updating. She thought I should know you were okay."

"I'm going to kill her."

"She was trying to help."

"By reporting my activities to my ex-boss like I'm under surveillance?"

"When you put it that way it sounds bad—"

"It is bad, Lando!" You're fully yelling now, and some part of you knows you're not actually angry about Charlotte, you're angry about everything else—the eighteen months and the pottery classes and the fact that he's standing in your kitchen looking unfairly good and you want him so badly you can barely breathe. "You can't just—you can't track me and show up and expect me to just—"

"To just what?" He moves into the kitchen properly now, crowding into your space. "To just admit you still feel it too? To just let yourself want something instead of punishing yourself for wanting it?"

"I'm not punishing myself—"

"You're living like a ghost. Like you're waiting for permission to actually be alive again." His hands find your waist, not pulling, just holding. "Let me give you permission."

"I don't need your permission."

"Then take it anyway." His forehead drops to yours. "Take what you want. For once, just take it."

You're gripping his shirt. You don't remember reaching for him but you're holding on like he's the only solid thing in the room.

"This is going to end badly," you whisper.

"Probably."

"You're going to break my heart again."

"I'm going to try really hard not to."

"That's not good enough."

"I know." His lips brush yours, barely a kiss. "But it's all I've got."

You kiss him properly this time. Slower than in the restaurant bathroom, less desperate, more like you're both admitting something you've been avoiding. His hands slide up your back and you press closer, and the coffee sits forgotten on the counter, getting cold.

"Bedroom," you breathe against his mouth.

"You sure?"

"If you ask me one more time if I'm sure, I'm changing my mind."

He lifts you like you weigh nothing, your legs wrapping around his waist automatically. He carries you down the hallway, kissing you the whole way, only fumbling slightly when he has to navigate your bedroom door. Your bed is exactly where beds go, and he sets you down on it with a gentleness that makes your chest ache.

"Hi," he says, hovering over you.

"Hi yourself."

"Just so we're clear—this isn't just sex."

"Lando."

"I need you to know that. This isn't me trying to get laid. This is me trying to—" He stops, searching for words. "—to show you I'm serious. That I'm all in."

"You're going to show me you're serious by sleeping with me?"

"I'm going to show you I'm serious by staying." His hand cups your face. "By waking up here tomorrow. By making you actual coffee in the morning. By not running away when it gets complicated."

"It's already complicated."

"Then I guess I'm not going anywhere." He kisses you again, and this time there's a promise in it. A commitment you're not sure either of you are ready for but are making anyway. Your hands find the buttons of his shirt. Start working them open one by one. He watches your face the whole time, like he's memorizing this, like he's afraid if he blinks you'll disappear.

"Still with me?" you ask when his shirt is open, hands spread on his chest.

"Always." His hand slides into your hair. "Even when you don't want me to be."

"Annoyingly persistent."

"One of my best qualities." He pulls your dress over your head in one smooth motion, and then you're both just staring at each other in the dim light from the hallway. "Fuck. I forgot how beautiful you are."

"You saw me three days ago."

"Wasn't close enough." His hands map your body like he's relearning it—ribs, waist, hips, thighs. "Wasn't touching you like this."

You pull him down, tired of talking, tired of thinking, tired of all the reasons this is a terrible idea. His weight settles over you and everything else falls away—the eighteen months, the fear, the certainty that this will end in disaster. Right now, there's just this. Just him. Just the feeling of finally, finally being exactly where you want to be.

Even if it's temporary. Even if it's going to hurt later. Right now, though, it's enough.

Days four through fourteen pass in a blur of Emma and schedules and Lando showing up at your apartment every single night like he lives there. He doesn't live there. You've been very clear about that.

"I'm just here a lot," he says on day seven, making coffee in your kitchen at 6 AM like he belongs there. Like it's normal, like this is normal. "That's different from living here."

"You have a toothbrush in my bathroom."

"Emergency toothbrush."

"You have clothes in my closet."

"Just in case."

"Lando."

"What?" He's grinning now, that insufferable grin that makes you want to hit him and kiss him in equal measure. "I'm respecting boundaries. You said I couldn't move in. I'm not moving in. I'm just visiting. A lot."

"You stayed here six nights in a row."

"And I went home on the seventh. See? Not living here."

You throw a dish towel at his head. He catches it, still grinning. The thing is—it's good. Terrifyingly good. He makes you coffee in the morning and you pretend to be annoyed about it. He stays up too late watching old race footage and you fall asleep on his chest listening to his heartbeat. He fucks you against your kitchen counter on day nine and you return the favor in your shower on day eleven and somewhere in between all of that, you stop counting days.

Emma is thriving. That's the word everyone keeps using—thriving. She's confident now, anticipating Lando's needs before he asks, managing his schedule like she's been doing it for years instead of two weeks. "You're amazing," she tells you on day twelve, over coffee in the MTC cafeteria. "Seriously. I don't know how you did this job for so long."

"Practice. Lots of practice."

"And patience. God, so much patience." She stirs her latte. "He's different lately though, have you noticed?"

Your stomach flips. "Different how?"

"Happier? Less stressed? I don't know, he just seems lighter." She smiles. "Whatever you said to him about being nicer to me, it worked. He actually asked about my Christmas plans yesterday. Like, genuine interest. It was weird."

"Good weird?"

"The best weird." She leans forward. "Can I ask you something personal?"

"That depends on the question."

"You and Lando. Are you... I mean, it seems like—" She stops, cheeks flushing. "Sorry. That's none of my business."

"It's complicated."

"That's what everyone says when they're together but don't want to admit it." She's still smiling, not judging, just observing.

Day fourteen arrives with the weight of finality. Your last day training Emma. Your last day having an excuse to be at MTC every morning. Your last day before everything becomes real or falls apart or some combination of both. Emma brings you flowers. Actual flowers—a bouquet of peonies tied with a ribbon.

"Thank you," she says, and her eyes are suspiciously shiny. "For everything. For being patient with me. For not making me feel stupid when I messed up. For teaching me how to do this job without losing my mind."

"You're going to be great," you tell her, and you mean it. "Better than great. You're going to be exactly what he needs."

"I hope so." She hugs you, quick and tight. "Will you still answer if I text you with questions?"

"Of course."

"Even stupid questions?"

"Especially stupid questions."

Lando doesn't show up all day. You tell yourself it's fine, that he's busy, that he's giving you and Emma space to wrap things up properly. You tell yourself a lot of things that aren't quite true. At 5 PM, Emma leaves. You pack up your things—tablet, the notes you've accumulated, the coffee mug you've been using that technically belongs to McLaren. You're stalling. You know you're stalling when your phone buzzes.

You take the elevator to the fourth floor for what might be the last time. Lando's office door is open. He's standing by the window, still in team gear, and he turns when you walk in. "Hey," he says.

"Hey."

"So. Two weeks."

"Two weeks," you confirm.

"Emma's going to be fine."

"She is."

"Thanks to you." He moves toward you, hands in his pockets. "I, uh. I got you something. To say thank you. For the training."

"Lando, you don't have to—"

"I wanted to." He pulls an envelope from his desk drawer. "It's not much. Just a little something." You open it. It's a check. A very large check. More than double what you agreed on.

"This is too much."

"It's not enough." His voice is quiet. "You came back when I asked. You trained Emma. You gave me two weeks when you could've told me to fuck off."

"I did tell you to fuck off."

"And then you came anyway." He's smiling now, that soft smile that's just for you. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." You fold the check, tuck it into your bag. "So I guess this is it."

"Is it?"

"The two weeks are up. I'm done. You and Emma are set."

"What about us?"

There it is. The question you've been avoiding for fourteen days.

"I don't know," you admit. "What about us?"

"I don't want this to end." He says it simply, honestly. "The two weeks are up but I'm not ready to stop seeing you every day. Coming to your apartment. Waking up next to you. All of it."

"Lando."

"I know it's fast. I know we're still figuring things out. But I'm all in. I told you that. I meant it." He takes your hands. "Move in with me."

You stare at him. "What?"

"Move in with me. My place. I have space. A lot of space. You could—"

"No."

"No?"

"We've been doing this for two weeks. That's not enough time to—"

"It's been two years," he interrupts. "Two weeks is just how long it took us to stop being idiots about it."

"That's not how this works."

"Then how does it work?" He's frustrated now, you can see it in the set of his jaw. "Tell me. Tell me what I need to do to prove I'm serious."

"I don't know! I don't have a checklist of requirements. I just," You pull your hands back. "I need time. I need to know this isn't going to fall apart the second things get hard."

"Things are already hard. We're still here."

"Two weeks isn't hard, Lando. Two weeks is the easy part. The hard part is six months from now when you're traveling and I'm here and we haven't seen each other in weeks. The hard part is when I do something that pisses you off and you remember why you fired me in the first place."

"That's not going to happen."

"You don't know that."

He opens his mouth. Closes it. "You're right. I don't know that. But I know I want to try. I know that two weeks with you has been better than eighteen months without you. I know that I'm in love with you and I don't want to waste any more time pretending I'm not."

Your chest aches. "I need to go."

"Where?"

"Home. My home. I need space to think."

"Okay." He doesn't try to stop you. "Will I see you tonight?"

"I don't know."

"Tomorrow?"

"Lando."

"I'm just asking. I'm not pushing." But you can see it in his eyes—the fear that this is it, that you're walking out and not coming back.

"I'll text you," you say finally.

"Promise?"

"Promise."

You leave before you can change your mind. Drive home in a daze, your apartment appearing too quickly. Inside, it's exactly as you left it this morning—coffee mugs in the sink from breakfast with Lando, his shirt draped over your chair, evidence of him everywhere. You sink onto your couch and try to figure out what the fuck you're doing.

Christmas comes three days later and you spend it alone. Lando's in the UK—family obligations, his mum's house in Somerset, the kind of traditional British Christmas that involves too much food and badly wrapped presents and everyone arguing about charades. He invited you. Asked you three times, actually, each time more hopeful than the last.

You said no.

"I don't want to meet your family," you'd told him. "Not yet. It's too much."

"They'd love you."

"That's not the point."

"Then what is the point?"

"The point is I need space. I need to figure out if this is real or if it's just us getting caught up in each other again."

He'd looked like you'd slapped him. "Right. Space. Okay."

He texted you on Christmas morning, then a hour later, and the hour after that. Charlotte called twice asking if you're spending Christmas alone, you lied, she definitely didn't believe you.

The day after Christmas, you're sitting in your apartment in pajamas and the same book you've been pretending to read for three days when your doorbell rings at 2:47 PM. Lando is standing in your hallway in a Christmas sweater—an actual, honest-to-god Christmas sweater with reindeer on it. He's holding a small gift bag, silver with white tissue paper, and he looks nervous.

"Hi," he says.

"Hi."

"Can I come in?"

You step aside. He walks in, setting the gift bag on your coffee table like it might explode. "You didn't have to get me anything," you say.

"I know. I wanted to." He shoves his hands in his pockets. "How was your Christmas?"

"Fine. Quiet."

"Mine was loud. Too loud. Kept thinking about how you'd hate it—all the noise and the people and my mum asking a million questions."

"She asked about me?"

"Yeah. She wanted to know why I invited someone and then showed up alone. Gave me a whole lecture about not screwing things up." He smiles, but it's strained. "She's very wise."

You gesture to the couch. He sits. You sit on the opposite end, keeping distance between you. "The training finished well," he says, like this is a business meeting. "Emma's doing great."

"I know. She texted me."

"Right. Of course." He's fidgeting now, picking at a loose thread on the couch. "I, uh. I missed you. At Christmas. Kept looking around like you might show up even though I knew you wouldn't."

"Lando."

"I know you need space. I'm trying to give you space. But it's been three days and I'm going insane." He looks at you finally. "I don't know how to do this. Don't know how to prove I'm serious without being overwhelming. Don't know how to give you time without feeling like I'm losing you."

"You're not losing me."

"Aren't I?" His voice cracks slightly. "You spent Christmas alone. You won't move in with me. You barely text me back. What am I supposed to think?"

"That I'm scared." The admission comes out quiet. "That I'm terrified this is going to fall apart and I don't know if I'll survive it a second time."

"So don't let it fall apart." He moves closer. "Stay. Fight for this. Give us an actual chance."

"I am giving us a chance."

"Are you? Because from where I'm sitting, it looks like you're preparing for the end before we've even really started." His hand finds yours. "I'm not going anywhere. I don't know how many times I need to say it. I'm not firing you. I'm not leaving. I'm not changing my mind."

"You can't promise that."

"Yes, I can." He reaches for the gift bag, holds it out to you. "Open it."

"Lando."

"Please. Just open it."

You take the bag. Pull out the tissue paper. Inside is a small box, velvet, the kind that makes your heart stop. "It's not what you think," he says quickly. "I mean—just open it."

You open it and it's a key. A single key on a keyring, simple and silver.

You stare at it. "It's to my place," Lando says, words tumbling out fast now. "I know you said you won't move in. I heard you. But I want you to have it anyway. So you can come over whenever. So you know you're always welcome. So you can—" He stops. Takes a breath. "So you can stop thinking of my place as mine and start thinking of it as ours."

Your vision blurs. "Lando."

"I know it's not a grand gesture. I know it's just a key. But I don't know how else to show you I mean it. That I want you in my space, in my life, in everything." His thumb brushes your knuckles. "You said I needed to prove I'm serious. This is me proving it. Take the key. Use it or don't use it. But know it's there. Know you have a place with me whenever you're ready."

You're crying now. Properly crying. And Lando looks panicked.

"Shit. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to make you cry. If it's too much—"

You kiss him. Hard and desperate and with your hands fisted in his ridiculous Christmas sweater. "It's perfect," you whisper against his mouth. "You're perfect."

"I'm really not."

"Shut up and let me have this."

He laughs, and it sounds like relief. "Okay."

You pull back, wiping your eyes. The key sits in the box, catching the light.

"I'm still scared," you admit.

"Me too."

"But I want this. I want us."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah." You pick up the key, test its weight in your palm. "I'm not ready to move in yet. But maybe—maybe I could stay over more? Start keeping more things there?"

"Yes. Absolutely. Whatever you want." He's grinning now, that full devastating smile. "You can reorganize my entire closet if you want. Color-code my kitchen. Do that thing you do where you arrange everything by frequency of use."

"You make me sound like a psychopath."

"You are a psychopath. It's one of my favorite things about you." He pulls you into his lap, arms wrapping around you. "Merry Christmas."

"Merry Christmas." You press your face into his neck, breathing him in. "For the record, I missed you too."

"Yeah?"

"So much I almost got on a plane to Somerset."

"You should've."

"Your mum would've hated me. Strange woman showing up on Christmas."

"My mum would've loved you. She already does, actually. Based entirely on my descriptions." He pulls back to look at you. "Fair warning—she's going to want to meet you. Properly. Probably at Easter or something equally family-oriented and terrifying."

"Easter's months away."

"So we have time to prepare." His hand cups your face. "You'll be ready by then. I know you will."

"How are you so sure?"

"Because you're here. Because you're crying over a key. Because you're scared but you're doing it anyway." He kisses your forehead. "That's the bravest thing I know."

You stay like that for a long time—curled up on your couch with Lando, the key in your hand, the future stretching out uncertain and terrifying and full of possibility. It's not perfect. You're still scared. He's still Lando Norris with all the complications that entails. But it's real. And maybe that's enough. Maybe that's everything.

Eight Months Later

The private jet levels off somewhere over Europe. You're curled up in the leather seat across from Lando, watching him pretend to read the same page of his book for the fifth time. You've been living together for six months now—his place became your place became our place somewhere around month three when you finally stopped keeping a drawer at your apartment "just in case." You sold that apartment four months ago. Haven't regretted it once.

"Nervous?" you ask.

"About what?" He sets the book down, reaches for your hand. The promise ring sits on your right hand, exactly where it's been for eight months. You've gotten used to the weight of it. Used to the way Lando looks at it sometimes, like he's planning something.

"You've read the same page five times."

He laughs, caught. "Fine. Maybe a little nervous." He stands up, walks to his bag. "Actually, I have something for you."

"Lando—"

"Close your eyes. Trust me."

You close your eyes. Feel silk brush against your face—a blindfold. He ties it carefully at the back of your head. "What are you doing?"

"Surprising you." He takes your hand. "Just trust me. We'll land soon."

"We're supposed to be going to Belgium."

"We are. Eventually." You can hear the smile in his voice. "But first—a detour." Twenty minutes of torture. You can hear everything but see nothing—the engine, the change in air pressure as you descend, Lando's thumb tracing circles on your palm like he's the one who needs reassurance. The plane touches down. Smooth landing. Lando helps you stand, guides you down the stairs carefully, his hand firm on your waist. The air is different here—warmer than Monaco, with a breeze that smells like salt and something floral you can't quite place.

"Are we at the beach?"

"Maybe. Keep walking." He guides you across tarmac, then pavement, then sand. Definitely sand. You can hear waves now, the rhythmic crash of water against shore. The sand gives way to wood—a deck, maybe a dock. The sound of the waves is louder here. Then he stops. His hands on your shoulders.

"Okay," he says, and his voice is different now. Nervous. "You can take it off."

You untie the blindfold, let it fall.

You're standing on a dock. The sun is setting over crystal-clear water that stretches to the horizon. There's a villa behind you, white stone and huge windows, the kind of place that's definitely not in Belgium. Palm trees. Bougainvillea climbing the walls. The most beautiful sunset you've ever seen painting everything gold and pink.

"Where are we?" you breathe.

"Greece." Lando's voice comes from behind you. "Santorini, specifically."

You turn around and Lando Norris is on one knee. Your heart stops. Actually fucking stops because he's holding a box—a different box than the one from eight months ago. This one is smaller, more delicate, and when he opens it there's a ring inside that catches the sunset and throws light everywhere.

"I know this is fast," he starts, and his voice is shaking. "I know eight months isn't very long in the grand scheme of things. But I've been in love with you for two years. I wasted eighteen months of that being an idiot. And the last eight months have been everything. Coming home to you. Waking up next to you. Fighting about whose turn it is to do dishes and making terrible pasta at midnight and watching you reorganize my closet for the third time." He takes a shaky breath. "I don't want to waste any more time. I don't want to wait until it's been a year or two years or whatever arbitrary timeline is supposed to make this acceptable. I know what I want. I've known since Qatar. I've known since before Qatar."

You're crying already. God, what is happening?

"You make me better. You make everything better. You call me on my shit and you're there at 3 AM when I can't sleep and you make Emma text you updates because you're worried about her even though you don't work for me anymore. I love you. I love you so much it's stupid. And I want to marry you. I want to marry you and fight about coffee orders and have you reorganize our entire life and grow old and—"

"Yes," you interrupt.

He blinks. "What?"

"Yes. I'll marry you. Obviously I'll marry you, you idiot."

"I had a whole speech prepared—"

"I don't care about the speech." You're pulling him up off his knees, laughing and crying at the same time. "Ask me. Properly."

He laughs, stands up, takes the ring out of the box with shaking hands. "Will you marry me?"

"Yes. A thousand times yes."

He slides the ring onto your left hand—your actual left hand, the important one. It sits there catching the light, real and perfect and terrifying. "I can't believe you did this," you say, and you're in his arms now, held tight against his chest. "Greece. A sunset. What about Spa? The race?"

"Fuck Spa." He's grinning against your hair. "We'll get there Sunday. I told Zak I needed a couple days. Told him it was important. Everyone knows—McLaren, Emma, Charlotte. They're all in on it. I've been planning this for three months." He pulls back to look at you, and his eyes are shiny. "I'm yours. For as long as you'll have me."

"Forever, then."

"Forever." He kisses you as the sun sets over Santorini, soft and deep and perfect. When he pulls back, he's still grinning. "No take backs."

Lando pushes the door open to the bedroom and you see champagne on ice, rose petals scattered across the bed, the whole romantic setup that he definitely planned down to the last detail. "You're very sure of yourself," you say, even as he's walking you backward toward the bed. "What if I'd said no?"

"You didn't." His hands find your waist, slide under your shirt. "And even if you had, I would've asked again tomorrow. And the next day. And the day after that until you said yes."

"That's insane."

"That's commitment." He pulls your shirt over your head, tosses it somewhere behind him. "Now stop talking and let me worship my fiancée." The word makes you clench. Fiancée. You're his fiancée now. The ring on your finger catches the candlelight as you reach for him, pulling him closer.

"I love you," you whisper against his mouth.

"I love you too." His hands are everywhere now—in your hair, on your skin, working open the button of your jeans. "And I'm going to spend the rest of the night proving it." He pushes you down onto the bed and follows you, covering your body with his. His mouth finds your neck, biting down just hard enough to make you gasp, and you arch into him. "Shh." He's working his way down, kissing and biting and marking you as he goes. "Let me take care of you. Let me show you what it means to be mine." He makes quick work of the rest of your clothes, and then his mouth is between your thighs and you're fisting your hands in the expensive sheets, gasping his name. He takes his time, licking and sucking and bringing you right to the edge before pulling back.

"Not yet," he says, grinning up at you with his mouth wet and obscene. "Want you desperate for it. Want you begging."

"I hate you."

"No, you don't." He slides two fingers inside you, curling them just right. "You love me. You're going to marry me. And right now, you're going to come for me." He lowers his mouth again and you shatter, coming hard with his name on your lips and your hands in his hair. He works you through it, drawing it out until you're shaking and pushing him away.

"Too much," you gasp.

"Not nearly enough." He's pulling off his own clothes now, and when he's finally naked he settles between your thighs, the head of his cock brushing against you. "Ready?"

"God, yes." He slides in slowly, so slowly, and you can feel every inch. When he's fully seated he stops, just breathing hard against your neck.

"Fuck," he groans. "Feel so good. Always feel so good. My perfect girl. My fiancée. Mine."

"Yours," you agree, wrapping your legs around his waist. "Always yours."

He starts moving then—slow at first, then harder, faster, until the bed is slamming against the wall and you're both gasping. His hand slides between your bodies to find your clit and you're coming again, clenching around him as he fucks you through it. "That's it," he growls. "That's my girl. Come on my cock. Let me feel it, baby."

You're barely down from the second orgasm when you feel the third building. Lando shifts the angle and hits something inside you that makes you sob.

"Right there?" he asks, doing it again. "That the spot?"

"Yes—fuck—yes, don't stop—"

"Never stopping. Never letting you go. You're mine now. Forever." His rhythm is getting erratic, his grip on your hips tightening. "Gonna come inside you. Fill you up. You want that?"

"Yes—please—Lando—"

"Mine," he says fiercely, and then he's kissing you as you both come, him spilling inside you as you clench around him, both of you shaking and completely wrecked. He collapses on top of you, breathing hard. You can feel his heart racing against your chest, matching your own.

"Holy shit," you manage eventually.

"Yeah." He lifts his head to look at you, and he's grinning. "So. Still want to marry me?"

"After that? Absolutely." You trace his jaw with your finger. "Though I'm going to need you to do that again. You know, to make sure."

"Fiancée has demands." He's already hardening inside you again. "I think I can work with that." He does it again. And then again. By the time you finally collapse in a tangle of sweaty limbs and expensive sheets, the moon is high and you can barely move. "Can't believe you're mine," Lando murmurs against your hair, his hand finding yours to trace the ring there.

"Can't believe you proposed on a dock."

"Romantic as fuck."

"Insane as fuck."

"Same thing." He kisses your temple. "Get some sleep. We have Spa on Sunday and I need you well-rested."

"Why?"

"Because I'm going to win that race for you. For my fiancée." He says the word like he's testing it out, like he can't quite believe it's real. "And then I'm going to take you back to Monaco and fuck you in our bed as a race winner and your future husband."

"Very confident."

"Very in love." He pulls you closer. "Now sleep. I'll wake you up properly in a few hours." You fall asleep like that—engaged, thoroughly fucked, in Greece with Lando already planning tomorrow. It's him. It's always been him. And finally, you're both brave enough to admit it.

[patchoff1]

sweet treat ✶ cl16

charles leclerc x baker!reader

summary: charles adores the sweet treats you bake just for him. he does not, however, like sharing them, which becomes a problem when the rest of the grid starts to get jealous of his baked snacks.

contains: a bit of a grid fic!, everyone wants reader's baked treats, fluff, established relationship, crack, JEALOUS!CHARLES

word count: 2.3k

a/n: hiiii besties!!! this one is just cute and for funsies <3 also i don't know how to bake or to make healthy recipes at all so just give me a chance here and ignore all inconsistencies okay. hope you guys enjoy, likes and reblogs are appreciated!

"Oh, thanks, but I don't eat sweets."

"They're low on sugar and high on fiber. Are you sure?"

George does a double take at those words, eyes widening as he takes a second look at the jar you're offering him. You smile peacefully, and he glances at Charles standing behind you, arms crossed, a smug expression on his face.

"How did you make low sugar cookies? Cookies are basically all sugar," he asks, the confusion clear in his voice, taking a step closer to stare into the jar. "And those don't look like oatmeal."

"They aren't oatmeal," you agree. "They're vanilla."

George blinks.

"How?"

You grin.

"Secret recipe." And then you extend your arm in his direction to offer him a cookie again, and George glances at your boyfriend behind you suspiciously before taking one.

You take a few steps back to stand beside Charles as the two of you watch George chew the cookie, and Charles smiles when George's eyes widen in surprise.

"This is really good," surprise coats his every word, "like, really good."

"I know, right?" Your boyfriend nods, eyes sparkling with pride. "I could eat maybe a thousand of those per day."

"You'd shit yourself because of all the fiber, love."

"Still."

George is about to ask for another one when Charles's name is called by an engineer further inside, and then the two of you wave goodbye and start walking away, discussing your baked goods while he stands there, the taste of those cookies still lingering on his tongue.

He glares at the back of Charles's head for taking you back to his garage before he could grab another cookie. Or two. Or ten.

Maybe he needs to hang around the Ferrari garage more often.

Lando is sitting on the cool-down room next to Charles when he sees him snacking on a little square that looks to be covered in chocolate, filled with nuts, and, quite honestly, delicious.

He throws one of his gloves at the Monegasque to grab his attention, face full of interest.

"What are you eating?"

Charles swallows with a content sigh before answering.

"These energy bars my girlfriend baked for me. I don't know how she makes them, but they have a bunch of protein and my nutritionist approved. I think they're vegan too. Do you want one?"

"What the hell, why not?"

Charles gives him one of the squares from a small jar his team brought over after the race, and Lando looks at it with curiosity before taking a bite.

He chews for maybe one second, and then stills.

"What the fuck?"

Charles chuckles, a big smile on his face as he shoves a whole bar into his mouth.

"I know, right?"

Lando takes another bite, chewing slowly, savoring it.

"And you said your nutritionist approved?"

"Yeah, he said it's an amazing post-race snack."

"What the fuck."

"I know! It's pretty good, huh?"

Lando swallows, then turns to look at Charles with greedy eyes.

"Can I have another one?"

Charles hums in amusement, and then stands up, taking the jar with him.

"No, I don't think so. They're for me."

Lando stares at him with surprise, at a loss for words as Charles walks to the other side of the cool-down room, not even sparing him a glance.

"What the fuck?" He says for what feels like the hundredth time, already reminiscing the taste of those damn energy bars.

"Y/N."

You jump in surprise, eyes widening as you find Carlos staring at you as if you're some sort of prey, his body half hidden by a pillar close to the Ferrari garage.

"What the fuck, Carlos? You scared me," you complain, walking closer to him. "What are you doing here?"

"I sneaked out. The Williams guys will be searching for me soon."

You giggle at his serious tone, shaking your head in disbelief.

"Okay. Do you need me to get Charles?"

"No. I came here for you." You furrow your eyebrows in confusion, but it only seems to make him more determined. "Lando told me you've been making delicious snacks for Charles and, as his former teammate and your friend, I'd like a snack too."

You laugh loudly at that, hand coming up to cover your mouth as your eyes sparkle with amusement.

"Carlos, I make those for Charles."

"I know Lando has tasted them," he argues, face still so serious you can't help but giggle again, "George too. He said he's still dreaming about those cookies. I would like a cookie."

"I didn't bring cookies today." Carlos immediately deflates, expression painted with disappointment. "But I made him chips."

He perks up, eyes widening with interest.

"Chips?"

"I'm testing a new recipe," you nod, pulling him further into the Ferrari garage and bringing him towards your backpack, where a bunch of small ziplock bags full of crunchy homemade chips awaits, "I'm giving you one bag. But you can't tell Charles. He'll get jealous."

Carlos nods enthusiastically, taking the bag from your hands as if it's a newborn baby.

"You can trust me. Charles won't know."

"Good," and you start pushing him out of Ferrari's workplace as if you're sending him on a mission. "Go away before he sees you."

"Thank you!" He says excitedly before he starts running towards the Williams garage, leaving you giggling and rolling your eyes.

"Miss?"

Both you and Charles look up to find Oscar Piastri looking right down at you while you sit under the sun in the paddock, standing with his hands behind his back and looking awkward as hell. You can see Lando standing a couple of feet back, trying his hardest to not look involved, and yet looking almost as involved as if he was standing right beside his teammate.

"Hi, Oscar," you lean towards him, and Charles furrow his eyebrows. "Can we help you?"

"There's been talk around the paddock that you—well, that you brought muffins. Healthy muffins. And that we can eat them without getting yelled at by our doctors later."

It's Charles's turn to lean in, eyes narrowing.

"And who's the one spreading that sort of talk?"

From the corner of your vision, you can almost watch Lando shrink, taking a few more steps away from the three of you.

"Uhm." Oscar turns his head to look at his teammate, who immediately starts whistling in the worst effort to look innocent in the world. "I don't know?"

"I can give you a muffin," you shrug, already moving towards your duffel bag when Charles stops you, his eyes wide.

"Those are my muffins."

You stare at him as if he's gone insane.

"My love, it's one muffin."

"Two muffins," Lando's voice carries through the wind until it reaches the two of you, and then he starts whistling again, which makes it difficult for you not to smile, infinitely amused.

"You see that?" Charles points towards Lando, shaking his head in denial. "They're getting too confident. They're spreading gossip about your food. Soon enough, all of them will be asking for it. No muffins."

"We can just share one if you can't give us two," Oscar tries, and then flinches at the way your boyfriend turns to glare at him. "Maybe we can share half a muffin?"

"There's no need for that." You slap Charles's hand away from your bag and grab two muffins out of a big Tupperware inside it, extending your arm so you can offer them to the Australian. "There you go."

Oscar thanks you, voice full of excitement as he takes the two muffins from you and speed walks towards Lando, who throws you a happy thumbs up before taking Oscar by his upper arm and pulling him away.

Charles glares at you.

"Those were my muffins."

You giggle and then press a quick kiss to his lips.

"I can bake you muffins every day for the rest of our lives, dear. You can do without those two."

The rookies arrive to the Ferrari garage all at once, and Charles is groaning in annoyance before they even open their mouths to speak.

"No," he spits out angrily, "go away."

It's Gabi who speaks for the rookies, doing his best puppy dog eyes as Franco, Isack, Ollie, and Kimi stand behind him.

"Someone said you've got brownies today. We love brownies. Please?"

"No. No way. Get out of here."

"George said she doesn't mind giving some to the other drivers," Kimi pipes up from behind Gabi, also giving Charles his best sad face.

"I mind!" The Monegasque complains, gesturing wildly. "My cookies, my energy bars, my chips, my muffins, my brownies, my girlfriend. You guys keep eating everything — don't look at me like that, Franco, I know Pierre stole some of my mini bluberry pies the other day and brought one to you!"

"You started it," Isack argues, unfazed by Charles's death glare. "You offered your snacks to George and Lando. It's not fair to not let anyone else have them."

"I was willing to share one or two so people could know Y/N is the best baker in the world. I'm not willing to share with every driver on the grid until there's nothing left for me!"

"You sound like a child," are the first words out of your mouth as you finally reach the commotion, smiling softly at the rookies. "Hi, boys. I'm sorry, but I think we're all out of brownies — I gave the engineers some."

Charles's head snaps towards you. "You did what?!"

"Sorry, guys," you smile apologetically, and Gabi grumbles something that sounds like a it's okay, thank you anyway before he leaves the Ferrari garage, followed closely by the other rookies.

The second they're out of hearing range, Charles turns to glare at you accusingly, betrayal dripping from his voice.

"You gave all my brownies away to the engineers?"

You laugh loudly at his annoyance, moving closer so you can kiss his lips softly enough that the crease on his forehead disappears.

"No, I didn't give any of them away," you give him a conspiratory smile that makes him fall in love with you all over again, "I lied."

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise.

"You lied?"

"I did," you shove at his shoulder teasingly, and he takes your wrist to pull you closer to him, nudging his nose against yours, "thought you didn't want to share."

"Damn right," he nods with unprecedented seriousness before kissing you again, smiling at the way you giggle against his lips. "My snacks, my brownies, my girlfriend."

Charles is cornered by Max, Kimi, and Lando during a random media day, after most duties are done with and the drivers are (supposedly) just hanging around for the evening before they can go back to their hotels. They push him into a nearby empty room, and that's when the Monegasque finds himself surrounded by quite a few of his grid mates — the ones who have already tasted your baking, yes, but also the rookies, who stare at him with narrow eyes, Max, who's failed to sneak into the Ferrari garage, and others who have heard the tales of your sweets and snacks.

"All of you against me? That's not right," is his immediate complaint, hands coming up in annoyance.

"You brought this upon yourself." Liam crosses his arms from one of the corners of the room, Pierre standing by his side. "You need to learn how to share."

"Share?!" And Charles's jaw falls open dramatically, his face painted with disbelief. "My beautiful, loving girlfriend learned how to bake nutritionist approved snacks just for me because she loves me, and you want me to share? You want me to share her love?"

"We can pay," Max offers, not even reacting to Charles's angry expression. "She sets a price, and we can all pay for her to bake extra snacks and sweets for us as well."

The others start to pipe up in agreement, nods and hums of approval going around the room as Charles shakes his head forcefully.

"No, no, no, no, no! My girlfriend's love is not for sale!"

"Why are you the only one who gets a sweet treat?" Carlos's voice rises up in the middle of the small crowd, and Charles shoots him a deadly glare while the rest of the drivers agree.

Soon enough, the room explodes into yelling, the drivers complaining loudly as Charles fights for the right to be the only one with access to your baking, heavily regretting ever trying to show you off to the rest of the grid, gesturing wildly towards Alex as he explains those treats are made specially for him, not for them, only for him, and they're not gonna bribe you into making treats for them, the stupid, jealous idiots.

Those treats are his, and Charles is not going to share.

"What do you think of lemon bars for the next race weekend?"

"Oh, lemon bars are such a good idea!"

You note the idea down on your notebook enthusiastically, barely noticing the faint screaming coming from a few rooms away.

"I could do the energy bars for media day. Charles loves them."

"Or you could do the vegan cinnamon rolls again. Those were fire."

You hum in acknowledgement, writing the options down as Lewis devours the strawberry shortcake you baked for the day.

"So, lemon bars for the race weekend, cinnamon rolls for media day? Any other requests?"

Lewis shrugs, cleaning some of the cream that got on his face with a napkin.

"I think those two are fine." He takes another bite of the shortcake, humming at the taste. "You know, you're really nice for letting me pick the snack menu every weekend."

"Don't worry about it." You don't look up as you finish writing on your notebook. "Just don't tell Charles, he'd die if he knew."

Lewis chuckles. "Yeah, don't worry. My lips are sealed."

You smile peacefully, completely unaware of the chaos unfolding elsewhere.

"Great. Lemon bars and cinnamon rolls it is."

check out my masterlist!

thank you so much for reading!!! likes and reblogs are appreciated, hope you guys enjoyed it <3

[drsszone-deactivated20260212]

PENPAL • OP81

SUMMARY ✰ Growing up, you had a pen pal. But one day he stopped writing. Well, now that you’re an adult working in media for McLaren F1, you realize that the driver you’re assigned to work with may be your anonymous buddy from years ago.

WORD COUNT ✰ 3.7K

CONTAINS ✰ Yearner Oscar, inconsistent timeline that does not match reality but whatever we ball, and a hint of angst near the end.

FEATURING ✰ Oscar Piastri x Reader

A/N ✰ This was entirely requested by 🤩 anon!! I had a lot of fun writing this out, thank you for the great idea.

Fare thee well. - 18

This simple string of letters and numbers had been burned into Oscar’s brain since he was eleven, and the first letter came in the mail. He had just started karting with the number 81, so when he saw a sign-off from his number reversed, young Osc figured that it was destiny. The idea of having a pen pal was very charming to young children, which meant that the Piastri household had some minor arguments over which child would get to send back the response. Oscar, being the scheming young child he was, waited for everyone to forget about the letter before sneaking into his mom’s room and leaving with the envelope in hand. His mom had no choice but to let him send back a reply when he exited his room, a formal essay-length response in hand. He had held a high level of intelligence since he was young. Looking back, the writing was poor. But for an eleven-year-old? He was practically Shakespeare. He did the logical thing and signed off in a similar manner.

You as well. - 81

Your letters consisted of anything under the sun. Maybe one day you’d discuss the science of space, mentioning some random fact about the stars and the planets at the end of your letter, which had been all about every minor detail of your day. But on other days, you were bombarding your companion with questions, so curious about his peculiar talents. You had never met someone who was into racing, so of course, you took the next step any child would: You began to get into motorsports so you could support your new friend. The Formula series intrigued you the most, which Oscar was delighted to hear all about, because it turns out he totally agreed. ‘That’s my dream,’ he wrote. ‘You’re gonna see me up there one day.’

‘I know I will.’ And once more, ‘Fare thee well. - 18.’

But one day, he stopped replying. 

Hard to say why.

On your first day working with McLaren, things had gone awry. You lost your phone in the paddock, which was the worst possible outcome for the current situation, as your entire job relied on it. You had gone through extensive training – probably much more than necessary for a mere media worker – and it ended up being pointless, for you made the number one mistake you were advised against. You lost the equipment! You tried to retrace your steps, but that just led you back to the exact point at which you realized your phone was gone. You searched through your pockets and bags once more, and when you turned out empty-handed once more, you felt like crying. 

“Deep breaths. You’ll find it. It’s fine,” you whisper to yourself, looking around in the semi-crowded paddock as panic starts to settle in. It feels like everyone who passes by is staring at you, making it blatantly apparent that you’re out of place. Their eyes spoke to you, ‘You don’t belong here,’ and you were starting to think they were right. What on earth made you think you were qualified enough to work in an F1 paddock? Your self-affirmations were now lagging behind, because every whispered internal insult was produced at a far quicker rate. “Idiot,” you whispered, mainly talking to yourself as you wandered back into the garage for what felt like the tenth time, scanning over the place for any bit of guidance. “Who loses their phone?”

“Is this it?” 

You practically leap out of your skin. You murmur a curse under your breath, hand over your heart as you take a careful, deep breath. Behind you was Oscar Piastri, the fresher McLaren driver who had been catching a lot of fame based on recent performances. In his hands is, indeed, your cellular device. For a moment, you feel like you might drop to your knees and start crying as you praise him, because he’s just brightened your day tenfold. “How’d you know?” You grab the phone, turning it in your hands and examining it as if part of you was concerned it was somehow a knockoff. Oscar, who was most definitely living up to the poite cat allegations, wore a small, only slightly awkward, smile.

“I heard you talking to yourself.” You feel your cheeks flush. First day, and you were already embarrassing yourself. In front of one of the team’s drivers, no less. “I found it at the entrance. I was gonna turn it into lost and found, but then you walked in.”

You pocket your phone, hoping that it will be a much safer place for it to reside, and then clasp your hands together. “Thank you so much, Oscar. I’d… I’d honestly probably die without it.” You let out a sigh of relief, internally thanking the universe for delivering you a temporary savior.

“Are you part of the media team?” He gives a thoughtful hum when you nod characteristically. “You must be new then. I can see how that would be bad for your career.”

“I am, yeah.” Was it that easy to tell? Maybe it was based on the fact that you had already lost something important, or perhaps it was because you had wandered around the whole paddock like a dunce. Either way, you weren’t surprised he knew you were a newbie. “I have a feeling I’d be fired on the spot.” He laughs at what you say, which you clock as strange because it wasn't really that funny of a joke. This was the infamous ‘Ice Boy’? You weren’t buying it in the slightest. 

Was this his weird way of flirting? You passed it off as you being hopeful, because it seemed terribly unrealistic to think that this famous F1 driver, who could have anyone in the world, was using cheap tactics like laughing at every joke, funny or not, to get your attention. It was more likely that everyone who had deemed him nonchalant and uncaring was simply wrong. In fact, you were sure that was the case because you never fully understood the nickname in the first place. Throughout the few years you spent watching the sport, silently wishing you’d one day have an excuse to flaunt your knowledge when your old pen pal finally wrote back, you deduced that Oscar was just misunderstood. He laughed, he smiled, he got angry, he cried. He was entirely human, but the community thought otherwise. 

“I’ll put in a good word for you…” He trails off, and it takes you a shameful amount of time to pick up what he’s putting down.

“Y/N.”

“Y/N,” he repeats, testing the way the name sounded off the tip of his tongue. “I’ll put in a good word for you, Y/N.” It sounded good. “Don’t worry about it.” Oscar sips from the long straw of his water bottle, moving past you to fulfill his media duties for the day. You note the soft shake in his hands and the way his eyes avoid yours as he lays out a cheesy line. He’s nervous; he’s just being careful not to show it. Unfortunately for Oscar, you have a keen eye.

Fortunately for Oscar, you think his nervousness is charming.

To say you saw Oscar frequently from then on was an understatement. You were now his primary media team member, which meant that if he needed to film a video, you were most likely to be the one behind the camera or the one helping him prepare for the shoot. It felt like the Formula One Driver Distribution System had hurtled the man at you as hard as they could, insisting that your job now revolved solely around the polite man. You weren’t going to complain, either, because Oscar was as friendly as they come. It wasn’t just a façade to win the public's favor. He was sincerely a nice guy. If anything, he seemed harsher to the public’s eye. They often portrayed him as a villain or an outcast, implying that he disliked his team and everyone in it. Truth was, Oscar was just happy to be in the most sophisticated branch of racing there was. Formula One was truly an honor.

So, most of your shoots were filled with some light banter, mostly coming from his end as you kindly fumbled a witty response and spat out nonsense instead. Today was no different.

You were clipping the microphone onto Oscar’s suit. The team had just released some special racing suits, which meant it was your responsibility to shoot a promotional video featuring Oscar to discuss the design briefly. It wasn’t anything complicated, but you needed to make him look as good as possible. Both in the appealing eye candy way, and the likable driver way. He tilted his head back, allowing your fingers to move in and hook the small microphone onto the high collar of the suit. Your fingers gently brush against his neck, feather-like touches making his hair stand on end, and causing his breath to get caught in his throat momentarily. You don’t miss the way he gasps – how could you? You feel the tips of your ears get warm. The flush creeps down, dusting your cheeks.

“You’re not gonna electrocute me, right?” Oscar’s little joke cuts through the tense air, allowing you to breathe again. Your sigh comes out quietly. You sound almost relieved. 

“If I do, I’ll make sure to record it. You know, for entertainment.” He laughs, and you feel yourself puff up with pride because it was a well-deserved laugh and not one you’d boil down to pity. But when you both fall silent, that previous, unfamiliar sensation settles over the two of you. Making it was just the dramatic ring lighting, but he looked awfully handsome in the pure white suit. It brought out the drama of his body shape. Broad shoulders, thin waist, and– You should stop thinking like that. It’s unprofessional.

If you could take a bite out of him, and I mean this respectfully, you totally would.

You awkwardly adjust the front of his suit, subconsciously looking for reasons to make contact, and clear your throat. “All good,” you say dismissively, turning away to grab your phone and the tripod so filming can officially begin. Oscar was decent with these things, which meant this wouldn’t take too long. He averaged three takes on a good day, but after that previous interaction, you felt like he might need more. He seemed distracted now.

‘Yeah,” he huffs, running a hand through his hair. You bite your cheek, keeping your thoughts at bay, because he just messed up his perfectly styled hair. “All good.”

Early mornings were not your cup of tea. After circling back to the MTC for winter break, you assumed that meant less work and more time for yourself during the dry season. Instead, it meant meetings that required you to get up at 5 a.m. to discuss things that could have been addressed via email. Everyone around you seems to share your thoughts, because the entire table looks like it’s full of zombies. They’re all nodding off, or are already slumped in their chairs. 

Oscar sits beside you, sliding a paper cup in your direction. You eyed it thoughtfully and then decided to accept the offer upon realizing it was a generous gift of coffee. “I don’t know how you like it, so I tried to stay as basic as possible.” He was sipping from his own cup, which was characteristically straight black coffee. That made far too much sense. You mimic him by sipping from your own cup, which was milkier in color after he added a bit of cream and sugar. Carefully concocted, and thankfully, you enjoyed the flavor.

“This could be poison, and honestly, I’d still drink it.” You hold the cup with both hands, letting the warmth spread throughout your fingers. Oscar laughs, and that alone is enough to warm you up on such a cold, dreary morning. He may not make the whole room light up, but he certainly knows how to brighten your day with his addictive laughter effortlessly.

“That tired?”

“Yes,” you state bluntly. “You’re not?”

“I’m just better at handling my tiredness.” Of course. He had years worth of experience getting up at the crack of dawn for a race after flying across the world and getting virtually no sleep. It actually seemed a little lame to complain about being tired to him in the first place. Thankfully, he wasn’t the judgmental type. 

The large windows that make up 90% of the walls allow the rays from the rising sun to seep in, spreading across the entire meeting room and serving as a wake-up call for anyone who hadn’t been previously alert. You’re focused on watching Lando, who was fully slumped over moments prior, crack his eyes open at the change in lighting, groaning in a disgruntled manner. Laughter bubbled up softly around the table, making your quiet grin spread across your features. Oscar, however, was determined to watch you glow under the warm sunlight. You were unmistakably beautiful. That was something he had already known. But now, seeing you like this, laughing with your team and basking in light, he felt like he was entirely, completely, utterly done for. He wants to soak his brain in the sight so that he never forgets. Your pretty eyes, lips, nose, hair… Everything from the top of your head to the tips of your toes was flawlessly beautiful in Oscar’s eyes; it was a realization he had made only just now.

You catch him staring. Of course, you do – he was shameless about it. “What?” You ask with a cheeky smile that makes his cheeks turn a deep shade of red, and forces him to look away with fear he might just admit you entrance him on the spot. But the head tilt? Oh, he was gone.

“Nothing,” he responds casually, turning his attention to the rising sun beyond the distant horizon. He sees both a pretty view and a potential topic change. “Nice morning.”

You hum, somewhat surprised. “I disagree,” you say, followed by a yawn to prove your point. “Would be nicer if I were still in bed.”

“You know what? Fair enough.”

“Happy birthday to you,” the entire McLaren garage sings for their driver, who is awkwardly shifting in the middle of them all. He doesn’t favor the attention being on him, mainly because he really wants to look anywhere but at you. 

Not entirely true.

Oscar would spend the whole day staring at you if he could, but that seemed a bit too on the nose considering his feelings for you. They were undeniable at this point – He was practically obsessed. He loved it when you brushed against him, or when you made a failed attempt at a sarcastic joke, and he still laughed at it because everything you said made him feel giddy. He didn’t like it at first. He felt uncomfortable with how fuzzy he felt when he stared at his ceiling, picturing your pretty smile or the way you sound when you say his name. But eventually he learned that he loved to love you, because finding beauty in everything you did was just so fun.

At the end of the song, you held out a cupcake with a singular candle lit on top. He closed his eyes, conjuring up a wish from the depths of his mind before he made a grand spectacle of blowing the flame out. The team cheered, and Oscar took the small cupcake from your grasp. With your hands free, you could now hand forth the stack of cards that came from the team. In fact, your very own was buried within the pile, waiting patiently to be read. But you didn’t stick around, because frankly… You were frightened by the idea of how he’d react.

When he had some time to himself, he began to go through the cards. To be honest, he didn’t care what everyone had to say. He just wanted to see what you wrote, so when he got to the very last card in the pile, which was tucked in a baby blue envelope with his name neatly written on the front, Oscar was practically shaking with excitement. Something familiar washed over him, like he could remember being in this exact place at this precise time before. He pushed those thoughts aside and tore open the envelope to retrieve your letter, which was written on notebook paper with star decals printed on.

Dear 81,

It has been a pleasure working with and getting to know you over the past few months. I appreciate your kindness in welcoming me into the team and allowing me to make this my second home. You’re now the brightest part of my days (which is totally unrelated to the fact that I see you more than I see my own family), and I look forward to working with you more in the future!

And yes, I figured it out. Perhaps you're still unaware, but when I realized it, I felt foolish. You always talked about how F1 was your dream when we were younger. That mixed with your number, 81? It should have clicked sooner. Maybe it’s just a coincidence, so if it still doesn’t click after this letter, feel free to pretend like it never happened.

Fare thee well. - 18 (Your favorite, Y/N)

He was an idiot. 

Oscar said nothing over the next few days. You assumed that he just hadn’t gotten around to reading them yet, or that maybe he never would. Or, and this was the worst-case scenario in your head, you had been wrong about him this entire time. Perhaps he wasn’t your 81 – your pal who stopped writing to you years ago – but a girl could definitely dream. So things carried on like usual. That is, until he worked up the courage to give you the response you deserved.

You were sitting in the garage late at night, the place empty except for yourself, when Oscar walked in. You were uploading a video to the McLaren channel, completely tuned out of your surroundings. 

BAM.

You looked up instantly, leaning away from the frightening noise. Oscar stood in front of you, hand out after dropping the stack of papers that was now scattered across the desk. You sat up straight, leaning over to see exactly what he had dropped. However, before he could do that, he picked up one of the sheets and began to read aloud, “Dear eighty-one,” he began. “I hope this letter finds you in good health. You don’t reply anymore, and I don’t know if you ever will, but I just wanted to say thank you for changing my life. That was the last letter you ever wrote.”

“You kept these–”

“Dear eighty-one,” he said again after tossing that letter aside and reaching for a new one. “I started to watch Formula One. I have so many questions. For example, wouldn’t the guy in the fastest car always win, or is there some sort of skill to it? I remember this one, because when I responded, I told you that racing always involved skill, and then you told me…” he reached for a different letter again, “I still don’t get it, but thanks anyway.”

“What are you–” 

Cut off again. “Fare thee well, dash eighteen.” He cycled through a small stack he had gathered. “Fare thee well, dash eighteen. Fare thee well, dash eighteen.” He sighed. “You always wished me the best, but I didn’t have the decency to respond? What did you think, that I was dead? That I had gotten into an accident?”

“Oscar!” You stand up, and he looks you directly in the eyes. “What is going on– Why is this stressing you out so much?”

“Because I didn’t respond,” he says again. “I should have just sent something back– anything.”

Your eyes drift down to the letters. He stands on the opposite side of the desk from you, a gentle frown etched into his features. You had never seen him this passionate about something, and you couldn’t say you didn’t understand why. “I can’t believe you kept them.”

“I kept all of you,” he replies softly, moving some of the letters around. Mixed in were Polaroids of random sights you had mailed to him. Little trinkets, wax seals, and even the crappy friendship bracelets you made when you were twelve and desperately wanted to form a physical connection with someone you didn’t even know the name of. “I just didn’t know it was you. And then you showed up again, and I…” He heaves a deep sigh, shrugging his shoulders.

“You..? You what?”

“I fell in love again.” 

Neither of you says anything. He reaches out, hesitantly. When he gets about halfway, you grab his wrist and move his hand closer, letting him cup your cheek tenderly. “Again?”

“Again,” Oscar confirms. “That’s why I stopped writing. Because I fell for someone I didn’t even know the name of. I knew nothing about you– Just that I liked talking to you so much I had to force myself to stop.”

“Osc…”

“I should have written back.”

You pause, mouth open, but words caught in your throat. Then, finally, “I think it’s better that you didn’t. Because maybe I wouldn’t have met you like this.”

He likes that answer.

It’s easy for everyone around you to see how madly in love Oscar is. No matter where he is, he always seems to be searching for you. And if you’re not there, he’s looking for an escape so he can call you to hear your voice again. But the public isn’t aware of these levels of adoration until he wins the next race, wearing a dopey grin when he spots you making your way to him.

The rest of the world is drowned out as he happily takes you into his arms, pressing his lips to yours in the most gentle, breathtaking kiss he could possibly give. “Fare thee well,” you whisper almost teasingly, lips curling up when he presses his forehead to yours.

“You as well.”

[i-like-sour-sweets]

Lando giving a very thoughtful answer on his mentality, the way he's sometimes put his foot in his mouth, etc. etc. and frankly I hope every person who hates him for every tiny little thing takes the time to watch all 4 minutes of this, because it is perfect.

[chachavroomvroom]

These days the Red Bull second seat announcements hit like the Reaping in the Hunger Games. Like sorry your name was pulled Isack may the odds be ever in your favour.

[patchoff1]

sweep you off your feet ✶ op81

—

oscar piastri x reader

university au.

summary: oscar piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis. oscar piastri, who you can't stand since freshman year. oscar piastri, asking you to pretend to be his girlfriend until the season ends.

contains: university au, swimming team captain!reader, pre-med student!reader, cricket team captain!oscar, engineering student!oscar, rivals to lovers, fake dating, a lot of cursing, suggestive themes, slight angst with a happy ending, use of y/n and l/n (sparingly)

word count: 15k!! + social media au.

a/n: I have no idea how university sports actually work in other countries so just bear with me here I just made it up okay. also the BIGGEST thanks to @starry-132173 for reading this first, hearing me yap about this fic for WEEKS and contributing with GREAT ideas <3 lots of love

✶✶✶

"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?"

"I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend until the season ends."

You're sure he hit his head really hard. He must have a concussion. He must have.

"Piastri, no one's going to believe that."

"Not with that attitude, they won't."

You scoff, staring at him in disbelief.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Oscar Piastri, who you can't stand since freshman year, when both of you joined your respective teams.

Oscar Piastri, asking you to pretend to be his girlfriend until the season ends.

What the actual fuck?

"Did you hit your head?" You finally ask, leaning closer to look at him across the cafeteria table, eyebrows furrowed with confusion and a hint of worry. "Are you okay? Are you maybe hallucinating right now?"

He rolls those brown eyes of his as if you're the one suggesting the craziest thing the whole campus has ever heard.

"Look, I just need the guys to get off my back. I need them to stop saying I'm married to cricket, you need the band, why not?"

"Why not?!" You repeat, still checking his face for any concussion signs. "Piastri, if you just need your stupid friends to stop commenting on the fact that you're a virgin, maybe just go ahead and fuck someone," your voice turns bitter as you hiss out the next words, "I'm pretty sure any girl from the stupid band you keep stealing from me would be up for the challenge."

"First of all, I'm not a virgin," he glares at you when you snort, "second of all, I don't want a relationship. I want to focus on my degree and on the cricket team. That's the point of getting a fake girlfriend, I don't have to put any effort into it."

You wonder if he'd let you do a quick examination to make sure he's actually not concussed. He must be.

"No one's going to believe that," you shake your head, repeating your words from before, "it makes absolutely no sense for us to start dating out of nowhere. We can barely stand each other."

"Well, why would anyone think we're fake dating in the first place? It's not exactly common."

"Yes, because it's fucking insane," you lean even more towards him, still shaking your head in denial, "and why me, of all people? We're not friends. Why the fuck would you want to fake date me?"

"Because I'll definitely not put any effort into it if it's you, so it's not going to affect my real priorities."

You're not offended.

Okay, maybe a little bit.

"No."

He furrows his eyebrows, and you wonder how the fuck he has the nerve to look confused, "no?"

"For half the band? For one competition? No. That's not worth it."

He blinks.

"Okay. The entire band."

"No," you cross your arms and lean back against your chair, eyebrows rising as you stare at him, unimpressed, "I've done most competitions without them. It'll suck, yes, but still not worth it."

Piastri pauses. The air between the two of you is filled with tension, as it usually is. It feels like a battle, and the two of you bargain like politicians like you always have.

"Every competition for the rest of the season."

That grabs your attention.

"Every competition?" He nods and your eyes narrow with suspicion. "Every competition? Every round through nationals? Every single one?"

He nods again.

"Even if there's an important cricket game on the same day?"

His nose twitches in annoyance at the question. "If we get through the quarter and semifinals and the finals are on the same day, we split the band."

You stare at him. Wonder for the fifth time if he's having some sort of psychological crisis. If he's concussed.

The band for every competition for the rest of the season.

You see, getting the band to play at a game or a competition is a privilege team captais fight tooth and nail for. It boosts morale, hypes up the teams, and usually makes the opponent feel a little more tense.

If there were two games or competitions in the same day, fucking Charles Leclerc, who all the team captains jokingly called band captain, liked to say it was first come, first served.

And you and Oscar Piastri had been fighting over the university band ever since you got into college — and God, was it a losing game for you.

Sure, there's a slight chance other teams may need the band on the same days the two of you did, but it never usually happens. Other sports have games and competitions on other days of the week.

Cricket and swimming are the ones that share Sundays.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

"So we get the entire band for the rest of the season and split the band if you guys get to the finals."

"We will get to the finals, but yes."

There's a quiet beat as you just look at him, thinking, pondering.

"And we just have to date until the season ends?" You uncross your arms slowly.

"Fake date."

"Don't get technical on me now, Piastri."

You think you see a shadow of smile on his lips before it disappears.

"Yes, just for the next two months or so, and then you're rid of me. We can act like none of this ever happened."

"Okay," he perks up at the word, but you shoot his hope down quickly, "I'll think about it," he deflates, "I can give you an answer on Thursday."

He lifts one of his eyebrows at you.

"Charles won't like it if he has to change plans for the band too close to Sunday."

You stand from your chair, already grabbing your backpack from the floor while he watches you. You look down at him.

"That's Leclerc's problem. Thursday, Piastri."

✶✶✶

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yourusername practice day❤️

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kikagomes love youuu ♡ liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux ay ay captain 🫡🫡🫡 ♡ liked by yourusername

freshman1 sooo cool!!

freshman2 YESSSS

pierregasly amazing work from our girls!!!

↳ kikagomes darling don't say it like that it sounds weird af ♡ liked by yourusername

francolapinto I leave early ONE DAY and you post pictures without me. I see how it is.

↳ yourusername yes that's exactly how it is!!!!!

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oscarpiastri Good work today as always, keep pushing

landonorris LESGOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

olliebearman THE QUARTER FINALS ARE OURS BABYYYY

freshman1 sooo cute

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"Okay, so we need to set some ground rules," you tell Piastri later that evening, when you meet at the campus café to discuss the details of this mess you've gotten into. "And we can't be long, because I have to be up at 5 for tomorrow's practice, so try not to waste too much of my time."

"You know, if you're going to be my fake girlfriend, I think you'll need to be a little nicer to me," he raises his eyebrows at you, crossing his arms and watching quietly as you order a cappuccino at the counter.

"Alright, I'll be nicer to you in public," you answer when the barista starts making your order, turning your body away from the counter and towards him, "what else?"

His eyes narrow in suspicion.

"You're serious about setting rules."

"Obviously," you roll your eyes, "I'm not letting you just do and say whatever you want about this fake relationship of ours, Piastri. I don't trust you like that."

He hums in acknowledgement, the quiet whirring of the coffee machine comfortable inside the warm establishment.

"Fine. You can't tell your swimming friends the relationship is fake."

Your eyes widen. "Piastri, I can't keep that from them. This is for your friends, not for mine, and those guys see me basically every day and know me better than everyone, even the freshmen — they're not gonna believe me if I say we just started dating out of nowhere.”

"We’ll make up a love story, I don't know," he shrugs, "but they can't know. Alexandra would tell Charles, who would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone, and then my plan would be ruined."

You sigh deeply before nodding, uncertain. You’re not sure how you feel about lying to your swimming friends — your best friends.

… but he is right. Alex would definitely tell Charles, who would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone.

"Okay. Alright, okay. I'll figure it out."

The barista calls out your name and you turn to grab your hot drink, smiling at the barista before turning to Piastri again.

"Aren't you gonna get anything?"

He shakes his head. "I don't drink coffee."

"You engineering freak," is your muttered answer, moving towards one of the small tables and immediately sitting down, watching him as he sits across from you. "Anything else?"

He seems to think it over for a second, gaze going from you to the coffee machine behind the counter and then back to you again.

"If any of my game dates don't match yours, you'll have to go watch me play. Supportive girlfriend and all."

"Well, only if you watch my swimming competitions as well," you twitch your nose at him, bringing the mug to your lips, "supportive boyfriend and all."

You don't notice the way his eyes focus on your mouth as you take a long sip. Piastri clears his throat loudly, looking away. You don't notice how a light flush paints his cheeks either.

"Sure, I can do that," he nods, clearing his throat again before his tone takes a condescending turn, "what about you? No rules?"

"Oh, I've got many rules," your smile is so forced even the barista, from the other side of the café, can see through it, "first things first, I want flowers. Once a month, at least."

His eyebrows shoot up.

"I told you I didn't want to put in any effort."

"I literally couldn't give less of a shit," you take another sip, clearly unimpressed, "I told you you're not going to be a deadbeat fake boyfriend. There's only a couple of months until the season ends, you can do flowers."

He sighs loudly, leaning his back against the chair and staring at the ceiling.

"Of course you'd be a high maintenance fake girlfriend."

"Don't piss me off, everyone knows I wouldn't have a disinterested boyfriend," your eyes are filled with amusement, "you have to make me swoon, Piastri. I wouldn't date someone that isn't willing to sweep me off my feet."

"Sweep you off your feet, got it," his eyes lingered on the curve of your smile, "go on."

"Okay," you set the mug down, "you have to pick me up from swimming practice every morning."

"Are you serious?" He all but moans, staring at you in disbelief. "You guys practice at the crack of dawn."

"It's called discipline," you snap back, "yes, I'm serious.”

He groans.

“Fine.”

“And you have to post me somewhat regularly. I'm not willing to be someone's secret fake girlfriend."

He sighs again, but nods in agreement.

"And you can't fuck anyone while we're doing this. I mean, not that I think you're capable of fucking anyone, but I don't want any gossip about getting cheated on."

He scoffs at the insult, but doesn't seem too offended.

"I wouldn't do that to you," he rolls his eyes, "obviously."

Piastri watches surprise flicker through your features.

You’re vaguely aware that Piastri isn’t devil on Earth, much less that bad of a guy. Still, you don’t expect the readiness of it — the obviously, the consideration. It sends a tingle through your chest.

You elect to ignore it.

"You have to volunteer at my lab."

"What?"

"We don't have enough volunteers for our current research," you shrug as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, taking another sip from your drink, "I'd clearly make my boyfriend do that for me. It's nothing much, we'll just make you run and do a few exercises. You'll be fine. And, at last — no kissing."

Piastri lifts his eyebrows.

"No kissing?"

"Oh, don't look at me like that," you kick him beneath the table, rolling your eyes when he glares at you, "I don't want to kiss you, period."

"That's gonna ruin our plan," he shakes his head, brow furrowed, "what, I win a game and don't kiss my girlfriend in celebration? That's ridiculous."

You ponder it for a second. A slight breeze comes through the window and you sigh at the feeling. Piastri watches it carefully.

"Okay," you concede, "you can kiss me after the finals, if you win and I'm there."

"That's ridiculous," he repeats. "Just the finals?"

You nod.

"Just the finals."

He sighs tiredly, running a hand through his hair.

"Fine, okay. But you have to be nice and affectionate with me when we're in public, even if we don't kiss. Hold hands, hugs, all that stuff."

"You're really greedy for someone who didn't want to put in effort, you know?" You lean forward slightly, eyes focusing on his.

"Aren't you the one who wants to be swooned?" There's no friendliness in his teasing, and you roll your eyes again.

"Oh, you're not gonna swoon me. You'll just act like you can, Piastri."

He scoffs.

"I guess we'll see about that."

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

"You know, you have a pretty nice car."

He does. The seat is cushioned to no end, the drive is almost silent, and, even though the music volume is low, you can tell the sound is insanely good.

You wouldn't be able to say what car it is, but it did make your eyes widen when it stopped by the pool's entrance, and the silence is so awkward you can barely handle it.

Not that you feel any joy in talking to Piastri, of course. Still, the discomfort of it all is getting to you.

"Thanks," his tone is dry, but you can hear the hint of confusion in his voice.

Maybe he's as surprised as you are that you're trying to, what? Start conversation with Oscar Piastri of all people?

"How was practice?"

Your eyebrows shoot up at the question. His furrow. Neither of you expected him to keep the conversation going either.

"It was okay," you answer carefully. It feels weird to talk to him without trying to start a fight. "We're taking a rest day tomorrow so we aren't too tired for the competition on Sunday."

"Cricket takes two rest days before games," he mutters, eyes on the road.

"Are you trying to compete with me over rest days, Piastri? I didn't ask."

Well, there goes not trying to start a fight.

You're not sure why you do it. He's being exceptionally polite, and he got out of the car to open the door for you even though no one could see it, which was, perhaps, the weirdest thing that had ever happened to you.

He'd actually shown up, as well. Right on time as practice ended. You don't even think you told him what time you'd be done with swimming for the morning.

Maybe you just feel defensive. Maybe you just don't know how to act in this situation, don't know how to talk to him.

His gaze flies towards you for a mere second before focusing on the campus streets again.

"You're insane," his expression doesn't even change when he says it, and somehow that makes it worse.

Well. You started conversation and then immediately shut him out the moment he tried to keep it going.

Maybe you are insane, and you definitely feel a little bad about it, but not enough to apologize or say anything else.

The last minutes of the ride are spent in that same awkward silence. When he stops the car, you move to open the door on the passenger side, but he moves quicker — in a couple of seconds, he gets out the car, around it, and opens the door for you.

You gape at him like a fish out of water as you slowly get out the car, his hand still firmly gripping the handle.

You look around. He drove you back to your dorm building as you had asked, and only a few students walk nearby, most of them not even noticing the two of you. Some stare.

He closes the door as you sling your backpack over your shoulder.

"You don't need to do that everytime," you mutter awkwardly, feeling heat creep up your cheeks, "I can open the door by myself."

Once more, Piastri is quicker than you. He leans down and plants a quick kiss on your warm cheek, ignoring the surprised gasp that leaves your lips.

"You're insane, but you also prohibited me from being a deadbeat fake boyfriend," he shrugs, but you see the way his mouth curves in a smirk at your startled reaction. "Have a good day."

And, in a second, he's back in his car and driving away.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Opening doors and kissing your cheek.

A sophomore you're pretty sure plays in the university band flashes you a smile as she walks by, but you don't acknowledge it nor do you move. You just watch his car get smaller and smaller as he drives it away.

God, you should not have agreed to this.

✶✶✶

You're very particular about competition days.

You joined the swimming team mere months after you started university, and it felt like a much needed outlet for any frustration you felt towards everything else going on in your life. Pre-med was no joke, and you were known for being either at the pool, at the library, or at the PT research lab.

Married to swimming and school work, just like Piastri's friends say he's married to cricket. You try not to dwell on that similarity.

Swimming is where you feel most at ease — it's where you can finally breathe, funnily enough, and mornings feel incomplete without it.

Of course you're passionate about the sport. More than passionate, if your frequent angry outbursts at Charles Leclerc are anything to go by.

You see, it isn't always Piastri's fault that the band doesn't show up to swimming competitions. The cricket and swimming calendars don't always align and, even though they do align enough to annoy the shit out of you, you have to admit Piastri can't take the blame every single time.

Sometimes they have to be somewhere else, sometimes they have their own competitions, and there was even a time or two when the university dean asked them to play at a board event. It all culminates in the fact the band hasn't shown up to any swimming competitions all season, which pisses you off to no end.

The swimming team has never gotten this close to nationals, at least not in recent history. This might be the most important competition day ever since you joined the team, bright-eyed, shy, excited.

You take your breakfast like you always do — not too light to be hungry, not too heavy to vomit into the pool, a lesson freshman you had to learn the hard way. You stretch before you even leave your dorm and you check your backpack a thousand times to be sure you haven't forgotten anything, rechecking for your lucky swimming cap a thousand times more.

When you finally meet the rest of the team at the state pool, your hands are trembling more than a captain's hands should. Alex and Kika are bursting with energy, and Franco all but jumps in his own spot. The new freshmen look ready to throw up.

"Okay," you clear your throat when your voice cracks, nerves fighting to get the best of you, "this is our most important competition to date."

"Damn, no pressure," Franco mutters, shrugging when you glare his way. For a semi-freshman, you're always surprised by how much shit he says.

"If we win, we go to nationals. The band is here," you wave towards the bleachers by the side of the pool, directly next to the other teams, which you suppose is purposeful, "and everyone expects us to do at least somewhat well."

"Again, no pressure," Kika rolls her eyes with amusement and directs a soft smile to the freshmen, "we'll just do our best."

"No," you shake your head, tightening your fists to stop their trembling, looking at each and every person in your team with determination as you take in a deep breath, pushing away your anxiety, even if you still feel it, "we'll do more than our best, and we'll win. We're fast as fuck and the best swimmers in the world and this competition will be a breeze. Leclerc will play trumpets on their ears and they'll be no match for us."

Alex lets out a laugh at that, but some of the freshmen puff out their chests.

"I believe in each and every one of you," you nod. "Don't let me down, and I won't let you down either. Now, let's get ready to win."

The team lets out cheers, clapping as they start moving toward their spots around the pool, some stretching, others sighing and trying to shake out the nervousness.

"That's why she's the captain," you hear someone mumble, and feel almost guilty over how untrue that sounds.

Saying it is one thing, believing it is entirely another.

If there's someone feeling the pressure, it's you. You, who committed to being team captain before you were even a senior. You, who pushed every teammate to their limit during pratice every morning. You, who agreed to fake date your archnemesis to make sure you'd have a supportive audience at this pool.

Minutes later, the whistle sounds.

You can still hear the band with your head underwater.

✶✶✶

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri and 9,987 others

swimteam Congratulations to all of our athletes for absolutely DOMINATING all swimming categories on the state competition today and therefore qualifying to NATIONALS!

And shout out to our captain @.yourusername for setting the new state record for the 800m front crawl category ❤️

yourusername FUCKING LOVE YOU GUYS I'M SO HAPPY!!!!!!! ♡ liked by swimteam

oscarpiastri What a great job from the team! ♡ liked by swimteam

↳ kikagomes 👀

francolapinto first full season and already going to nationals maybe i'm a good luck charm? ♡ liked by swimteam

pierregasly YESSSSSSS ♡ liked by swimteam

charles_leclerc Congratulations to the team! I'm so grateful I was there to witness this ♡ liked by swimteam

↳ alexandrasaintmleux ❤️

liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 5,321 others

yourusername feeling actually insane. what a crazy fucking weekend. thank you guys for everything @.swimteam ❤️ WE'RE FUCKING GOING TO NATIONALS

also thank you @.charles_leclerc and the whole band for being there, couldn't have done it without you

kikagomes BEST CAPTAIN THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEEEEEEEEEN ♡ liked by yourusername

freshman1 you are THE GOAT ♡ liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux OH HELLO STATE RECORD HOLDER ♡ liked by yourusername

oscarpiastri Beautiful work babe ❤️

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↳ alexandrasaintmleux hmmm hi?

↳ landonorris mate???

↳ yourusername ❤️

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✶✶✶

When you leave the pool on Tuesday, Alex and Kika walking beside you, Piastri is already waiting outside.

Piastri is waiting outside with flowers.

You stop dead in place at the sight, gaping at him as you hear Alex and Kika gasp.

Not any flowers, either. Pink camellias and a few white gardenias, all wrapped up in brown paper and a nice white bow. He smiles at you so wide when he sees you that you feel your cheeks grow warm.

"There's my girl!" He walks towards you in wide strides, immediately leaning down to kiss your face. You just stare as he puts the delicate flowers into your hands and turns his head toward your friends. "You guys did great on Sunday. Are you excited to go to nationals?"

Alex and Kika can't seem to speak, staring at him in utter shock as you look down at your flowers.

You suppose you did ask for it, yes. You didn't expect him to deliver, though, at least not like this. Perhaps some simple roses. Maybe daisies.

The silence stretches. Piastri clears his throat.

"Well. Should we... Go?" He looks at you when he asks it, uncertain, but you just look down at the pretty bouquet sitting between your hands.

He says your name quietly and that's what snaps you back into reality.

"Yes. Yes, of course," you shoot a smile to your friends, barely registering their shocked glances to each other, "I'll see you tomorrow, guys!"

The girls watch as he opens the door for you and walks around the front of the car to get into the driver's seat, waving at them before closing his own door.

"So," the car starts to move, "how was practice?"

You blink down at the flowers, and then back up at him.

"You got me flowers."

"Yes, I did," he nods and glances at you, "I didn't know which ones you liked, so I just picked the ones I thought looked nicer. Are they okay?"

You look down at the flowers again. Beautiful, fresh, colorful, staring up at you brightly.

"You could've just gotten roses or something."

"Nah," Piastri shakes his head, eyes focusing on the road, "roses are too basic, and we've already come to the conclusion that you're high maintenance."

"That's..." you open your mouth to speak and find yourself at a loss for words, "thank you?"

"Don't thank me yet," he glances at you again, "I have a favor to ask you."

You groan, setting the flowers down on your lap as your stare at him, grateful for the sudden annoyance that can distract you from how fucking flustered you are.

"Another one, Piastri?"

"Look, Lando is throwing a party this weekend to celebrate our quarter finals, since we couldn't celebrate on Sunday after getting the news that Jack won't be able to play for the rest of the season. I've told him I'm seeing someone, so they said I should bring you."

"Someone? You haven't told them it's me?" Your eyes narrow at him, gripping the flower stems a little tighter.

"No, I thought you'd prefer it if we told people on your terms," he glances at you again, "hence why the party could be a good place for it."

For what feels like the thousandth time during this car ride, you blink at him.

"That's surprisingly considerate."

He rolls his eyes.

"I am considerate, just like I am nice," you watch as he sighs, "you can invite the swimming team if you want."

"I never took you for a party guy," your eyes turn to your flowers again, chest tightening at how lovely they look, at how the colors complement each other.

"I'm not," Piastri agrees, and your focus moves to the way his hands turn the steering wheel, taking a right, "but it'd be awkward if the team captain doesn't go to the team's celebration party, you know? And, again, it'd be a good place for us to make it official."

"Make it fake official," you mutter, forcing yourself to look back at the flowers.

You don't miss the way his lips curl into a teasing smile. You hate the way your face tingles with warmth.

"Don't get technical on me now, L/N."

A chuckle escapes you, and his smile grows wider. He turns a left and you notice you're on your street.

"Fine," you sigh tiredly, "but you're picking me up for that too."

He laughs back and, for some reason, you hate it.

"Of course."

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

"You know, you could've just said we needed to meet to align what story we're telling everyone, you didn't need to scare the crap out of me."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic."

You throw a pillow at Piastri, who sits on your desk on the other side of your room, chair moved so he can look at you. You huff when he catches it.

"Besides, if it was something worth getting worried about, you're not exactly the person I'd be texting. We're not close like that."

You think you see hurt flicker through his expression, but it's gone before you can be sure.

Piastri has never been in your dorm room before.

Your roommate is out for the day, and never in his life did Piastri think he'd ever be alone in your room with you.

The dorm is surprisingly untidy. For all your talk of discipline, there's clothes hanging from the desk chair, a little pile of shoes on the floor. Your desk table is a complete mess — papers everywhere, books on top of each other, your sunglasses too close to the edge. By the desk, there's a duffle bag filled to the top with clothes, a couple of swimming goggles, a clean swimsuit, and an assortment of swimming caps.

"The party is tomorrow night," you remind him, "I won't be able to escape Alex and Kika there. What are we gonna tell them?"

"Well, I don't know," he crosses his arms, not a hint of emotion on his tone, "maybe you just fell for my crazy charm and begged to go out with me?"

You laugh so loudly the sound rings in his ears, and Piastri can't help but smirk.

"No one is going to believe that," you shake your head and he doesn't take it personally, "we need to think of something better."

There's a beat of silence as the two of you try to think of a good story to explain how, miraculously, you got together.

You and Oscar Piastri. Well, that would be hard to explain, wouldn't it? You hadn't liked him for years now, and what could have possibly changed that?

"Maybe we kissed at Gasly's party a month ago," he suggests, and you arch your eyebrow.

"The one where you looked uncomfortable the entire time and left early?"

He tilts his head in surprise. "You noticed?"

"I mean—not like that," you roll your eyes, but there's no denying the warmth on your face, "I just saw you a couple of times, that's all."

There's another beat of silence, and you wonder if you can swallow back your words and choke on them.

"Okay," he nods slowly. "Maybe you saw me leaving, went after me to see if I was okay, and we kissed."

"Why would I check up on you?" You blurt out and immediately wish you could swallow those words, as well.

"Because you're nice to people," he says quietly, looking away from you, "so maybe you were just being nice."

It's stupid, but you feel a pang on the left side of your chest.

"Yeah, okay. That seems fair," you swallow, and your throat hurts, "I was drunk and you looked sad and pitiful, so I kissed you."

There's a slight lilt to his lips. "You kissed me?"

"Obviously," you match his small smile, "I wear the fake pants in this fake relationship, Piastri. I kissed you."

He lets out a snort and your smile widens.

"Sure, okay. What then? You asked me out?"

"No, I didn't," you lean back against your bedrest, head turned to look at him, "I kissed you and you were so overwhelmed with joy that you asked me out on the spot."

Piastri really laughs this time, and you allow yourself to grin at him. He notices and grins back.

"Did you say yes?"

You shrug, but the smile stays on your face. "If you looked pitiful enough, I might have."

"Oh, so you only accepted because I looked pitiful?" The teasing tone to his voice sounds nice. You've never heard it from him, not without any annoyance behind it.

"Obviously," you throw another pillow at him and he catches it again, "I have a soft spot for sad men."

He throws the pillow back and you catch it clumsily. He shakes his head and lets out another chuckle. "Of course you do."

"We hung out in secret for a while," you keep the story going, resting your chin on your hands as you look at him, thoughtful, "I wasn't sure if it was serious or not, and you're married to cricket."

He nods, still smiling. The flowers he gave you on Tuesday are on top of your bedside table, he notices, inside a jar filled with water and still holding up. They bring some color to the space. He feels flattered you actually still have them.

"Maybe—" he hesitates, face falling, and you gesture for him to continue. He clears his throat, "maybe that day when you messaged me about the band, my favor was for you to be my girlfriend officially."

You study him for a second. The deep brown eyes, his strong jaw, his lips no longer forming that smile you were growing to enjoy. He looks a little embarrassed, a little uncomfortable, just like he had that night at Gasly's party. Some strange part of you wants to see him grin at you again.

"That's a good idea," you nod slowly. "Would make the timeline add up."

"Exactly," he nods back.

That awkward silence settles in again, the one that fills his car when he drives you back to your dorm, the one that swims between your text messages.

You don't know what it is. There are times when you talk and laugh and chat like normal people — acquaintances, at least. Other times, it seems you've never met before, like you just have no idea how to act with each other.

You don't know how to act with each other. It's been years of angry glances, sarcastic answers, underhanded compliments. Mainly from your part, you realize, even though you know for certain that he has gone after his way to get the band when he knew you wanted it for a swimming competition.

Even then, is that sufficient reason for the weird relationship you two have always had?

Piastri seems to be asking himself the same questions, because the next words out of his mouth are, "why do you hate me so much?"

You blink at him, surprised by the question.

"I don't hate you, Piastri."

"I mean, you sort of do," he crosses his arms again, almost as if trying to make himself smaller, "I know you're... Intense, but you don't seem to have this much of a problem with other people."

You think it over for a few seconds. It's true. While you've had issues with almost everyone in the student athletic association and in band, with Piastri it's always been personal — it's not just sports and business like it is with others.

"I mean, you do make it your mission to steal band from me all the time."

He shakes his head, "you know it's more than that. Yes, I do try to steal band from you every Sunday. I know how much you like the band, and in a selfish way I guess I want to upset you in the same way you upset me by— I don't know, just being mad at me all the time."

Your eyebrows furrow and your voice goes a little quieter. "It upsets you?"

"Of course it does."

You look at him closely, his arms still crossed, clearly uncomfortable sitting in your dorm, asking you questions that haunted him since freshman year.

"It's stupid," you murmur, and he immediately leans forward to listen, interested, "you pranked me in freshman year."

Piastri looks at your startled, eyebrows shooting up. "What?"

"When we started university," you start, feeling so embarrassed you wish you could bury yourself in a hole, "I met you at one of those welcome cocktails, do you remember?"

He nods, confused.

"Well, we talked a bunch that night. I had a lot of fun. I thought you were really cute, too," you look away, the embarrassment increasing tenfold as you avoid his gaze, cheeks glowing red, "so I asked for your number, and you gave me a fake one. I tried to text you and it just didn't exist. Never felt that humiliated in my life," you laugh humorlessly, "I know it's stupid, but I just could never really like you after that. It was awful because you were always so nice to everyone, and I didn't understand why you did that. You could've just said no, you know? And then the following year I became more involved with the swimming team and you were just a dick about the band. So yeah, I guess that's how it started."

When you finally gather the courage to glance at Piastri again, you don't think you've ever seen him look this confused in his life. It makes you feel even more embarrassed, the way his eyebrows furrow with no understanding.

"I remember that night," he concedes, and then shakes his head in denial. "We talked, and I gave you my phone number and you never reached out until sophomore year, when we started talking—well, when we started fighting over the band."

It's your turn to look confused.

"No, you didn't give me a real number, Piastri. I had to get your number from someone else later."

"I did not give you a fake number," his voice is solid, firm, and he stares at you with certainty. "Maybe you heard one of the numbers wrong due to the party noise, or I mixed something up, I had just changed numbers at the time. But I did not give you a fake number. I wanted to talk to you."

You stare back at him, unsure on how to answer. You weren't hurt by that anymore — it happened years ago and, at this point, you didn't care. But it was the starting point of your distaste towards him, and it had tainted the first following interactions. The image of him that stuck with you had been that one — smiling Piastri, sweet and polite, giving you hope and butterflies and a fake number, a dead end.

Polite enough to not be cruel to your face, to let you feel the humiliation and embarrassment on your own on the next day, seeing every message refuse to go through.

And to know that that wasn't what had happened? That maybe it had all been a silly misunderstanding, and you held a grudge over nothing?

Well, that was awkward.

"I—well, it doesn't matter," you try to shift the topic, letting out an uneasy chuckle, "it was years ago, and it's not like I'm still upset at you because of that. Nowadays, my only issue with you is the band and the fact that you're always a little shit about it."

"It does matter," he presses, and you notice the way his finger grip the edges of your desk chair so tight his knuckles go white, "it matters to me. I did not give you a fake number. It wasn't a prank."

"Piastri—"

"I promise you I didn't. I wouldn't have done that, even if I didn't want you to have my number, and I did."

"Piastri, it's fine," you insist, still avoiding his gaze, "I can promise you I'm over something that happened when we were 18." You pause. "But it's good to know you didn't do it on purpose. Makes it a little less embarrassing, I think."

He doesn't answer, just studies you quietly. Maybe he's waiting for something. You're not sure what it is. Your heart beats loudly inside your chest. You suppose this shouldn't change anything, but it does.

Not the fact that he didn't mean to give you the wrong number, no, but the fact he cares so much about it. About you knowing he wanted to talk to you, that he gave you the right number, that he waited for you to text him.

"So," you clear your throat, face flaming red, "the party this weekend."

✶✶✶

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oscarpiastri incredible night out with my girlfriend, the state record holder for 800m front crawl

tagged: yourusername

yourusername LMAOOOO

yourusername looking good piastri ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

↳ landonorris dating the guy and still calling him by his last name my man can never win

↳↳ yourusername it's my brand at this point

francolapinto still can't believe you refused to kiss for the camera i just wanted to capture this monumental moment

↳ yourusername weirdo

username1 can i say that as a fellow colleague i ALWAYS thought you guys would look cute together ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

kikagomes CUTIESSSSS ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 2,741 others

yourusername coffee date

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kikagomes the hard launch i can't ♡ liked by yourusername

kimiantonelli you guys are like parents to me ♡ liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux did you guys go grab coffee immediately after the party 😭😭😭

↳ yourusername perhaps

oscarpiastri ❤️❤️❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername ❤️❤️❤️

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landonorris i can't believe you guys are really dating we thought he was lying ♡ liked by yourusername

✶✶✶

A week later, Piastri waits for you to get ready for lab after bringing you to your dorm.

"I said I'd volunteer to help with your research," he explains when you stare at him quizzically, shruging as if it's just obvious.

And you guess it is. He did say he'd do it.

Besides, getting a ride to lab does feel quite nice. The awkwardness and silences from that first week seem to be dissipating slowly after you two managed to actually enjoy being together at Lando's party, even if you didn't do much besides dance with your friends and let him put his arm around your back a few times. You ask about cricket, he asks about swimming. He tells you about his engineering degree and how excited he is to get a job in the market, and you tell him all about doing physical therapy as pre-med and about how much work you're putting into it. He listens. He asks questions.

You find yourself enjoying those few minutes between the pool and your dorm more than you ever did. Worst of all, you find yourself looking forward to the way he laughs.

You're not friends, per se. You barely text outside of quick "I'm here" or "waiting for you" messages when he comes to pick you up, and your conversations don't ever stray much from your sports and your classes.

But it's nice to talk to him normally, to talk without feeling like there's a ticking bomb waiting for you to start an argument. You don't even feel angry or irritated at him anymore, not even when he jokes around too much or says something stupid.

When you arrive, your colleagues are absolutely ecstatic that you’ve brought them what is, essentially, a lab rat. Piastri barely introduces himself before they have him hooked up to a bunch of wires, monitoring his body’s responses as they make him jump, run, and do a thousand little exercises, moving his arms this or that way, flexing his legs.

You have to admit his calm demeanor and politeness are somewhat captivating. He’s extremely nice to everyone in your lab, and he asks them for details and information on your research, which, as everyone knows, is enough to make any academic’s heart soar.

Oscar smiles softly at you whenever you’re the one to come check on his wires, tell him to move in a specific manner. He obeys solemnly, calling you “doctor” and chuckling when you roll your eyes at him, unable to mask your grin.

Your colleagues make him promise to come back in the following week. He laughs and agrees, planting a kiss on the top of your head and telling you to text him when you get home before leaving.

You still have a smile on your face after he's gone, making notes and studying the data with a lightness on your chest. When your professor clears her throat and your eyes meet hers, your face is bright.

"So, that was your boyfriend, huh?" She smiles knowingly, looking you up and down.

"Yeah," you smile back, glancing back at the numbers and lines on the lab computer, "you know me, I had to force him to volunteer."

She chuckles at your answer, leaning her hip against your work desk.

"I can tell he really likes you," you turn your face towards her again, "just by the way he looks at you. You've got that man hooked, Ms. L/N." She claps your shoulder. "Good luck with that data, let me know when you're done so I can look it over."

You try to smile back, try to take it in stride. She gives you a wink before walking away, asking someone else a question and leaving as if your heart wasn't breaking a little bit.

Oscar must be good at this pretending thing, if even your lab professor thinks he's in love with you. You do nothing but smile a little more at him and actually look him in the eye, while he's the one giving you cheek kisses, opening doors for you, and laughing at every joke you make.

You're not sure why it bothers you, but it does. A lot.

✶✶✶

Another week later, you're preparing for the first round of nationals.

And Oscar has started to visit your dorm.

The first time it happens, it's a Monday. During the ride back from the pool, he asks if it'd be a good day for him to volunteer at the lab again, because he did promise he'd come back and he isn't sure if he'll be able to do it another time. You tell him he can wait for you to get ready inside your dorm instead of outside, in the car. Your roommate is leaving for her morning classes when the two of you arrive and shoots you a knowing look when she closes the door behind her, but doesn't say anything.

You don't say anything either. You just let him into the messy room, let him sit on top of your bed and between your pillows, let him ask questions about some of the books on your desk.

He keeps coming back, starts coming in after swimming practice and driving you from your dorm to the physical therapy building as well. You start asking questions back. What's his favorite book, is his dorm also a little untidy, who's his favorite teacher.

You tell him about your lucky swimming cap — the only one you wear during tournaments, the one you can't compete without, the one you check your duffle bag for a million times before leaving your dorm on competition days.

He tells you he has a lucky pair of socks for cricket games.

"Do you wash them?" You ask him then, wrinkling your nose, a smirk on your lips.

"Only when we lose," an amused grin covers his face, and it opens up with laughter as you gag, throwing a pillow at him that he quickly catches.

"You're nasty," your whole face scrunches up with disgust, shaking your head as if trying to shake the information away.

"Hey!" He objects between chuckles, smile bright. "If it works, it works."

Around the same time, the lingering touches start. You suppose it makes sense, considering the fact you're technically dating.

Oscar starts sitting with you on the cafeteria, holding your hand on top of the table, leaning his shoulder into yours. The tender kisses don't stop, they increase in frequency — on your cheek while he waits for you to get into the car, on your forehead when he leaves you after lunch, on the top of your head while you're hanging out with others.

You don't go out on dates. You don't have to — everyone knows how busy your lives are, so no one questions the way you're never seen out for dinner. Even then, it feels adequate. You're seen together everywhere, and you actually show up to one or two cricket team night practices to watch them play and wait for him before he drives you back to your dorm after a hard day.

Neither of you mention the way his hand sometimes searches for yours while he drives. Neither of you mention the fact he kisses your cheek even when there's no one around.

You're not sure when Oscar Piastri went from your archnemesis to your sort of touchy friend. You're not sure when you started texting him about annoying teachers, boring assignments, muscle aches from swimming. But you do, and he answers every time — he entertains you, makes jokes, asks questions, complains about his own classes.

Oscar Piastri becomes your friend.

And he isn't there during the first round of nationals because the cricket team has a friendly game to practice for the semifinals in the following week, but he texts you a string of four-leaf clover emojis for good luck and asks you to send him a picture wearing your lucky cap, which you do with a big smile on your face.

Oscar is nice, and considerate, and funny, and charming. He's more on the quiet side, yes, but he's so expressive and attentive that you just can't help but think that, if he didn't steal the band so often and you hadn't developed a grudge from a misunderstanding, maybe you could've been friends through the entirety of your graduation years.

Maybe this could've been real.

You try not to dwell on these thoughts, but it's impossible. You can't stop yourself from looking forward to the small kisses, the hand holding, the hugs, the car rides, the lunches, the talking in your dorm. The lines become blurry — how much are you really friends, and how much is it just pretending?

✶✶✶

"So, you and Piastri, huh?"

You look up from your duffle bag, hair still dripping wet with pool water.

Alexandra stares at you from a few feet away inside the locker room, drying herself calmly. Some of the other girls chat, energized from a productive practice and the good results from the first round of nationals, and none of them pay attention to you.

You clear your throat.

"Yeah," you look back down, trying to find the clean shirt you know is somewhere among the mess of your belongings, "Piastri and me."

Alex closes her locker carefully before walking closer to you, tone careful.

"Why didn't you tell me anything? I mean, you're my best friend, and I never thought—" she furrows her eyebrows in something between frustration and confusion, "I guess I just didn't see it coming."

"Oh, come on," you try to smile it off, finally picking up your shirt and standing straight to look back at her again. Your chest clenches for a reason you can't quite explain, "why are you asking me that now? We've been together for, what, a month?"

"I have to admit I thought it was a joke," she crosses her arms, "you've never liked the guy, and you didn't mention it even once."

"Of course it's not a joke. I mean, if it was, why wouldn't I tell you?" You cross your arms again, feeling strangely defensive even though you knew from the start that it would be difficult to hide the truth from Alex and Kika, specially Alex.

They knew everything about you. Why didn't they know you had been apparently seeing Oscar Piastri for an entire month before the two of you were officially dating? You didn't have an answer for that. They would've known if it was real.

"I don't know. Why didn't you tell me you were going out with him?" Her eyebrows furrow further, asking the exact question you don't kno how to answer. "I just don't understand why you kept it a secret. It's not like I would judge you or tell anyone or anything. You know that, right?"

"Of course I know that," your fingers tighten over the shirt they're holding, "I—it was just complicated. I didn't know if it was just a casual thing, you know?" You lean into the excuse you and Oscar had thought of weeks ago. "And he was too preoccupied with his degree and cricket and everything. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it if it wasn't anything serious."

"Oh, please," Alex rolls her eyes, "are you kidding? If you guys have always looked at each other the way you do, there's no way you thought it could be casual."

For a second, your entire body tenses, brain sending out sirens inside your head. You blink, and Alex looks at you expectantly.

"I—hum—what do you mean?" is all you can muster, feeling your face grow warm.

"You're joking, right?" She stares at you like you're stupid. You feel like it. "That man looks at you as if you hung the sun, the moon, and the stars in the sky. Whenever he has lunch with us, he just has eyes for you the entire time. Even when other people are speaking, he just keeps stealing glances at you. And you may not even notice, but he goes bright red whenever you smile at him. And the door opening? The cheek kisses? You cannot fool me into thinking you ever thought it could be casual when he's clearly head over heels for you."

A beat passes by. You just stare.

"And that's not even mentioning the way you look at him," she continues pointedly, "it's like he's the funniest, most brilliant person in the world, when, come on, he's nice, but he's still just Piastri."

"Oscar doesn't look at me like that," you answer late, mouth not quite catching up with your thoughts.

But did he? You never noticed. Did he look at you like that? Was he looking at you like that the whole time?

Was it even real? Did he look at you like that because he's supposed to be your boyfriend or because he actually couldn't help it?

No, it had to be because of your whole scheme. Oscar—Oscar was just now becoming your friend, he didn't—he couldn't—

Despite her growing irritation, Alex couldn't help but smile softly.

"He's really got you hooked, huh? I didn't think you'd ever be able to actually call him by his name."

Oh.

When did you start calling him Oscar? When did he become Oscar in your thoughts, and not just Piastri?

Did you look at him like that?

As if sensing your trouble, your phone starts to buzz. When you look down at it, laying on top of your open bag, his name pops up.

"He's... waiting for me outside," you stare up at Alex again. "I need to change and go."

"Look, you're my best friend," she repeats, small smile falling, "I just feel like there's something weird in all this, and I want you to know you can count on me, okay? I wanna hear all about this love story of yours. I just—I'm just really confused, honestly. Why didn't you say anything before you two started dating?"

Your phone buzzes again. You lean down to grab your bag, gesturing randomly towards the door.

"I'm gonna go change. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Why are you leaving like this?" She calls out, but you're already moving.

"I'm not," you call back, walking backwards so you can look at her, "I just can't do this right now."

You disappear before you can hear her response.

Ten minutes later, you're inside Oscar's car. He looks you up and down, your hair still dripping wet after running out without properly drying it, your eyebrows furrowed in deep thought, your mouth a straight line.

"Is everything okay?" He asks as he closes his door and starts the car.

"Alex cornered me to ask why I kept our relationship a secret from her."

You watch the way Oscar tenses.

"What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything," you shrug, looking out the window, "I sort of just ran away and left her at the locker room."

He snorts at that, and even though you still feel tense, you can't help but smile at the sound.

"Why would you run away?" He asks with amusement, shaking his head.

"I didn't know what to say!" You throw your arms up and, despite yourself, you feel the panic and discomfort from the conversation with Alex wash away in his presence, smile lingering on your lips.

"You could just tell her what sounds more believable," he suggests, but the smirk on his lips makes your eyes narrow teasingly, "that you fell for my unbelievable charm."

You laugh and he grins, glancing at you from the driver's seat.

"Oscar, no one would ever believe that."

You move your eyes from the window to his face, finding his own eyes mid-glance towards you. He sees your smile.

For the first time, you notice the way his cheeks turn pink.

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

When Oscar parks his car in front of your dorm building on Saturday, you’re already waiting for him, face warm as you watch him grab his phone to text you, barely aware of your figure standing outside. He’s usually the one who waits for you.

You watch him look towards the sidewalk lazily. You notice that he’s already in his cricket uniform, shoulders straight, ready for the game. His demeanor is calm, but you’ve heard him grumble enough to know how important this is to him — how much he wants to win.

The moment his eyes meet yours, you watch him blank, skin growing impossibly red as he looks you up and down.

You’re wearing his jersey. His number. His name on your back.

The moment Oscar sees you, he’s usually out of the car, opening the passenger door. This time, he stares. You almost feel self-conscious under his wide gaze, his mouth open, expression painted with surprise and something you can’t quite read.

For a moment, you think it’s awe.

You aren’t sure that's not just wishful thinking.

He snaps out of it when you start walking towards the car, stumbling over himself as he climbs out of the driver’s seat to open your door. His fingers touch the small of your back as you turn it to him while you get inside, and it sends an electric current through your spine. He closes the car door and walks over to get into his seat.

Oscar sits down, turns his head to stare at you again, skin bright red, eyes wide. You feel yourself shrink under his intense gaze.

“Do you… not like it?”

His eyes widen even further.

“What? No, I—hum—you—that’s my—hum—” somehow, his face grows even redder, and he clears his throat before speaking again, finally taking his stare away from you. “You look great. I’m—yeah. I love it,” he starts the engine and grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. Your eyebrows furrow slightly, but a feeling akin to amusement starts to crawl up your throat, warmth creeping up your chest. “How—where—”

“I asked Norris if you guys had a spare jersey so I could surprise you,” you answer calmly, watching the way his jaw works, the way he stares straight ahead as the car starts to move. “He told me he had the perfect one.”

He looks flustered.

And, God, you enjoy it. You savor it. It makes your heart soar.

Oscar Piastri is gripping the wheel, deep scarlet, stumbling over his words because of you.

You don’t dwell on what it means. You try not to think too hard about it or about how much you like it. But you notice the way he keeps stealing glances, the way his neck burns red whenever he looks at you, the way he can barely speak the entire drive.

Oscar Piastri is your archnemesis.

“Beautiful, loving, and supportive girlfriend, huh?” You tease after a couple of minutes, turning your head to look at him. Somehow, his face turns an even deeper red.

“Shut up,” he mumbles in response, unable to hide his sheepish grin when you cackle at his answer.

And it's at that moment that you realize it, sitting on the passenger seat, watching him grin, wearing his colors, his jersey, his number, wishing he had his hand on your thigh the same way he did when the two of you gave Kika a ride after practice on Wednesday.

That moment while he groans something about annoying swimmer getting on my nerves and glances your way just to find you already studying him, while his fingers flex against the steering wheel, while he looks you up and down and blushes again at the sight.

It hits you hard, makes your breath catch, turns the corners of your vision fuzzy.

You're not sure when it happened, you're not sure how. You could barely stand him and, a month later, he's the one who makes you laugh, who gets you to relax after tense days with a cheek kiss and the sound of his voice as he drives you around. A month ago he was just Piastri.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Oscar Piastri, who has pissed you off at every given opportunity since freshman year, who stole band every Sunday, who was never anything but annoying.

Oscar Piastri, who sits on the desk chair inside your dorm and catches every pillow you throw at him.

Oscar Piastri, who the colleagues in your lab adore and call their favorite volunteer.

Oscar Piastri, who smiles at you and lets his hand linger on the small of your back and kisses your forehead to say goodbye — never your mouth, because you told him not to. Never your mouth, and he still manages to make the soft kisses against your temple feel more intimate than any make out session you've ever had.

Fucking Oscar Piastri. Just Oscar.

You're not faking anymore.

✶✶✶

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yourusername MY BOY IS GOING TO FINALS BABYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY (still unsure how this sport works tbh)

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↳ kimiantonelli hoping the swimming gods listen to you

kikagomes CUTIESSSS OMG OMG OMG ♡ liked by yourusername

✶✶✶

You're very particular about competition days, and Oscar Piastri being attached to your hip feels like the weirdest and most welcomed disruption in the entire world.

He carries your bag for you while you find the rest of your team, cleans your swimming goggles when you aren't looking, kisses the top of your head softly before you put your lucky cap on, squeezes your hand when he finally has to leave your side.

None of it feels fake and most of it happens when you're sure no one else is looking. None of Oscar's friends are here to take note of how kind and caring he is towards you, except Charles and Pierre, who are both too busy with their own girlfriends.

It makes the soft spot he's been carving for himself inside you bigger.

The band is there, yes, but his cheering is the loudest thing you hear whenever your head comes up for air.

He doesn't need to do all of that. He does it anyway.

You don't dominate — the team does well enough, managing a few podiums, but no wins.

It's not the best prospect for the final round. You know so. The team knows so. You speak briefly about it, tell them it was good enough, that you'll train harder and do better next round.

Even then, Oscar hugs you close when you can finally go up to him, already out of your swimsuit and into warm clothes, pressing a kiss against your temple, and you feel any worry in your body melt away.

"You guys did amazing," he reassures as he holds you close, and you snort.

"You don't know much about swimming," you retort, but there's no bite to it.

"Well, I know the front crawl categories are only in the final round, and that's your specialty, right?"

You smile softly against his shoulder, breathing him in for a second before taking a step back.

"We'll see," you sigh as his hands linger on your arms, thumbs circling slightly, "it's a shame you won't be there. You were almost louder than the band."

Oscar chuckles at your teasing, and you almost miss the way his skin turns pink as he looks away from you, putting his hand on your back and starting to guide you towards the exist.

"About that, there's been talk about bringing the cricket finals forward by a week or so. I'd be—well, I'd be free to come, then."

You blink at him, but his eyes stay straight ahead.

"What? Isn't that really uncommon? Why would they do that? Did something happen?"

He clears his throat.

"I asked."

You blink at him again, stopping right in place. He takes a single step before he notices and turns to you.

"You asked?" You repeat, eyebrows furrowing, heartbeat skyrocketing.

"I did," he answers sheepishly, hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck, "I just—I'd like to be there. For the final round. And I'd like you to be there for the cricket finals as well."

You feel the air leave your lungs, heart ramming against your ribcage. He finally meets your gaze, and the look in his eyes is so intense you feel worried your legs might give out underneath you.

"Why?" Your voice cracks in the middle of the word, and his eyes turn impossibly soft. The sight makes your heart flip inside your chest, fingers trembling.

"You know why," is his quiet answer, hand reaching out so his fingertips touch yours, sending an electric current through your body while he keeps looking at you like that — like there's no one else in the entire world, like this is the most important thing ever, like this is real.

You open your mouth to speak when Franco calls your name from a couple of feet away.

The two of you look towards the sound to see Franco, Kimi, Alex, and Charles walking your way. You ignore the way Alex's eyes narrow, try not to remember she can probably read your expression like a book.

"Captain!" Kimi smiles as the four of them come to a halt in front of the two of your, "the band invited us to grab a bite together after this. Do you wanna come? Piastri too, obviously."

"I—yeah, sure, why not," you let out a breathy laugh, chest feeling impossibly tight. You can't get yourself to look at him properly, body tingling at the way you can feel him stare at you. "Oscar?"

He clears his throat again, but his voice comes out raspy. "Yeah, yeah, of course."

If anyone notices the tension between you, they don't mention it. Kimi asks if Oscar could give him and some of the other freshmen a ride, and you don't say anything while your fake boyfriend, who apparently asked the cricket organization to reschedule the final game's date for you, drives you and a bunch of freshmen to a restaurant nearby.

Neither of you mention it afterwards either, when he drives you home and the two of you are quiet for the entire drive.

You don't let him open the door for you when he parks in front of your dorm building — you almost throw yourself out of the car, ignoring the way he calls your name as you grab your duffle bag and speedwalk to your building.

You don't go straight to your dorm. Your mind is racing and you don't want to interact with your roommate right now, so you sit down in the building's empty lobby and breathe.

And then you do something you don't expect yourself to do.

You call Alexandra.

✶✶✶

"Why the fuck would he ask you to fake date him?"

"I don't know!" You throw your hands in the air, hair still sticky with pool water as Alex stares at you from the other side of the screen, shaking her head in disbelief. "He said he wanted his friends to stop annoying him about being married to cricket or something like that."

"I don't buy that for a second," she rolls her eyes, "why would he ask you of all people? No offense, but it's not like you guys had a good relationship or anything."

"I don't know, okay?" You repeat, throwing yourself back on the lobby's couch. "I don't know. I just wanted the damn band, and then he had to—I don't know, open every door for me and kiss my cheek. I don't know."

"Okay," you can hear her breathe deeply, "okay. I guess the reasoning behind it doesn't matter anymore. You're in love with him."

Your cheeks grow warm.

"I think 'love' is too strong a word, Alex."

"Is it now?" She rolls her eyes again. "If it's just a crush or whatever, why are you freaking out?"

"I'm not freaking out."

"Sure."

A quiet beat passes by.

"What are you gonna do?"

You sigh, closing your eyes tightly, hand coming up to your forehead.

What are you going to do?

"I don't know. Maybe I should call it off?"

"Maybe you should tell him."

Your eyes open wide and you sit up on the couch, glaring at the image of Alexandra on your screen.

"Are you insane? I can never do that."

You watch her shrug.

"Why not?"

"It's all fake, Alexandra," you answer as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, "he's gonna think I'm fucking crazy."

"You are fucking crazy," she points out, not even reacting to the way you huff, "you accepted to fake date a guy you couldn't stand just for band privilege and then proceeded to fall in love with him. That's fucking crazy."

"Thanks," your tone is bitter, but she takes it in stride.

"But he's even crazier for asking you in the first place, for doing all of this. I think you should tell him."

You sigh again.

"I don't know. He's become sort of a friend, you know? I don't want to make things weird as fuck."

"Things will be weird as fuck regardless when you fake break up. Things are already weird as fuck now," you chuckle humorlessly, and her voice softens, "look, I told you that day in the locker room—he looks at you like you're the only person in the whole world. You're telling me he's changing game dates for you when you know doing that is a pain in the ass—for fuck's sake, he probably likes you too and this hasn't been fake for a while."

Another quiet beat passes by as you roll her words over inside your head.

“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” She finally asks when you don’t answer, a hint of hurt on her tone.

“Oscar said you’d probably tell Charles, and Charles would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone. Afterwards, everything felt too complicated.”

Alex offers you a sad chuckle.

“I—well—maybe.” She sighs. “I won’t tell anyone now, though. Not when I know what you actually feel for him.”

You sigh back.

“Thank you.”

✶✶✶

You don’t tell him.

You can't. Whenever you try, his eyes meet yours, and it feels like throwing a rock on a dormant volcano, like taking something good and staining it.

You don’t tell him on Tuesday, when he picks you up after swimming practice and the two of you have gone back to sharing awkward silences. He doesn’t come up to your dorm when he drops you off. You don’t ask him to.

You don’t tell him the following days, when he tries to start a conversation and every one of your answers feel hollow, even when you don’t mean them to.

You have a couple of weeks before the season is over and this scheme ends. The thought hits you like a truck, almost harder than the realization that you had feelings for him in the first place — how is it gonna be after it’s done? Are you supposed to pretend it never happened? To act like friends? To act like it hadn’t become real for you? How would you tell your friends that things between the two of you are done? How would you tell yourself?

These questions haunt your every waking moment to the point you can barely look at him.

So you don’t tell him. And you just hum in acknowledgement when he mentions that they did bring the cricket finals forward, so he’ll be able to watch you swim during the final round of nationals, and you keep not inviting him up to your dorm and slipping out of the car before he can react.

And it's supposed to be fine, right? Because you couldn't stand him before, and it's all fake, and it's stupid to be upset by it.

Except you are upset, and none of it feels fake, and you actually miss the fragile friendship you were building before everything seemed to go wrong.

(And was it even fragile, really? It didn't feel fragile when he made you laugh so much your eyes got teary, when you smiled at each other inside his car, when he held your hand, when he kissed your face, when he spent time with you in your dorm, in the lab, around campus. Was all of that fragile? You aren't sure.)

What you don't expect is for Oscar to be waiting for you with a bouquet of baby's breath and red tulips, feet tapping against the concrete as he stands next to his car when he shows up to pick you up for the cricket finals.

"Oscar..." you sigh deeply at the sight, and your chest clenches when his face falls at your tone.

You’re wearing his jersey again, his name hanging from your back like it means something. It does mean something.

He notices it immediately — eyes traveling up and down your figure, face growing pink despite the awkwardness of it all. He clears his throat before speaking, arm already moving to open the passenger door for you.

“Ready?”

You swallow dryly before nodding.

Less than a couple of minutes later, the two of you sit in dead silence as he starts the car. You look down at your flowers.

Baby's breath and red tulips. You can't help but notice that, once again, he didn't go for plain roses — which would've been fine and were just what you expected. You didn't even expect him to actually meet your "flowers once per month" requirement.

But, God, he met every requirement and then some.

“So,” Oscar clears his throat again, bringing your attention back to him, “are you excited?”

You hum. “I—yeah. Are you?”

“Yes,” he nods with so much intensity you can’t stop a small smile from forming on your lips, “We have worked really hard to get here.”

“You have,” and it’s so awkward it pains you after an entire month of easy conversation, exchanged smiles, loud laughing. “You’ll do great.”

“Are you okay?” The words blurt out of him as if they’ve been lodged in his throat for a week, which they probably have been. “You’ve—you’ve been… Distant. All week.”

“I’m fine,” is your firm answer, leaving so little room for question that Oscar only manages to glance at you before focusing back on the road.

The rest of the drive is spent in awkward, awful silence. You study your flowers — fresh, bright, sweet, beautiful, so much more than you ever expected. He studies you — wearing his jersey, so close yet so far away, quiet in a way you haven’t been in weeks.

When you arrive at the cricket field, he opens your door for you and tells you to leave the flowers inside the car so you don’t have to carry them around. You place them down carefully, trying not to damage the petals or the leaves, and you walk side by side until you have to part ways — Oscar, towards the rest of his team, you, towards the bleachers.

As usual, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek as goodbye. There’s no one there to see it. Your hand reaches out for his.

“Good luck,” you say quietly, squeezing his fingers against yours, “you’ll do great.”

He nods once, game nerves starting to build underneath his skin. He kisses your forehead this time. There’s still no one there to see it.

“I’ll see you after the game.”

“Okay,” you hum, pulling him for a quick hug before you slip away towards the stands.

The match starts less than half an hour later. You sit close to the band, so low on the stands you’re basically level with the field, a couple of feet away from the grass. You wave to Leclerc before leaning forward as the game starts. 

Oscar and the others start fielding, which you’ve learned means they need to keep the other team from scoring. Oscar yells out orders and directions as they move across the field — you watched him do it during the semifinals, and it still feels weird to see him change like that. Your soft-spoken Oscar, taking command of the team with so much naturality no one can even question it.

When it’s finally their turn to bat, your body is so tense from the expectation you can barely breathe. You know Oscar tends to be one of the last few batters, but even from the bench he calls out to his teammates, cheering when they bat well, cheering when they score another run.

You find yourself cheering as well, singing alongside the band, rooting as Lando manages to score 4 runs and Ollie scores 3. There are a few times when Oscar turns to look at the stands from his spot on the bench. You meet his gaze and he smiles, nervous but excited.

It takes quite a few minutes before Oscar gets back on the field. He’s wearing a jersey that looks exactly like yours, helmet well positioned on top of his head. You cheer louder when he steps on the grass, and he turns to look back at you. You shoot him a thumbs up and, even though everything is weird and awkward, he still grins.

And you still cheer.

His teammate bats first. The two of them manage to cross each other 3 times before the other guy gets bowled out, and your eyes keep traveling to the scoreboard.

As well as the team has done, they’re still outscored by 5 runs. As Oscar prepares to bat, you hold your breath. You’re already rolling the motivational speech inside your head — you guys did great, second place is still amazing, you’ll get it next year — when Oscar hits the ball.

And it flies outside of the oval field.

You don’t know much about cricket. You know it has some similarities to baseball. And you know what a fucking home run looks like.

You’re already screaming when the bench and the bleachers explode in cheers, the six points effectively winning Oscar the cricket championship.

It takes a couple of minutes before the referee declares the end of the match, and you watch with a grin as the players on the bench run towards the field, jumping on top of each other as they celebrate the win. The band claps and cheers beside you, and you glance at them before looking back towards the field and seeing Oscar running straight towards you.

Your heartbeat picks up immediately, and you’re already standing up, already leaning on the barrier that separates the audience from the cricket field when he reaches you, hands coming up to your waist as he pulls you towards him, hugging you tight.

His uniform is damp with sweat, and he holds you for a few seconds before jumping over the barrier, getting dangerously close, fingers reaching up towards your jaw, eyes looking down at your mouth before looking back up into your eyes.

You expect him to just do it. You told him he could, right at the start of this mess, if they won the championship. When they won, he had corrected you.

Instead, he whispers, out of air, his breath caressing your lips, “can I?”

The question undoes you in a way you could never prepare yourself for. It makes your heart burn, your skin flush, your body tingle, and you barely feel yourself moving — you just watch it happen. Your hands come up to the collar of his jersey, and, in a second, you’re pulling him in, shoving your mouth against his with an urgency you’ve never felt before in your life.

The world melts away. You can only feel Oscar’s hands on your jaw, then on your waist, then tangling in your hair. His firm body presses against yours, and he tastes of salt and sweat, and you don’t want it to end.

It lasts a second, a minute, an hour. Either way, it’s not enough.

When he pulls away, your lips follow, chasing his. It’s the cheering from the team that snaps you back into reality, the hoots and delighted laughs that make your cheeks burn red as the boys start clapping each other on the back, throwing cricket balls at Oscar in celebration.

You let out a laugh that comes out like a breath, and he grins boyishly at you in a way that turns everything around you golden — his hair, his eyes, the sky, the feeling in your chest. He kisses your cheek tenderly before turning towards the team, jumping the barrier again and throwing himself at them. You smile as they all bump into each other, jumping in place and cheering.

After that, time stretches. You chat with Charles as the boys go into their locker rooms to shower and change, and, when they come out, you hear them talk about throwing a celebration party next Friday, about Instagram posts and trophies and the next season. 

Oscar smiles warmly at you when he reaches you again, pulling you against his side as he says goodbye to the others and starts guiding you towards his car, hand lingering on the small of your back.

The flowers are still waiting for you on the passenger seat when he opens your door. You take them carefully, placing them on your lap as he walks around the car, slips in, and starts the engine.

He starts speaking as soon as the car starts, going nonstop about the game and how fun it was and how happy he is that they won, that you were there, that the band was there, that they’re the cricket champions. You smile brightly at his enthusiasm, but then something inside you dims.

The season is over.

He doesn’t notice the change in you until he parks the car right by your dorm building. When he does, he seems to quiet down as well, studying you hesitantly before asking for the first time since you stopped inviting him, “can I go up with you?”

You release a tired sigh, unable to look at him, focusing on the flowers on your lap.

“You don’t have to, Oscar,” your voice is quiet, sorrowful, “the season is over.”

It hits him at that moment, his face falling before his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“No, it’s not. You still have the final round of nationals next weekend.”

“Oscar,” it sounds like begging, but you don’t know how else to say it, “the deal was for you. The season ended for you. We don’t need to drag this for another week,” your eyes sting, “it’s over.”

An awful silence takes over the car. The two of you just sit there, and you feel something like grief settle in your chest.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet, tentative. “It doesn’t have to be.”

Your head snaps up to look at him, face contorting with warning. “Oscar.”

"Can we talk? Upstairs?"

His words sound so raw, so vulnerable, that it makes something inside you break.

"Please?" He adds, and it just makes everything worse.

You sigh again, voice as quiet as his.

"Okay."

Tension builds between the two of you during the elevator ride up to your dorm, and you let out a relieved sigh when you see your roommate isn’t home for the day, leaving the small room empty.

You're still holding onto your flowers as you sit down on your bed, side by side, your fingers gripping the green stems as he turns his head to look at you.

"So," he starts after a few seconds of awkward quiet, "what's up with you?"

You blink at the question.

"Nothing," you answer, and you can taste the lie on your tongue.

"No, it's not nothing," he shakes his head in denial, eyebrows furrowing, studying you intently — the way your body is tense, the way your knuckles hold the flowers, the way you keep avoiding his gaze. "We were doing fine, and now you can't even look at me. Back there — we kissed, and for a second it felt like everything was fine and we could be friends, at least, and then you start talking about ending things and being distant again. What's wrong? I feel like I'm dating a ghost."

"Well, except you're not dating anyone, right? Maybe that's the problem."

Oscar blinks down at you.

"What?"

"We're not dating," you answer, gripping the stems so tight you can feel its ridges marking your palm and fingers, "that's the problem. I—," you stop yourself, face growing hot with embarrassment.

In a moment, his entire demeanor changes. His body tenses up, his fingers flex against his thighs.

"Why?" He leans towards you with so much intensity you can't help but meet his stare, heartbeat picking up at his eagerness, the way his expression seems to beg for something you can barely understand. His voice is low, and it sends a pleasant shiver through your spine. "Why is that the problem?"

"You know why," your voice cracks right down the middle, and you swallow dryly, "you know why," you repeat, clearly this time, breath hitching as he leans even closer.

"I—," he answers quietly, and you can't take your eyes away from him, from the way he looks back at you. He clears his throat, "don't do this to me."

"Don't do what?" You whisper in return, suddenly hyper aware of how close he is.

"Don't— don't make it sound—," Oscar shakes his head almost as if he's waking himself up, leaning away from you. You let out a breath as space grows between you. "Why haven't you been talking to me? Why have you been ignoring me for the entire week?"

You sigh deeply, finally able to look the other way.

"I got too attached," you admit, hands fidgeting with the flowers before you sigh again and stand up to lay the bouquet on your desk. "I didn't—I don't know how to deal with that."

You left the bed hoping it would help with the weird tension hovering around the room. It doesn't.

He stands up, following you around the dorm, and, when you turn your back to your desk, he's right there, arms crossed, looking down at you. He's not as close as he was before, but he's close enough to make your heartbeat skyrocket again.

"And why didn't you say anything? Why did you let me kiss you like that if you—if that’s how you feel?"

"You know why," you say for the third time, fingers gripping the edge of your desk table. "I didn’t want to ruin it when it’s so close to ending. I didn't want to—"

"Admit it wasn't fake anymore?"

You stop. You stare at him. He stares back.

"Yeah."

He lets out a shaky breath.

"You mean that?"

He looks uncertain, almost hopeful. Something about it makes your heart burn inside your chest, quiet but insistent. It feels like it's meant to happen — like every road, every argument, every smile, every touch, every laugh led to this, to this moment, to the way Oscar stares at you as if you're holding his heart in your palm, as if he's begging you not to crush it.

And he's holding yours in his.

"Yes," your answer comes out like a prayer, airy and fearful, "I haven't been faking it for a while."

He chuckles quietly, and the sound turns your insides molten. His hand comes up to your jaw just like it had in the cricket field, and he cradles your face hesitantly, afraid of being pushed away.

"I don't think I was ever faking it at all,"  he confesses, and your breath hitches when his nose touches yours, "I think I've been in love with you since freshman year, when we talked at that cocktail party and I spent weeks wishing for you to call."

You watch him intently. He breathes in deeply.

"You swept me off my feet the day we met and I just couldn't get over it, even when we didn't get along well. I guess the reason I even asked you to pretend to be my girlfriend is because I couldn't imagine even pretending to have feelings for someone else."

You smile softly and watch the way his cheeks turn pink at the sight. It immediately weakens any resolve you might have, any doubt, any fear.

"Good", is all you whisper in return, and then you slot your lips against his once more.

This time, it isn’t urgent, quick, or rushed. Oscar sighs into your mouth, and the feeling sends sparks down your spine and up your neck, something hot and sweet running through your veins.

He hums when your fingers come up to tangle themselves in his hair, and the hand that isn't holding your jaw moves to your waist, gripping you firmly but delicately, strongly but carefully.

His lips travel down to your neck, leaving a burning trail on their wake, and you tug at his hair lightly, making him sigh again.

"So much for 'no kissing', huh?" He mumbles against your neck, and you can't help the snort that leaves you before your hands move to his collar, pulling him away from your neck so you can look at him.

"Shut the fuck up, Piastri," and then your mouth is on his again, feeling the way he smiles cheekily against you and then feeling the way his smile dissolves as your tongue touches his lip.

He sighs once more when your tongue touches his, arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer. Your bodies collide, and you can feel every inch of your skin burning.

You kiss him again and again and again until both your lips are red and swollen, until his hands travel under your shirt, until his hair sticks up in five different directions.

You can't stop yourself. You don't want to.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Oscar Piastri, in love with you since freshman year.

Oscar Piastri, kissing the air out of your lungs, holding you close, sending sparks through your body.

Oh, you're in too deep.

✶✶✶

liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 1,024

yourusername no but like it's FOR REAL this time

tagged: oscarpiastri

oscarpiastri truly swept you off your feet, huh? ♡ liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername shut up

↳ yourusername yeah you did

oscarpiastri ❤️❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux CALL ME RIGHT NOW? ♡ liked by yourusername

landonorris what's that caption about

liked by yourusername, landonorris and 1,101 others

oscarpiastri well to ME it was real all along

tagged: yourusername

kikagomes even his ig posts are looking like yours.... you got him good @.yourusername

↳ oscarpiastri she really does!

kimiantonelli literally my parents please give me more rides after competitions dad ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

yourusername well i DID kiss you first in the end ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

↳ oscarpiastri did i look pitiful at the time?

↳↳ yourusername just a little bit ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

THIS TOOK ME A LIFETIME OMGGGG I'M SO GLAD SHE'S OUT IN THE WORLD <3 really hope you guys enjoyed, likes and reblogs are always appreciated :)

[landhoe-wdc]

[sofs16]

bro skipped a year WHAHAAHAHHA

gm to you TOO carlos

[drivestraight]

on waiting and wanting

hungarian gp 2023 | “how to be a dog” by andrew kane

[sofs16]

Hello, I hope you and your family are well. Can you please help me recycle the post on my account? 🌺 And help rescue my family from the war in Gaza? 🙏 Thank you.

https://gofund.me/198b6d57

Hope you are well too:)

[sofs16]

Hii i have a request for charles leclerc. So basically reader and charles are in a relationship and the public knows it. They dont post each other on social media though but whenever reader films a tiktok, insta story or wtvr, charles always does something because he doesnt want people to think the reader is alone and single

sorry this is super late, but here’s the fic!

Have a lovely day🤍🤍🤍

[sofs16]

just making sure

based on this request!

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹charles x model!reader | fc: lila moss

sof speaks now! thank you for this req, anon! sorry this took so long to make, and this is a little short :(

ynslife

liked by bawsixteen, and 6,711,118 others

ynslife after the after party 🛥️

view all 422,953 comments

user1 did you and charles break up?

user2 are charles and her still together… it’s been 1 year announcement and no interaction or posts online😞

⤷ user4 they just don't post each other but they were seen at this party together by the paps!!!

ᝰ.ᐟ charles_leclerc posted a story!

seen by ynslife and 3,382,584 others

ynslife

📍spain

liked by charles_leclerc, and 6,273,819 others

ynslife holaaaaa🌞

view all 382,283 comments

charles_leclerc 😍😍😍

user2 giggling at charles posting a story after this

ᝰ.ᐟ charles_leclerc posted a story!

seen by ynslife and 3,382,584 others

ᝰ.ᐟ ynslife posted a story!

seen by charles_leclerc, and 5,117,823 others

ᝰ.ᐟ charles_leclerc posted a story!

seen by ynslife, and 4,219,183 others

ᝰ.ᐟ ynslife posted a story!

seen by charles_leclerc, and 5,573,123 others

replies

charles_leclerc bonne chance bebe, je suis ici 🤍 goodluck babe, i’m here ⤷ ynslife 🥹🥹🥹🥹 bebeeeee je t’aime

f1gossip

liked by 21,182 others

f1gossip Charles Leclerc is at the Paris Fashion show, supporting girlfriend Yn Yln! view all 1,171 comments

user6 PARENTD

ᝰ.ᐟ ynslife posted a story!

seen by charles_leclerc, and 6,683,391 others

replies

user16 waiting for the charles story post 😝

charles_leclerc

📍 paris, city of love

liked by ynslife, and 14,282,293 others

charles_leclerc Congratulations, bebe🤍 You always amaze me, and I could not have been prouder to see you front row today 😘

view all 2,182,594 comments

ynslife 😭😭😭😭 i love you

ynslife no more story posting, eh?🙂‍↕️

⤷ charles_leclerc It is hard not to show you off 🤣

user3 charles got tired of being shy on the stories AHAHA

ynslife

📍 bali, indonesia

liked by charles_leclerc, and 8,191,191 others

ynslife ml ❤️

view all 531,111 comments

charles_leclerc 😍😍😍🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️🙂‍↕️

charles_leclerc

📍 bali, indonesia

liked by ynslife, and 6,696,191 others

charles_leclerc Good break time, Japan tomorrow! 🇯🇵

view all 1,585,219 comments

user5 bro why u softlaunching your 2 year old relationship 😭😭

⤷ charles_leclerc Just to make sure 🤣

ynslife i like motorcycles

⤷ ynslife specifically people on top of them. ⤷ charles_leclerc 🤣🤣🤣 Funny, bebe

user6 “bebe” is THEIRS

ynslife

liked by charles_leclerc, and 6,686,977 others

ynslife mami and me for britishvogue 🥹🥹🥹🤍🤍🤍

view all 1,821,011 comments

ᝰ.ᐟ charles_leclerc posted a story!

seen by ynslife, and 4,219,183 others

[sofs16]

defo gon write lando to tsou album.

[luxmundi-i]

if the devil saw israel he would hand over his throne.

[sofs16]

a wild ride — ln4

fc: hailee steinfeld | warnings : celebrity x fan

༘˚⋆𐙚｡⋆imessage — lando and oscar Lando Norris

Osccccccc

who did you invite to the garage?

Oscar Piastri

A few celebrities that follow me and long time fans. McLaren gave a list of people we could invite.

Lando Norris

Did they tell you to interact with fans more too?

Oscar Piastri

Yeah. Logan said they told him and Alex the same, so I’m guessing not only us. [Reacted 👍🏻]

landonorris

📍 Melbourne, Victoria, Australia

liked by carlossainz55, norrisupdated, and others

landonorris Exploring done. Back to work tomorrow. Let’s get it!

view all 21,484 comments

user1 thank you for unfollowing someone ♥︎ author

⤷ user2 ???

⤷user3 he followed 556 people and now 555 so angel number! norrisupdated i told my mom about you😖

⤷landonorris and what’d she say?

⤷ norrisupdated we’d make a good 🍐! ⤷ landonorris i like your humor, user norrisupdated

march 20, 2024

norrisupdated

liked by landonorris, and 8,854 others

norrisupdated via landonorris’ Instagram post 😎 : “Exploring done. Back to work tomorrow. Let’s get it!“

— i hope he knows we’re waiting for a lando.jpg comeback

#landonorris #ln4

view all 295 comments

loverwags GIRL HE REPLIED TO YOUR COMMENT!!! ⤷ norrisupdated YES😭 trying to hard to act nonchalant abt this.

landonorris how are you so quick

⤷ norrisupdated LANDO WHY ARE YOU HERE 😭😭😭😭 and im ashamed to admit i’ve had years of practice on your notifs 😖

user3 praise lando for another norrisupdated admin reveal😍

⤷ user4 her main acc is legit on her bio 😭😭😭

march 20, 2024

ᝰ.ᐟ norrisupdated just posted a story!

seen by landonorris, and 32k others

landonorris replied! 4:45 AM landonorris that was YOU? IM SORRY I ACCIDENTALLY FOLLOWED AND UNFOLLOWED YOU😭 ⤷ norrisupdated LANDO ITS FINE SORP STALKIHN ME IM SCARED ⤷ landonorris i thought fan accounts liked interactions 😢 ⤷norrisupdated Yes but it’s 4 in the morning and i’m processing this is you. ⤷ landonorris what??????? GO TO SLEEP ⤷ norrisupdated but if i sleep ill never talk to u again 😔 ⤷ landonorris i promise i will still stalk you by the time you wake up! now get sleep or else… SOMETJING ⤷ norrisupdated going to sleep 😙 thabsk for a great end of the day! ⤷landonorris anytimeeee… what’s you name, sorry? delivered

ynscloset

liked by landonorris, and 92 others

ynscloset been tired lately, but!!!!!!!!! whatever today is a good day

view all 21 comments

19h ago

f1gossip

Liked by f1wags, and 10,173 others

f1gossip Lando Norris just followed a a fan account... and her personal account!

Lando isn’t known for following a lot of fan accounts, but he has recently been replying to more comments. One of those comments made by one popular fan account, norrisupdated. Nothing out of the ordinary until Lando followed her and her main tonight.

New wag?

View all 392 comments

user1 What happened to that model he was allegedly seeing?

⤷ f1gossip Nothing really, it’s been 4 months. loverwags idk bout u guys but i ship😊 might be a lil weird to have a celebrity racer dating a fan but at least it’s yn. she’s been there since 2018 and isn’t even a crazy fan, she just updates😭

user2 he’s stalking her main HELPFME

user3 what do we know abt her

⤷f1gossip Not much aside from the fact she owns a bakery and update page…

user4 why a middle age woman like her running an update page😭

⤷ user2 MIDDLE AGE??? SHE’S 24😭😭😭😭

ynscloset Good Morning? ⤷ user6 😭😭😭

march 21, 2024

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ynscloset just posted a story!

seen by yourbff, and 5 others

yourbff replied! 9:12 AM yourbff WHY DOES LANDONORRIS FOLLOW YOU ⤷ ynscloset because i commented that thing you told me to comment from norupdted and he replied??? and then he commented on my post and then he viewed all my stories and replied apologizing for that time he followed nd unfollowed me ⤷ yourbff BRUHHHHHH HE DMED YOU?? RPELY?? HOW DO YOU SLEEP AFTER THAT ⤷ ynscloset HE TOLD ME TO SLEEP AND WE’D CHAT IN TJE MORNING CUZ I SAID I WONT SLEEP CUZ HE WONT TALK TO ME THE NEXT DAY… YK ONCE IN A LIFETIME MOMENT!!! IM SCARED TO DM BUT THERES A MESSAGE UNREAD ⤷ yourbff must i say what you need to do😓 ⤷ ynscloset latererrr i will reply! gotta open the café!!! duties call ⤷ yourbff why do you even have that update account until now😒 ⤷ ynscloset BECAUSE I HAVE ATTACHMENT ISSUES AND WE HAVE A 5/6 YEAR BOND. ⤷ yourbff just saying this migjt be your opportunity to be a wag😽 ⤷ ynscloset i cant handle that pressure oh no😭 and its not gonna happen!!!!! bye!

ynscloset

liked by landonorris, and 48,284 others

ynscloset whatta busy busy day! thank youuu for stoping by, new customers 🧡

view all 4,372 comments

user2 loll just cuz lando followed this girl theyre coming to her bakery😭

user3 passed by and many people kept asking her abr lando… let this girl work in peace

user4 why does lando follow her?

⤷ user2 lots of people think she’s his new gf

user5 LANDO IN THE LIKES

user5 ogs know yn from norrisupdated surviving the content drought 😖 ♥︎ author user6 i discovered you through a wag page, but now you’re my favorite baker (and your bakery is my new fave)! thanks for being so kind🥹🤍

⤷ ynscloset thank you for stopping by!!! hope to see ya again 🧡

user7 not this girl acting as if she a wag 😭😭

⤷ user1 she didn’t do anything…

ynscloset has limited the comments…

march 21, 2024

Lando Norris landonorris • instagram 8.5M Followers • 1,801 Posts You both follow each other on instagram

4:01 AM

Lando Norris

anytimeeee… what’s you name, sorry?

9:21 PM

norrisupdated

Yn! Hold up, I’ll message you from my main:)

[Reacted 🧡]

Lando Norris landonorris • instagram 8.5M Followers • 1,801 Posts You both follow each other on instagram

9:22 PM

Yn

Hi!

Sorry I replied so late, I just got home:/

Lando Norris

Hey! Isn’t it like 10 in the states?? Why so late

Yn

Yesss busy day at work:) actually, a lot of them are your fans asking me about you 😙

Lando Norris

I meant to apologize to you about that…

Sorry for all the hate you’ve been getting because I followed you

Yn

no biggie, i don’t mind it

i think i just need to go quiet for a bit and let it die down🙏🏼

Lando Norris

sounding like a professional over there??? done this before?😂

Yn

watched f1 enough to get the gist how it works LMAFFOF

Lando Norris

everrr attended a gp?

Yn

STILL saving up:/ at my bakery, the tip jar is labeled for me to watch a gp😔

Lando Norris

Woulddddd it be cool if I invited you over for the Suzuka GP?

Yn

Are you joking

Lando Norris

yes

seen for 2m

Lando Norris

wait no im not actually joking

wai dont leave me on seen

HELLO?

Yn

NOT cool dude

Lando Norris

is this a no😢

Yn

wait

i would love to

BUT

lowkey in debt rn to afford a flight……………. I WILL FIND A WAY HOLD ON😂

Lando Norris

i could book you a flight

as you say, no biggie

Yn

what

thats too much

what

huh

what

Lando Norris

yn, i’m opening the website rn so tell me if youre available😔

Yn

yes im available 😊

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ynscloset just posted a story!

seen by yourbff, and 7 others

yourbff replied! yourbff Context? ⤷ ynscloset Lando Norris is flying me out to Japan for the Suzuka GP.

21:45

Lando Norris

booked! whats your number for the deets?

Yn

How do I know you’re not hacked and you’re going to hack me next?

Lando Norris

….

i’m confused how you got to this question

Enough proof?

Yn

close enough but that is not 11am in australia and its live on tv youre in practice 😖😖😖😖 #LandoHacked!

Lando Norris

damn youre good

I just looked better in the other pic😒 embarrassing u look better at 9pm than me rn

Yn

why are you LYING

anyways +1 201 xxx xxx

[ Reacted 🧡 ]

Lando Norris

Whats with the seenzoning 😓

delivered 21:54

Yn

HELLO SORRY

I bought food mb IM BACK

Lando Norris

Shit

dont apologize

IM sorry, i forgot to ask if youve eaten

What did u gettttt

Yn

dont worry! have you eaten?

i got mexcian food🤤

[Reacted 😍]

Lando Norris

I ate with the team earlier, just getting ready for FP1

Yn

gooooodluck lando!

gotta work, but ill be watching! p.s u should jpg post 😂

Lando Norris

gotta work, but ill be watching! ⤷goodluck working!!!! gotta visit that bakery soon:) ⤷ also a lot of pressure youre putting there😓 ill try my best

p.s u should jpg post 😂 ⤷lets see 🙈

f1gossip

liked by ynscloset, and others

f1gossip End of FP1 with these top three!

view all 23 comments

user4 YN IN THE LIKES

march 22, 2024

— instagram notification !! [landonorris] ynscloset congrats on fp1!!!!!! hope you get the same results for the race 🤭

𐙚 twitter

lando.jpg

liked by ynscloset, and others

lando.jpg ask and u shall receiveeeeee

view all 2,832 others

user2 we all know who asked

⤷user4 who

⤷user3 yn! “i hope he knows we’re waiting for a lando.jpg comeback” from her last update post

user5 i love the yn lando lore sorry😭

⤷user6 im so rooting for them

march 22, 2024

mclaren

liked by ynscloset, landonorris, and others mclaren HUGE POINTS HAUL! 👊🏻 A great drive from Lando and Oscar to deliver Down Under!🤩

view all 1,247 comments

march 24, 2024

ynscloset 🔒

liked by landonorris, and 73,743 others

ynscloset an amazing week 🧡🧁

view all 3,371 comments

user2 we love youuuuuu

user5 yall made her go private😭😭😭😭😭 NOO

⤷ user1 atleast she’s still posting 🥹

yourbff i love him alr

⤷ ynscloset 😎

comments are limited …

march 25, 2024

f1gossip

liked by 12,383 others

f1gossip Yn seen at the airport in Japan! Will she be attending the GP? view all 1,574 comments

user6 WELCOME BACK QUEEN SERENA

user7 not her being a golddigger alr lol she was photographed leaving from the first class section😭😭

⤷user6 get a job

april 3, 2024

f1gossip

liked by landonorris, and 23,583 others

f1gossip What we’ve all been waiting for! Yn joins the McLaren garage today at the Suzuka Grand Prix where Lando came in 2nd! Lando and Yn weren’t seen together until they left together, but no photos have surfaced yet. Many people have said she was super nice and took pictures with a lot of people and even gave baked goods to the McLaren garage and some fans!! view all 4,284 comments

f1gossip📌 photos in order:

1. yn seen smiling at lando while outside the mclaren garage

2. yn taking pics of lando when he came on the screen

3. yn with a fan during the after party

4. yn on the big screen before the gp started!

5. yn and lando’s front wing while mclaren workers were describing the car and stuff (people say she was asking questions and super excited)

6. yn with a fan again! they said she had to go because lando was waving at her 🥹

user5 idk what yall say, i like her

user7 SHE GAVE ME A CUPCAKE 😭😭😭😭😭😭

april 7, 2024

landonorris

liked by ynscloset, and others

landonorris a great week!

view all 43,273 comments

carlossainz55 wonder why

april 8, 2024

⋆𐙚₊˚⊹ ynscloset just posted a story!

seen by landonorris, and 839k others