sorry i went MIA, i got a new job and it kinda took over my life but luckily i’m freeing myself from it and getting a better job for my mental health, so i will have a lot more time on my hands and i would love to start writing again.
so let’s hear any ideas y’all have, who do you wanna read about? i wanna hear from you!
Chopsticks. Soy sauce packets. A blanket was thrown over their laps while the rain started gently outside. Y/N wore Oscar’s hoodie and a pair of fuzzy socks she found in one of the kitchen drawers (labeled “drawer of joy” courtesy of Hattie).
Oscar turned on soft jazz, lit one of the candles in the entryway (labeled “smells like contentment”), and raised his carton of noodles in a toast.
“To the first dinner in our forever.”
Y/N grinned. “And zero dishes to wash.”
Later, while Oscar brushed his teeth and mumbled a sleepy version of “La Vie en Rose” from the bathroom, she remembered Hattie’s message.
check under the bed for something from mum.
She knelt beside the mattress and lifted the quilted dust skirt, heart pounding like she might find a journal or a framed family recipe.
Instead, she pulled out a small white box.
Taped closed with a pink ribbon and a note in his mother’s handwriting:
For whenever the time comes.I want to be the first gift given to my grandbaby.With all my love,Mum x
Y/N tilted her head, confused for a second.
Then she opened the box.
And burst into laughter so intense, it came out in one long squeaky wheeze.
Inside?
A tiny, buttery-soft onesie.
Embroidered in gold thread across the front:
“Baby Piastri”
She cackled.
Actually fell backward onto the carpet, onesie in her hands, tears rolling down her cheeks.
Oscar walked out of the bathroom, toothbrush still in hand, staring at her like she’d completely lost it.
“Did you—are you okay?!”
She sat up, holding the onesie like a trophy. “YOUR MUM LEFT US A BABY ONESIE.”
Oscar blinked.
Then blinked again.
Then slowly started laughing too.
He crossed the room, dropped to his knees beside her, and took the tiny outfit into his hands.
“Oh my—she’s completely unhinged.”
“She wrote a note,” Y/N wheezed. “Like she’s got a whole plan!”
Oscar grabbed the letter, read it quickly, and fell forward into her lap, face buried against her stomach as he laughed so hard he nearly choked.
“‘For whenever the time comes,’” he repeated. “What does she think we’re doing in here?!”
Y/N was still wiping her cheeks. “Babe, she’s manifesting.”
He snorted. “We’ve been married for twenty-four hours.”
“And we already have merch.”
When the laughter faded into sleepy sighs, Oscar gently tucked the onesie back into the box and slid it into the bottom drawer of the dresser.
He kissed Y/N’s temple and whispered, “We’ll keep it safe. For someday.”
And then he added, under his breath:
“…which will not be tomorrow.”
She laughed again, quieter now. “No promises.”
They climbed into bed, toes tangled, the house creaking softly as if settling around them.
Oscar turned off the lamp.
And in the quiet, he reached for her hand.
“I’ve never felt this kind of peace before,” he said. “It’s not just about being happy. It’s about… finally being home. With you.”
Y/N pressed her forehead to his. “Me too.”
Instagram Story – From Y/N (only visible to close friends):📸 [Picture of the onesie lying on their bed, Oscar’s foot in the corner of the frame, captioned:]
your mum left this in a box under the bed. we’re not even 24 hours in. send help.
–
It was still dark outside.
Not pitch black — just the soft blue before the sun comes up, the hour when the world is still yawning itself awake.
Y/N sat cross-legged on the bathroom floor, Oscar’s hoodie wrapped around her like a shield. Her bare toes tapped anxiously against the tile.
Three minutes.
The little test sat face-down on the counter like it was shy too.
She didn’t wake him.
Not because she didn’t want him there — but because if it wasn’t, she wanted to hold the silence first.
Breathe through the ache without letting it touch him.
But if it was…
She didn’t even know what she’d do.
They hadn’t been trying.
Not really.
But they hadn’t been stopping anything either.
They’d talked about it once or twice, curled together on the couch, legs tangled and popcorn between them.
“One day,” he’d said softly. “When we’re ready. When it feels right.”
And she’d nodded.
“When love spills over.”
This morning felt… different.
She couldn’t name it.
Only that her body felt unfamiliar. Her stomach off. Her breath short. And something deep in her gut whispering, check.
So she did.
And now — three minutes later — she reached out with a shaky hand and turned the test over.
And everything in the world slowed.
Because there it was.
Pregnant.
Just that word.
Soft. Solid. Real.
She didn’t cry.
Not at first.
She just smiled.
Pressed her hand to her belly — still flat, still quiet — and whispered, “You’re really in there?”
And then the tears came.
Oscar was still asleep when she tiptoed back into the bedroom.
Curled under the blankets, hair messy, one arm stretched across her pillow like he’d reached for her in his sleep.
She didn’t wake him.
Instead, she walked straight to the dresser.
Pulled open the bottom drawer.
And there it was.
The tiny white onesie with “Baby Piastri” stitched in gold across the front. The same one that made her cry-laugh the night they moved in.
She pressed it to her chest and finally let the joy rise.
It’s time.
When he woke up thirty minutes later, blinking through the morning light, he found her sitting at the edge of the bed — hair unbrushed, hoodie swallowed around her, and the onesie folded neatly in her lap.
She looked up, eyes glassy, smile trembling.
“I found out this morning.”
Oscar sat up slowly, confused.
“Found out what?”
She held out the onesie.
And said two words:
“It’s time.”
The silence stretched.
Just long enough for it to really hit him.
Then Oscar’s face broke into something between shock and awe — lips parted, brows lifting, chest rising with a staggered breath.
“No way.”
Y/N nodded, laughing through tears.
He reached for her so fast the blanket tangled around his feet, but he didn’t care. He knelt in front of her like he had the day he proposed and placed both hands over her stomach.
“You’re sure?”
She nodded again.
He kissed her belly.
Then her hands.
Then her lips.
“You’re going to be the best mum,” he whispered. “They’re going to have your heart.”
Later that morning, they laid in bed side by side, staring at the ceiling, the onesie tucked between them like a secret they weren’t ready to share just yet.
And Y/N said, voice barely above a breath:
“I wonder if they’ll look like you.”
Oscar grinned.
“I hope they get your laugh.”
Text to Hattie – 6:41 AM:Y/N:I think your mum might be psychic.
We found out this morning. It’s time. 🍼
Hattie:SHUT UP
SHUT. UP.
I AM ALREADY BUYING BABY SHOES.
OH MY GOSH.
CRYING. CALL ME RIGHT NOW. NO ONE CARES THAT IT’S 6AM.
–
The Kentucky sun was brutal in the best way — the kind that soaked into your bones, made the lemonade sweeter and the pool feel like heaven.
Y/N had one leg dangling in the water, oversized sunglasses on, a sunhat that was almost comically large shielding her face.
Oscar was floating on his back in the middle of the pool, getting absolutely annihilated in a splash war by her youngest cousins.
Hattie lounged beside her on a beach towel, sipping sweet tea and pretending not to be eavesdropping on every single conversation.
Y/N felt like she could exhale here.
Back home. Back where the air smelled like grass and sunblock and someone always had a country playlist going in the background.
And this time… she wasn’t just visiting.
She was bringing someone with her.
Even if no one knew it yet.
“Want a Coke?” her sister Emma called, tossing a cold can from the cooler.
Y/N caught it — then paused.
She shook her head and set it aside. “Actually I’ve been off caffeine lately.”
Oscar raised a brow from across the pool.
That was Hint #1.
Later, she walked over to her mom, who was flipping burgers on the grill in her “World’s Best Nana (someday)” apron.
Y/N wrapped her arms around her from behind.
“Mmm, smells good,” she said. “Little one’s already got a favorite smell, I think.”
Her mom laughed, flipping a patty. “You mean your favorite smell.”
Y/N just smiled and walked away.
Hint #2.
Back in the pool, her cousin passed her a floatie shaped like a giant rubber duck.
Y/N hesitated. “Hmm… too on the nose.”
Oscar laughed. “Why? It’s cute.”
“I don’t know… feels like a future mom vibe or something.”
Hattie snapped her head toward her.
Hint #3.
Then the kicker.
They were all crowded in the shallow end — her dad on the grill, her brother-in-law tossing kids into the deep end, her mom sunbathing, Emma braiding her niece’s hair on the steps.
Y/N adjusted her cover-up, pulled her hat lower, and sighed dramatically.
“I feel like I’m already carrying something all the time,” she said, hand casually resting low on her stomach.
Oscar, biting into a popsicle across from her, nearly choked.
Hattie turned so fast she knocked over her drink.
Emma blinked once, twice.
Then stood up so fast the braid she was working on fell apart.
“OH MY GOSH.”
Everyone turned.
Emma pointed, mouth open. “WAIT. WAIT. YOU’RE—YOU’RE PREGNANT?!”
The entire pool froze.
Then chaos.
Her mom dropped her sunglasses. Hattie screamed. One of her little cousins yelled, “LIKE A BABY?!” and cannonballed next to Oscar.
Y/N was laughing so hard she doubled over, hand still resting instinctively on her stomach.
Oscar swam over, grinning like he’d been holding the secret under his tongue for weeks (which he had).
He wrapped an arm around her in the water and kissed her cheek.
“You really thought the hints would go unnoticed?”
Y/N wiped at the tears on her face. “I thought it would take longer!”
Her mom had tears running down her cheeks. “You’re… really?”
Y/N nodded, voice a little shaky now. “Yeah, Mama. We’re really gonna have a baby.”
Her dad walked over from the grill in stunned silence. Then, in classic dad fashion, just pulled Oscar into the biggest, tightest hug possible.
“You’re a good man,” he whispered. “And now you’ve got an even bigger reason to be one.”
Oscar just nodded, overcome.
An hour later, the burgers were slightly overcooked, the lemonade ran out, and the sun had dipped just enough to soften the heat.
Y/N laid in a hammock with Oscar, belly pressed to his side, both of them watching her family pass the “baby Piastri” onesie around like it was made of gold.
Her mom was already talking nursery colors.
Her sister was googling tiny cowboy boots.
And Hattie? She was sobbing in the corner, clutching a watermelon slice like it was holy.
Oscar leaned down and kissed her forehead.
“This baby’s gonna have so many people who love them.”
Y/N nodded, eyes soft. “And one day, they’ll get to hear the story about the pool party where it all came out.”
–
The church hall smelled like potluck casseroles and fresh flowers.
Sunlight spilled through the stained-glass windows, casting soft purples and golds across the wooden floor. Tables were decorated with pastel bunting, little white cupcakes with soft pink and blue frosting, and mason jars filled with handwritten prayers for Baby Piastri.
Y/N stood near the front of the room, her hand resting on the gentle curve of her belly. She wore a soft blue sundress with white embroidery and her hair was pinned loosely, the way Oscar loved it most.
Oscar stood right beside her, his hand never straying far — from her back, her waist, her fingers. Every few minutes, someone else from the church would stop by and hug them, tear up a little, then say something like, “We’ve watched you grow up — now look at you.”
His family had flown in the day before — all of them.
Hattie cried the second she walked into the church doors and saw the banner that read:
“For This Child, We Prayed.”
Oscar’s mum was already in the kitchen with the church ladies, helping to lay out casseroles and lemon bars like she’d been a Kentucky native her whole life.
His sisters mingled with the kids at the craft table, helping them draw “welcome baby” cards.
And her parents?
They sat front and center, proud as ever, hands linked across the table.
When the time came, her pastor stepped up to the mic with a warm smile.
“This child has been prayed over before they were ever known,” he said, eyes glassy. “And today, we celebrate not only the life already forming but the two hearts who have walked with such faith and patience.”
Y/N’s fingers squeezed Oscar’s.
“I remember when Y/N was just a little girl in Sunday school,” he continued. “Always quiet, always kind. Now she stands here carrying her own little miracle.”
Oscar looked down at her, eyes full.
“She’s always been a miracle to me,” he whispered.
The moment came gently.
No confetti cannons or over-the-top gimmicks.
Just a box on a table.
Wrapped in kraft paper and tied with twine, sitting beneath a sign that read:
“Open to find out who God is sending.”
Inside was one single baby blanket.
And a tiny hat.
Soft. Hand-knitted.
The moment she lifted the lid, a folded card sat on top. Her mom’s handwriting:
Your little one is fearfully and wonderfully made.Psalm 139:14…And she’s going to be beautiful.
Y/N gasped.
Oscar’s breath caught.
And the room exploded.
Her sister screamed first — then the church choir ladies. The kids at the craft table cheered. Someone actually dropped a casserole.
A girl.
They were having a girl.
Y/N turned and buried her face in Oscar’s chest, tears falling before she even realized she was crying.
He held her so tightly, so gently.
“My daughter,” he whispered against her hair, stunned, breathless. “We’re having a daughter.”
Later, after hugs and cake and endless congratulations, she sat beside Oscar in the same pew they used on their wedding day.
Everyone else was still talking and eating in the fellowship hall, but they needed a moment — just the two of them.
The light from the stained glass landed right over them, like a quiet blessing.
Y/N leaned against his shoulder. “Do you think she’ll have your eyes?”
Oscar smiled. “I hope she has your heart.”
She looked down at her belly. “She’s already so loved.”
And he said, voice thick with emotion:
“She always will be.”
Instagram Post – Days Later (private, for close friends only)📸 [Photo of the church sign out front: “CONGRATS TO OSCAR & Y/N – IT’S A GIRL!” with a pink bow tied to the post.]
@y/nusername:God knew exactly what we needed.
Our baby girl is already surrounded by more love than she could ever imagine.
#forher #babypiastri #faithfulinlittlethings
–
The fellowship hall glowed with sunlight.
Mason jars full of wildflowers lined the windowsills. A long table held cupcakes swirled with pink and blue icing, beside a sign that read:
“He or She, What Will Baby Piastri Be?”
Laughter echoed off the wooden walls. Kids ran between pews with streamers. Her mom was at the drink table, explaining sweet tea ratios to Oscar’s mum. Her dad was proudly showing off old family photos to Hattie and Oscar’s sisters.
Y/N stood beside Oscar near the front, hand tucked under her small but growing bump, a peace in her chest she hadn’t felt in a long time.
His family had flown in the day before. All of them.
And it meant everything.
The prayers started, as they always did in this church — humble, grateful, said by name.
“Lord, thank you for the Piastri family who flew all the way from Australia to be with us today…”
“…Thank you for the gift of this little one, who is already so loved…”
Y/N bowed her head, but her eyes scanned the room, unconsciously.
There was one seat still empty.
Far corner. Second row from the back.
It had been like that at the wedding too.
It didn’t hurt the way it used to… not exactly. But the ache of it had never gone away.
She didn’t expect him.
Hadn’t in years.
Then, just before they brought out the box holding the reveal, the wooden door at the back of the hall creaked open.
A tall figure stood there, a bit uncertain.
Worn flannel. Dark jeans. A familiar shape, older now. His face slightly softer, beard rough. The room didn’t notice him yet.
But she did.
Y/N froze.
Oscar followed her gaze and turned.
“…Is that—?”
It was.
Her brother.
For a long second, no one moved.
Then her dad looked up.
And her mom gasped, hand flying to her mouth.
Y/N stepped forward, almost like she wasn’t in control of her feet.
Her brother looked nervous, hands stuffed in his jacket pockets.
“Didn’t think I’d make it in time,” he said, voice low, sheepish. “Got in this morning.”
Tears stung her eyes instantly.
“You came.”
“I’m trying,” he said, a little broken, a little honest. “I didn’t want to miss this. Not again.”
And just like that, the years between them fell quiet.
She wrapped her arms around him, and he pulled her close like it was the easiest thing in the world.
Oscar stood off to the side, heart pounding. He’d never seen her cry like this.
She pulled back, still sniffling. “Everyone’s gonna think the surprise is you, not the baby.”
He chuckled softly. “I’ll keep it short, then. Just… proud of you, sis. Really proud.”
And then he added, quieter:
“Can’t wait to meet her or him.”
Ten minutes later, with her brother now seated right beside her parents, the moment arrived.
A soft gospel song played in the background as she and Oscar stepped up to the table.
The box sat waiting.
Painted white. Wrapped in soft ribbon.
Oscar laced his fingers with hers. “Ready?”
Y/N nodded, voice thick. “More than ever.”
They untied the ribbon together and lifted the lid.
Pink balloons rose into the air.
And the church erupted in cheers.
Her mom cried. Emma jumped up and down. Hattie sobbed so loudly someone passed her a napkin and a slice of cake.
Y/N laughed through her tears, pressing both hands to her belly.
Oscar leaned in, kissed her temple, and whispered:
“Our daughter.”
After the celebration, her brother pulled Oscar aside. The two men stood near the door, quiet in the low hum of music and conversation.
“I haven’t been around,” he said. “But I know she’s loved. I see it.”
Oscar nodded. “Every day.”
Her brother clapped him on the shoulder.
“You’re gonna be a good dad.”
Oscar smiled. “So will I, eventually.”
They both laughed, and for the first time, the moment didn’t feel broken. It felt whole.
Instagram Caption — Weeks Later (not public)
📸 [Polaroid of the two of them with pink balloons in the background. Her mom’s arm around her. Oscar grinning. Her brother just barely in the corner, caught mid-laugh.]
@y/nusername:
The seat that was always empty wasn’t empty this time.
Our daughter doesn’t even know it yet — but God’s already mending things for her.
#thankful #babygirlpiastri #graceuponeverygrace
AN- REMINDER! i paste everything from google docs, so if any placement is weird that is why!! thank you for the support!!
She loved the quiet — a cake from her mom, a dinner reservation with her family at the one nice place in town, maybe a bouquet dropped off by a church friend.
Oscar had called that morning, just after sunrise in Kentucky.
“Happy Birthday, sweetheart,” he said, voice soft through the speaker. “Wish I was there.”
She smiled sleepily. “You being in tomorrow’s race is enough for me.”
“Still,” he said. “If I could teleport, I would.”
She didn’t cry. Not right then.
But she missed him.
So much it made her bones ache.
By 6:15 that night, her parents had gathered everyone on the porch to take “a couple pictures before dinner.”
Y/N rolled her eyes, smoothing her hair down in the hallway mirror. “Why do y’all always make it a whole thing?”
She stepped outside.
And froze.
Because two people were standing at the bottom of the porch steps.
Oscar.
And Hattie.
With a giant “Happy Birthday” balloon in one hand, and a pink bakery box in the other.
Y/N covered her mouth. “What—?”
Oscar stepped forward, eyes already glassy. “Surprise.”
And she ran.
Right into his arms.
He held her like he never wanted to let go. Like all the distance in the world had finally given up trying to keep them apart.
“You flew here?” she breathed, burying her face in his shoulder.
“I’d fly twenty hours for you every weekend if I could.”
She laughed. cried a little too. “You’re supposed to be in Australia.”
“I told the team this was more important.”
Then Hattie tackled her next. “You didn’t really think I’d miss your birthday, did you?”
Y/N laughed, hands flying to her chest. “I literally thought you were at brunch in Melbourne.”
“Girl, I’ve been lying for a week.”
Dinner was booked at the nicest place in town — the kind with string lights across the patio and cornbread served in tiny skillets.
Y/N’s family filled two tables: her parents, grandparents, little cousins, a few church friends.
And right in the middle: Oscar and Hattie.
Oscar helped her little cousin cut his chicken. Hattie taught her grandma how to take a Boomerang on Instagram. Her dad told Oscar the same story about how Y/N once won the church spelling bee with “Galatians.”
And Y/N?
She just watched it all unfold like a dream she never thought would come true.
This was her world. His world. Their people.
Together.
Finally,
Halfway through the meal, her aunt raised her glass of sweet tea.
“To Y/N,” she said with a smile. “She’s the reason we’re all here.”
Oscar leaned closer and whispered, “Amen to that.”
Instagram Post – That Night📸 [Photo of Oscar and Y/N on the restaurant patio. She’s mid-laugh, holding a fork, wearing a sundress and a birthday ribbon. He’s looking at her like he hung the moon himself.]
@oscarpiastri:Surprised her for her birthday.
Ended up surprising myself with how much I missed her smile.
🎈💛
Top Comments:@hattiepiastri: did y’all know she made me cry 3 times in one night?? best girl.
@y/nsmom: thank you for loving our girl so well 🥹
@landonorris: I wasn’t invited to the party but I’ll be sending a gift and a handwritten speech
That night, after the cake and the hugs and the porch swing goodbyes, Oscar kissed her goodnight on the front step and tucked a handwritten letter into her back pocket.
“Open it later,” he said.
She found it after midnight.
It simply read:
This is the happiest I’ve ever seen you. And that’s how I know — we’re doing this right. I love you. Every version of you. Every year. Every birthday. Always.
–
Y/N didn’t think much of the drive when Oscar suggested it.
“Just something small,” he’d said casually, winding his fingers through hers in the front seat of her dad’s old pickup. “A field Hattie found online. Good for photos. Good for memories.”
She was suspicious — but only in the way someone who’s deeply loved gets suspicious when the people around her are acting just a little too quiet.
They’d packed sandwiches. Hattie rode with her parents, claiming she wanted “good natural light for pictures.”
Y/N rolled her eyes. “You’re being dramatic.”
Hattie winked. “You’re gonna thank me later.”
It was breathtaking.
The field.
Sunlight poured across acres of wildflowers in bloom — daisies, lavender, soft pink poppies dancing in the breeze. The air smelled sweet and clean. Somewhere nearby, a wind chime tingled from the open window of a rustic farmhouse.
And tucked right near the center: a white wood gazebo. A little worn around the edges. Soft blue paint peeling in just the most photogenic way. Draped in ivy. Lit by the golden glow of late afternoon.
Y/N stepped into the grass slowly.
“Wait,” she whispered. “Oscar…”
He gave her a small smile.
Like he already knew.
He took her hand.
They walked toward the gazebo together.
Her heart thundered like she knew something was coming, but still didn’t dare believe it.
When they stepped under the arch, surrounded by the hum of summer and the silence of something holy, she turned to him.
“You’re being suspicious.”
Oscar laughed. Nerves flickered across his face — but love anchored him steady.
“I’ve been carrying this ring around for a long time,” he said softly. “Since we were sixteen, if I’m being honest.”
Her breath caught.
“And your dad?” he continued. “Gave me his blessing months ago. Said he was wondering when I’d finally get around to it.”
Tears were already spilling from her eyes.
Oscar pulled something from his pocket.
A velvet box.
Shaking fingers. Gentle eyes.
And then he knelt.
One knee in the grass, one hand holding the future.
“Y/N,” he said, voice thick, “you have been my best friend, my partner, my safe place since I was fifteen. Every race, every time zone, every FaceTime call — you were the only thing that made me feel like I was still home.”
He paused, eyes glistening.
“And now… I want to build a home with you. I want to make coffee with you in the mornings and go to church together on Sundays and leave my shoes by the door no matter how many times you tell me not to.”
She laughed through a sob.
“Will you marry me?”
From the field behind them, Hattie held her camera up with shaking hands. Tears spilled freely down her cheeks. Y/N’s parents held each other quietly, watching from a distance, barely breathing.
Y/N fell to her knees in front of him.
“I already said yes years ago,” she choked out. “This is just extra.”
Oscar grinned, heart splitting wide open.
He slipped the ring onto her finger — gold band, delicate oval-cut diamond, a single cross engraved on the inside — grace & forever.
They kissed, wind wrapping around them like a blessing. The flower field glowing gold in the evening light.
And just like that…
She was his fiancée.
Instagram Post – Later That Night (from Hattie)📸 [Shot of Oscar on one knee beneath the gazebo, flower field sprawling behind him, Y/N’s hands covering her mouth.]
@hattiepiastri:my whole heart 💍💐
could barely take the pictures through the tears.
she said yes. He said finally.
#shesthebride #mybestfriendisgettingmarried
Instagram Post – From Y/N📸 [Close-up of their hands — hers on top of his, the ring glittering in the sun, the flower field blurred in the background.]
@y/nusername:He asked me in the middle of a wildflower field.
And I still can’t believe I get to love him forever.
#isaidyes #kentuckytomelbourne
Text from Oscar – 12:03 AMOscar 🦘:You fell to your knees and said “this is just extra.”
That’s going in my vows.
I love you so much.
—
After the proposal, things felt different.
Not louder.
Just… steadier.
Like every phone call now had a deeper root. Every FaceTime call felt like building something permanent. Every late-night “I miss you” was met with: I’ll be home soon — for good.
Oscar flew back to Europe a few days later, the ring shining on her finger like a promise left behind.
And Y/N stayed in Kentucky — just like they planned.
They’d made a deal.
“I’ll stay with my people until the wedding,” she’d said softly, cupping his cheek the night before his flight. “One more stretch of home before I come live in yours.”
He kissed her slow.
“And after that,” he whispered, “you’ll never have to say goodbye again.”
Her days filled fast — in the quiet, comforting way of small-town life.
Her mom let her pick the hymns for Sunday worship.
Her aunt taught her how to freeze casseroles (“For your first few weeks as a wife — you won’t feel like cooking every night, sweetheart”).
Her cousins pulled out their grandmother’s lace veil and took turns crying as Y/N tried it on with a borrowed white sundress.
Even the local coffee shop wrote “Future Mrs. Piastri” on her to-go cups.
And then there were the calls.
From Hattie.
Every. Single. Day.
Hattie:“Okay, okay. So we’re thinking blush for the bridesmaids. You like blush, right? Too cliché? Too ‘Pinterest board 2014’?”
Y/N:“I love blush. And I trust you.”
Hattie:“That’s dangerous. I just impulse-bought vintage dessert plates.”
Oscar’s sisters went all in. Hattie handled the mood board. Mia tackled venue coordination from Melbourne. Their mum helped source a seamstress in Australia for a custom reception dress.
Y/N didn’t even have to ask.
This family — her future family — had taken her in like they’d been waiting for this moment since she was 15.
Oscar called every night, even on race weekends.
He’d step off the podium, sweat still glistening, smile splitting his face — and the first thing he’d do was pull out his phone.
“Tell me what you did today,” he’d say, flopping onto a hotel bed.
She’d curl into her pillow, twirling her engagement ring.
“Went dress shopping with Mom. Found one that made her cry.”
“I want photos,” he’d whisper, like she wasn’t already his whole world.
“You can’t see it till the wedding.”
“Cruel.”
Sometimes, it was hard.
Planning a wedding without him by her side.
Missing him after every cake tasting, every family dinner where someone said, “Can you believe she’s marrying an F1 driver?”
But every time the ache crept in, she looked at the countdown app on her phone.
96 days until forever.
78.
51.
One afternoon, she sat alone in the living room, sunlight warming her arms, flipping through the guest list and watching her parents laugh on the porch.
She whispered, almost to herself:
I’m really going to leave this life.
Not to run.
Not because she wanted to escape.
But because love was calling her somewhere new.
Somewhere he would be waiting.
And maybe that was the bravest thing she'd ever do.
Text from Oscar – 11:42 PM (his time):Oscar 🦘:I know you miss me. I miss you more.
But I want you to soak up every single minute there.
I want your memory full of home when you step into our next one.
I want you to feel ready.
Because I’ve been ready for years.
Instagram Post – From Y/N📸 [Photo of a little church chapel, framed in golden light, with a bouquet of blush roses resting on the steps.]
@y/nusername:I’m counting down the days.
But I’m soaking up the rest of them too.
Kentucky, I’ll always be yours.
But I belong to someone else now too. 🤍
—
The morning felt still.
Sacred.
Like the world knew this wasn’t just any wedding day — this was the closing of a chapter written in long-distance calls, porch swing prayers, and twenty-hour flights.
And now, finally, it was time.
Her mom tied the last button on the back of her gown with trembling hands.
“You’ve always been my baby girl,” she whispered. “But today… you’re someone’s wife.”
Y/N turned slowly, veil pinned, eyes full.
“I think I’ve been his for a long time.”
Her dad knocked gently at the door. His eyes immediately welled up. “You look just like your mama did.”
She smiled softly, tears already forming. “You walked her down this aisle too.”
He nodded. “And now I get to walk the best thing she ever gave me.”
The church was glowing.
Late summer sun spilled through stained glass windows, painting soft blues and golds across the wooden pews. The air was thick with reverence. Familiar.
The same altar where she was baptized. The same pulpit where she first learned the word “grace.”
Today, she would stand before it, in front of her whole church family, and marry the boy who once said, “Wherever you are feels like home.”
Oscar waited at the end of the aisle, hands tight in front of him.
He looked calm — except for the way his thumb nervously traced the ring in his pocket.
He wore a light gray suit. No tie. Just the kind of simple and soft look she loved.
And when the chapel doors opened…
He swore he forgot how to breathe.
Y/N walked down the aisle slowly, arm looped through her father’s, veil floating behind her, bouquet of pale blush and cream.
She looked like sunlight.
And like forever.
Her dad handed her over gently.
“She’s always been a little too good for this world,” he whispered with a watery smile. “Take good care of her.”
Oscar nodded, voice tight. “I already do.”
The ceremony was simple.
A quiet worship song.
A soft homily from the pastor who’d known Y/N since she was five.
And then the vows.
Not read from paper.
Spoken from memory. And heart.
Y/N:“I prayed for someone who would love me patiently. Who wouldn’t rush what was sacred.
I never knew that person would live across oceans.
But somehow, you’ve always been right next to me.
Even when the miles stretched wide.
Even when it was hard.
I promise to love you with steady hands.
To cheer for you from every grandstand, every livestream, every race and every ordinary Tuesday night.
I’m yours. Forever.”
Oscar:“I loved you long before I had the words for it.
Before podiums. Before flights.
You have been my peace in chaos, my pause in the noise.
You are the safest place I’ve ever known.
I promise to protect you, to honor you, to carry you through the hard days and dance with you through the good.
Wherever life takes us — I’m already home.
Because I have you.”
There wasn’t a dry eye in the church.
Not her mom.
Not Hattie, wiping her cheeks from the front pew.
Not even her pastor, who finally cleared his throat and said:
“By the power vested in me… I now pronounce you husband and wife.”
Oscar kissed her like the whole world had led to this.
And maybe it had.
Outside the church, as guests tossed white rose petals and bells rang out across the lawn, Oscar helped her into the passenger seat of an old blue pickup truck — her dad’s, decorated with ribbon and tin cans.
“You ready to go home?” he asked, smile stretched wide.
She looked at him — her husband.
“I already am.”
Instagram Post – From Hattie📸 [Y/N and Oscar standing on the church steps, petals still midair, his arms wrapped tightly around her waist as she leans into him laughing.]
@hattiepiastri:I’ve never cried so hard in my life.
My brother married an angel.
#thepiastris
Instagram Post – From Y/N📸 [Their wedding rings against a Bible opened to 1 Corinthians 13. The verse underlined: Love never fails.]
@y/nusername:From Kentucky to Melbourne.
From 15 to forever.
We made it. 🤍
#husbandandwife #bygraceandalotofprayers
–
The view from their hotel window looked like a painting — rooftops sprawled across the city in warm greys and creams, the Eiffel Tower peeking just enough to remind her yes, this is real.
Y/N sat curled on the little balcony in one of Oscar’s sweatshirts, legs tucked beneath her, croissant in one hand, phone in the other. The breeze was soft, golden with morning.
Oscar was still asleep inside, face buried in the pillows, hair a mess.
She smiled to herself — a wife now, drinking espresso in Paris while the love of her life slept just ten feet away.
If she could’ve told her 15-year-old self this would happen one day, she never would’ve believed it.
Her phone buzzed.
Emma (Older Sister) 💕:okay i actually hate you
you’re in PARIS and i’m at a Kroger in bowling green
this feels like a personal attack
Emma (again):but also i love you
send me pics of everything
and kiss your husband under the eiffel tower for me
Y/N laughed softly, heart warm. Her sister had always been loud and chaotic and there. Not perfect, not always understanding, but she showed up.
She typed back:
wish you were here. i’d make you wear matching berets.
ps: we’re kissing everywhere. very on brand. 🥐💋
Then another notification came through.
This one from a name she hadn’t seen on her screen in a long, long time.
Caleb (Older Brother):
congrats on the wedding.
saw the pictures.
looked nice.
Her breath hitched.
Just like that — six years of silence, broken by three lines.
No apology.
No “I wish I could’ve been there.”
Just: looked nice.
She stared at the message too long. The sun didn’t feel quite as warm anymore.
Oscar stirred inside, sitting up with a sleepy smile. “You’re already awake?”
She nodded, eyes still on her phone. “Yeah… just… had a message.”
He stretched, walking over to the balcony, wrapping his arms around her from behind. “Bad one?”
“No,” she said softly. “Just… from Caleb.”
He stilled.
Oscar knew.
He’d listened to all the half-finished stories. The I just wish he cared confessions. The ache she never quite said out loud, but couldn’t really hide.
Oscar kissed her temple. “What’d he say?”
“Congrats. That’s it.”
He didn’t say anything right away. Just held her tighter.
“I’m happy he said something,” she whispered. “But I also… I don’t know. I wanted it to feel like more.”
They didn’t talk about it over breakfast.
He let her sit with it.
Let her feel her feelings quietly while he made bad jokes in a French accent and shared his strawberries with her on a picnic bench near the Seine.
And when they kissed in front of the Eiffel Tower at sunset — like her sister had demanded — he whispered into her ear, “You don’t have to carry what he couldn’t give.”
And she almost cried.
That night, back in their hotel, Oscar handed her a postcard.
It was blank.
“I figured you could write your own message from Paris,” he said. “One for yourself.”
She picked up a pen.
Paused.
Then slowly wrote:
I am loved.
I am seen.
I am building a life with someone who chooses me.
And even when it hurts, I am not empty.
From Paris, with healing.
Instagram Post – That Night📸 [Y/N and Oscar in front of the Eiffel Tower, her in a cream dress, him in black slacks and a button-down, both mid-laugh as someone took their photo.]
@y/nusername:Some dreams are loud.
Others show up soft and steady, after years of waiting.
Paris with my person. 🤍
#husbandandwife #honeymoonmagic #frompariswithlove
–
The taxi slowed at the top of the gravel road.
Y/N sat up straighter in the backseat, heart pounding like she was about to meet a version of herself she hadn’t seen in years.
Oscar reached over and gently squeezed her hand.
“You ready?” he asked, voice low, knowing she probably wasn’t.
She smiled anyway. “Let’s go see our home.”
The cottage stood tucked between wild lavender bushes and a white wooden fence, just as she remembered — only now it looked lived in, loved into being.
A pale green mailbox with a “P” hand-painted on the side. Freshly planted flower beds flanking the steps. And a little welcome mat at the front door that read:
“Let love be at home.”
She blinked quickly. “Your sisters didn’t…”
“Oh, they absolutely did.”
Hattie was already inside waiting — barefoot, in a soft linen dress, holding a glass of lemonade and a camera.
“You’re gonna cry,” she warned.
Y/N gave her a look. “I already am.”
They stepped inside together.
And everything stopped.
The scent of eucalyptus and fresh wood hit her first. Then the warm light filtering in through gauzy curtains. Cream-colored walls, soft sage-green accents, wooden floors, throw pillows that looked like something straight off her Pinterest board.
The living room was framed with photos — candid ones of them at family barbecues, blurry sunset shots from Kentucky, Polaroids of Hattie and Y/N laughing over wedding plans.
A worn leather Bible sat on the coffee table, bookmarked. A framed recipe card in her grandmother’s handwriting leaned against the kitchen backsplash.
And in the center of it all, a bouquet of fresh peonies with a handwritten note:
You gave us the blueprint. We just built the walls around it.– Hattie, Mia, and Mum 🤍
Y/N pressed a hand to her heart. “Oscar…”
He just smiled — the kind of smile that said I knew they’d do it right. I knew this would feel like you.
They walked slowly through each room.
The bedroom had pale yellow curtains and stacks of their favorite books on the nightstands.
The kitchen had hanging copper pans and a tiny framed photo of them making brownies on FaceTime at 2 a.m. once during lockdown.
The guest room — soft blush and white — had a sign above the bed that read:
“For anyone who needs a place to land.”
And in the back room — the one they hadn’t quite known what to do with — a desk sat beneath a window, already covered in notes and pens and open space.
Y/N ran her hand over it.
“You made me a writing corner,” she whispered.
Oscar nodded. “So you always have room to dream.”
They ended in the backyard, barefoot in the grass. The sun was starting to set.
Oscar pulled her close, arms around her waist.
“This is where we live now,” he murmured. “Like, actually live.”
Y/N looked up at him. “Do you think we’ll ever get used to that?”
He kissed her forehead. “I hope not.”
Instagram Post – That Night📸 [Photo of Y/N and Oscar barefoot in their living room, smiling at each other like they just found magic in an old map. Light pouring in. Cozy chaos around them.]
@y/nusername:
We walked through the front door and every part of me said, “Yes, this is it.”
This is the home we built before we ever even moved in.
Thank you @hattiepiastri @miapiastri + Mum for loving us so well.
We’re finally home. 🕊️
#marriedlife #firsthome #piastricottage
Text from Hattie – 9:18 PM
Hattie 🪻:
pls tell me the writing nook made you sob
because i sobbed three times putting it together
also check under the bed for something from mum
AN- honestly guys.. finding pictures for the moment is hard so imagine it yourself.. ALSO!! if any writing positioning is weird its because i paste it from google doc and it messes it up.. THANK YOU FOR THE SUPPORT!!
Not an ask, just wanted to let you know I ADORE your Oscar x Christian! Reader fic 🫶 would absolutely devour any additional parts of the story if you ever wanted to write more ☺️
I hope your pillow is cool on both sides & your coffee is always the right temp 💕
i appreciate this SOOOOO much!!! i literally LOVE you!
i honestly didn't think it would get as much love as it did so I'm for sure making it into a series. idk how long the series will last but I'm trying to make each chapter long!
as a writer, this feedback helps TONSS!! so if you love something from a creator let them know cause i can tell you it definitely makes their day.
thank you so much and i hope you have a double blessed day x2 💋
After Miami, it became official: Y/N was real, not some private running joke on F1 Twitter. And now, the fandom wants more.
But Y/N’s Instagram? Still private.
Her bio read only:
📍Kentucky
💛 Psalm 34:18
📖 Library girl & homebody
🧃 sweet tea enthusiast
No grid photos. No tagged selfies. No “Oscar and I” soft launch moments.
So the internet did what it does:
They started digging.
@gridgirliez (F1 fan account):alright y’all, time to connect the dots 🕵️♀️🧡
this is a THREAD of everything we know about oscar’s gf (aka mystery girl, now Kentucky Queen):
1. Her name is Y/N — confirmed by Oscar’s post + Lando saying it in a livestream once back in 2022 👀2. She's been with him since he was 14, so she’s known him through every racing level (😭)3. She lives in Kentucky and has never left the country (except Miami just now)4. She's Christian, a bookworm, and shy as heck — her Insta is LOCKED
But the fandom is nothing if not resourceful.
Photos started popping up across the internet — all taken from her friends’ public accounts:
Caption (from her friend @grace_infaith): Sundays with my soul sisters 🤍 Top comment:
@f1brainrot: SO YOU’RE TELLING ME SHE’S BEEN SITTING IN A FIELD IN KENTUCKY WHILE HE WINS PODIUMS IN BARCELONA?? this woman has range
Caption:(from her friend @emma.smiles) senior breakfast crew ☕🫶
Comment:@chaoticmclaren: she’s so normal it makes me feel insane.
Caption: (from her friend @lilia) if you're wondering where Oscar Piastri’s hoodie ended up, it’s safe. it’s with Jesus. and Y/N.
Comment:@pitlanecrybaby: not "with Jesus and Y/N" I CANNOT BREATHE
Some fans even went back and analyzed Oscar’s old interviews for hidden references to her.
“I don’t really go out much when I’m home. My girlfriend prefers movie nights.”
“No, she’s not at the race. She’s watching from Kentucky, probably with her Bible and popcorn.”
Suddenly, the picture became clear:
Y/N wasn’t hiding. She was just living. Softly. Quietly. Lovingly.
And Oscar?
He’d been quietly bragging about her for years.
@f1romance:idk who needs to hear this but oscar piastri being madly in love with a small-town christian girl who wears his hoodie and works at a library is everything this sport needed.
Even her mom’s Facebook got found.
📸 Post from Y/N’s mom:
Top comment:Wait… this is the real mom? She’s adorable?THE PARENTS ARE PARENTSINGProtect them at all costs 🥺
As the months went on, fans respected the boundaries. No one leaked her private photos. No one crossed the line.
But they celebrated with her. In every tweet, in every fan edit, in every soft little thread about how love could be quiet and strong and unseen — and still change everything.
And Oscar?
He noticed.
One night after qualifying, he posted a story — no caption.
Just a blurry Polaroid of Y/N in the hotel hallway in Miami. She was laughing, in one of his old team hoodies, holding a bag of takeout and barefoot.
No makeup. No podium lights. No crowd.
Just her.
The music over the story?
🎵 “She’s all I ever wanted / And I’d do it all again.” 🎵
And the fans?
They didn’t need her Instagram.
Because the way Oscar looked at her — and the way the world finally saw why — was enough.
—
Oscar’s flight had landed late the night before, and by the time he made it to Y/N’s porch, the autumn wind had turned his knuckles red.
He knocked once — lightly.
And the door opened immediately.
Y/N didn’t say anything at first.
She just stepped out, barefoot in a flannel pajama set, hair still messy from sleep. Her eyes were glassy as she pressed her face into his chest, arms wrapping tight around him like the cold might pull him away if she didn’t hold on.
“You’re really here,” she whispered.
“I always said I’d come home to you.”
Thanksgiving Morning
Y/N woke up to the smell of cinnamon rolls and turkey already in the oven.
Oscar was sitting at the kitchen table in a hoodie and pajama pants, peeling potatoes with her dad, trying (and failing) to keep up with his Southern storytelling.
Her mom handed her a mug of coffee with a knowing smile. “He’s been up since six. Said he wanted to help.”
Y/N, still groggy, leaned against the counter and watched him laugh at something her dad said about football. The sun streamed through the kitchen windows, lighting up his profile like something out of a dream.
She whispered, “He’s really here.”
Her mom smiled. “And now you know why we prayed so hard for him to be.”
Later That Day — Before Dinner
Her grandparents arrived first, followed by church friends and cousins and people who’d known her since she was a toddler.
Everyone wanted to meet Oscar.
Some were quiet and kind. Some asked too many questions. One elderly aunt accidentally called him “that Piastry boy” the whole night.
Oscar took it all in stride — shaking every hand, laughing at every dad joke, saying “Yes, ma’am” and “No, sir” in a slightly awkward Australian drawl that everyone found endearing.
And when her pastor’s wife pulled him aside to ask if his relationship with Y/N “honors the Lord,” Oscar answered with the gentlest sincerity:
“Yes, ma’am. I love her with everything I’ve got. I’ve loved her since I was a kid.”
Later, Y/N found out he’d asked her dad for permission to keep seeing her seriously — “with the future in mind.”
She nearly burst into tears stirring the gravy.
Dinner
The dining table was long, crowded, covered in casseroles and prayers.
Oscar sat beside Y/N, holding her hand tightly under the table. Every time someone passed the mashed potatoes, their shoulders bumped.
When her grandfather asked Oscar to say grace, he froze — cheeks pink, eyes wide.
“I… I’ve never done that out loud.”
Y/N squeezed his hand.
He took a breath. And said one anyway.
It was simple. Shaky. Grateful.
He ended it with: “Thank You for letting me be here. For letting me be part of this family, even for a little while. And thank You for Y/N.”
Everyone said amen.
Y/N blinked back tears.
That Night – After Everyone Left
The house was quiet again. Only the crackle of a leftover candle on the mantle and the ticking of the old wall clock filled the room.
Oscar and Y/N curled up on the couch in matching sweatpants, a fleece blanket over their laps. She fed him cold pie with a fork while they watched Charlie Brown Thanksgiving.
“Do you ever get tired of my people asking you so many questions?” she asked softly, brushing hair out of her face.
He shook his head. “No. They care about you. That’s the kind of family I prayed you’d have.”
She looked down at their intertwined fingers.
“I wish every day could be like this.”
Oscar kissed her temple. “Someday they will be.”
Instagram Post — Next Morning
@oscarpiastri:Thankful. 🧡
Top Comments:@mclarenf1: that hoodie has done more miles than some of our cars
@landonorris: guess who DIDN’T get invited to thanksgiving
@y/n’smom: we’re thankful for YOU, sweet boy 😌
The world saw a glimpse of their day.
But only they knew the real weight of what it meant.
It wasn’t just turkey and traditions.
It was the first time they didn’t have to say goodbye over FaceTime.
The first time he passed her the gravy bowl instead of sending a heart emoji.
The first time they felt like home in the same place, at the same table.
—
Y/N was holding Oscar’s hand in the back of the taxi, knuckles white.
The heat of the Australian summer pressed through the windows, but she was sweating for other reasons.
She had never left America until now.
Never left her family for Christmas. Never stepped into his world — the one she’d only ever seen through FaceTime and childhood photos on the fridge.
And now she was just minutes away from walking into the Piastri household, with a red ribbon in her hair and a bag full of homemade cookies tucked in her lap.
Oscar glanced at her. “You okay?”
She nodded. “Terrified.”
He kissed her hand gently. “They already love you.”
They’d told his family he was coming home alone this year — tight schedule, no time for company, Y/N spending the holidays with her family.
It was a lie, of course. One crafted carefully with the help of Lando (again), his sister Hattie, and his mum, who definitely suspected something but played along.
They pulled up to the curb just after 6 p.m.
His childhood home was glowing — white string lights draped around the veranda, a wreath on the door, and the sound of holiday music faintly drifting from inside.
Y/N didn’t move.
Oscar turned to her. “Breathe.”
“I’m wearing jeans to an Australian Christmas.”
“You look perfect. And you brought biscuits, which means you’ve already won over my nan.”
She laughed nervously. “What if they think I’m too shy? Too church-y? Too American?”
He brushed his thumb across her cheek. “You’re mine. That’s all they’ll care about.”
They walked up together. Oscar knocked twice, then opened the door and stepped inside like he always had.
“Mum? Dad? Hattie?”
From the kitchen: “Oscar! About time, we’ve got the ham in and—”
And then silence.
Y/N stepped in behind him, almost hiding. Face flushed. Eyes wide.
Susan Piastri appeared in the doorway — dish towel in hand, eyes locked on the girl standing behind her son.
It was a full beat of stillness.
Then: “Oh my goodness.”
Y/N barely had time to register anything before she was pulled into a hug — tight and warm and motherly.
Susan pulled back and cupped her face. “You are so welcome here. I’ve been praying for this for years.”
Oscar’s dad came in next — stunned, grinning, immediately taking the cookie tin with a, “She bakes too? Marry her, Oscar.”
Hattie tackled Y/N with a squeal. “You’re real. You’re here. I can’t believe it.”
And just like that… she wasn’t the mystery anymore.
She was family.
That night was filled with the kind of joy that makes your chest ache.
Oscar and Y/N helped decorate the last of the sugar cookies with his little cousins. His nan held her hand while they watched Home Alone and told her Oscar used to sleep with a stuffed kangaroo until he was nine.
They sang carols around the piano. She hummed more than she sang. No one minded.
At dinner, someone asked her to say grace.
She looked at Oscar in panic.
But he just smiled and nodded — you’ve got this.
So she bowed her head and said a prayer — trembling and sincere and soft — and when she lifted her eyes, every person at that table was smiling at her like she belonged there.
Like she always had.
Later that night, Oscar found her in the backyard.
The stars above Melbourne were different from Kentucky’s — scattered and unfamiliar, but beautiful.
He came up behind her, arms sliding around her waist, chin on her shoulder.
“Wanna know what my mum said after you went to bed?”
“What?”
“She said, ‘You know she’s part of us now, right?’”
Y/N blinked quickly, fighting tears. “I’ve never… felt like this before. Like I’m in something. Like I fit.”
“You do,” he whispered. “You’re not just my girl anymore. You’re ours. You’re home.”
She turned, wrapped her arms around him, and smiled through tears. “Merry Christmas, Oscar.”
He kissed her forehead.
“Merry Christmas, baby.”
Instagram Post – Christmas Morning
@oscarpiastri:Turns out Christmas is even better when she’s beside me.
🎄❤️
Top Comments:@landonorris: you’re welcome for literally making this happen AGAIN
@mclarenf1: What a season. What a soft launch. What a couple.
@y/nsmom: Thank you for taking care of my girl 🥹 We love y’all!!
—
Y/N tugged Oscar’s hand as they made their way down Main Street, where Christmas lights were still strung between lampposts and the old town clock tower counted down the final hours of the year.
The square was packed — at least for Kentucky standards. A few hundred people milled about, bundled in coats and gloves, holding hot cocoa or cornbread from the food trucks. The air smelled like kettle corn, pulled pork, and woodsmoke.
A bluegrass band was playing from a small makeshift stage, kids ran past them chasing each other with glow sticks, and someone in the distance let out a firework early.
Oscar flinched. “Is that legal here?”
Y/N grinned. “Barely.”
It had been his idea to spend New Year’s back in Kentucky — “Your turn to show me how you celebrate,” he’d said, when they boarded the flight home after Christmas.
She hadn’t expected him to blend in perfectly, but somehow… he did.
In jeans and a Carhartt jacket (borrowed from her dad), with his arm looped around her shoulders and a barbecue sandwich in his other hand, he looked like any other small-town boyfriend — not the same guy people watched race in Monaco six months ago.
Well, almost.
“Wait… are you—?”
Oscar turned mid-bite as a group of teenage boys hesitated in front of him.
Y/N tensed beside him, but Oscar smiled calmly. “Yeah. I’m Oscar.”
“You race, right?” one of them asked, awe in his voice.
“I do.”
Another blurted, “My dad said you were dating that girl from down by the library—”
He froze when he realized that girl was literally standing right there.
Y/N just laughed. “That would be me.”
Oscar wrapped an arm around her waist. “She’s the real superstar.”
The boys walked off whispering furiously, already pulling out their phones.
An older man at a food stall winked at Oscar as he handed him a funnel cake.
“You’re the Aussie racer boy,” he said. “My daughter’s got a crush on you. Her husband ain’t thrilled.”
Oscar blushed and handed over a twenty. “Tell her I said thanks.”
Y/N leaned in and whispered, “You’re famous everywhere. Even next to the tractor supply.”
Oscar just chuckled. “I like it here. People stare, but then they offer me peach cobbler.”
As the countdown grew closer, the town square lights dimmed and couples started clustering near the stage, eyes turned to the clock tower above.
Y/N stood in front of him, her back against his chest, his arms around her as they swayed a little in time with the soft acoustic cover of “Auld Lang Syne” coming from the stage.
“I’ve never had a New Year’s kiss,” she murmured.
Oscar kissed her cheek. “I’ve been saving mine for you.”
She smiled. “Of course you have.”
10... 9... 8...
She turned to face him.
His eyes held that look she’d seen so many times on a screen — tired, kind, full of love.
5... 4... 3...
“I’m so glad you’re here,” she whispered.
“Always will be.”
2... 1...
The square erupted into cheers.
Fireworks shot up behind the clock tower.
And Oscar kissed her.
Right there in front of everyone — her church friends, her old teachers, the barbecue guy, the high schoolers still staring.
He kissed her soft and slow, like they had all the time in the world.
Like this little town was the center of the universe.
And when they pulled apart, the only thing either of them could do was smile.
Instagram Post – January 1st
@oscarpiastri:Midnight in the middle of nowhere.
I wouldn’t want to be anywhere else.
🎆🤍
Top Comments:@landonorris: middle of nowhere? bro I looked it up on Google Maps and it literally vanished when I zoomed out
@mclarenf1: Happy New Year to our most wholesome couple 🧡
@grace_infaith: I took this photo and they kissed so long after it I had to look away out of respect
That night, Y/N curled up in her room under the quilt her grandma made, Oscar snoring softly beside her on the twin guest bed across the room (too polite to argue with her parents’ rules).
She looked out the window at the final flickers of leftover fireworks.
And for the first time in years, she didn’t feel like time was ticking away without him.
It felt like time had finally brought him home.
—
The frost was still clinging to the grass when Oscar and Y/N stepped out onto the porch with mugs of tea and flannel blankets over their shoulders.
The town square’s celebration had ended hours ago, but the memory of fireworks still echoed in the quiet between them.
They were finally alone.
Really, truly alone.
Y/N pulled her knees to her chest on the porch swing, one hand curled around her mug, the other picking absently at a loose thread in her sweater.
Oscar sat beside her, their knees touching.
No cameras. No cheering. No races. No church friends dropping off cinnamon rolls.
Just… them.
“Have you ever thought about it?” she asked softly. “The future?”
Oscar gave a half-laugh. “All the time.”
She nodded. “Me too.”
The silence stretched again. Comfortable, but heavy.
Then Y/N said it.
“I don’t want to leave America.”
Oscar blinked. Not surprised. Just… heart-pulled.
“I know,” he said. “You’ve said that before.”
“I meant it,” she whispered. “I’m not scared of the plane anymore. I proved that. I can come visit. But I can’t… I don’t think I could live anywhere else. This is home. My family. My church. Everything I know.”
Oscar leaned his head back against the porch post. “I get it. Truly, I do.”
She looked at him then. Really looked.
“And you?” she asked. “You don’t want to leave Australia, do you?”
He was quiet.
“No,” he said eventually. “Not forever. I miss it when I’m away. It’s home. And racing will always keep me based in Europe part of the year. But when I think about settling down — having a real life? I want my kids to grow up with my mum’s cooking. I want to drive down the Great Ocean Road with you in the summer.”
She smiled faintly. “I want mine to run barefoot through Kentucky fields and spend Sunday nights at my parents’ dinner table.”
They both laughed. And then they both looked a little like they might cry.
“So what do we do?” she asked, voice cracking.
Oscar didn’t answer right away.
He reached for her hand instead, tracing soft circles into her palm.
“I don’t know,” he admitted. “But I know it’s us. Whatever we decide, wherever we end up — I want it to be with you.”
She swallowed hard.
“I don’t want either of us to have to give everything up.”
“Then we don’t,” he said gently. “Maybe it’s not about one of us moving permanently. Maybe it’s about finding a rhythm. Something in the middle. We split time. We build a home base somewhere new. Maybe in the States, maybe somewhere slower in Europe. Something that feels like both.”
Y/N tilted her head. “Like… Tennessee?”
Oscar laughed. “Tennessee?”
“Halfway between Kentucky and Not-Kentucky.”
He squeezed her hand tighter. “I’d move to Tennessee for you.”
She smiled. “You’d hate the humidity.”
“I’d hate it with you. That makes it better.”
The porch was quiet again.
Birdsong had started. Somewhere down the road, a tractor started up.
Y/N leaned her head on Oscar’s shoulder and whispered, “I don’t have all the answers yet.”
“Me either,” he said. “But we’ve got time. And we’ve got each other.”
“Always?”
“Always.”
Text from Oscar later that day:
Oscar 🦘:Start a list.Every city you’ve ever thought, “Maybe.”Every place that made your heart feel a little bigger.
Y/N 🪷:That’s easy.Wherever you are.
—
Y/N had never said it out loud, but sometimes, late at night — when Oscar was asleep on FaceTime and the sound of her fan filled the dark — she thought about how many moments she’d missed.
She thought about all the times he’d called her from a hotel bed after a win. How she could hear the adrenaline still in his voice, could see the champagne in his hair, but she hadn’t been able to feel the moment.
Not really.
He’d been on podiums while she’d been in drive-thru lines. He’d traveled the world while she refilled church coffee urns and catalogued library returns.
And he never complained. Never made her feel small.
But she started wondering if she’d been making herself small.
It hit her hardest on a quiet night in early May, back in Kentucky.
Oscar had sent her a photo from dinner — something simple in Melbourne, a family-style table with his parents, his sister, and a couple of his childhood mates.
They were laughing, mid-bite. She knew the place: his favorite Italian place thirty minutes from his family’s house.
She’d never been there.
She’d never sat at that table, clinked that wine glass, (not that she wanted to, she doesn't drink) and smiled across the candlelight at his mum.
It wasn’t about the food or the photo.
It was about showing up.
She didn’t tell Oscar at first.
She spent a week quietly researching places near his parents’ house — close enough to see them, far enough to have space. She didn’t want a mansion or some modern marble castle. She wanted something that felt like a front porch and soft blankets. Like her.
Something homey.
And then she found it.
A small white cottage tucked into a quiet gated neighborhood on the outskirts of Melbourne. Green shutters. A picket fence. A garden bed out front just waiting for spring flowers.
It was everything she never thought she’d want.
Because it wasn’t in Kentucky.
But it was near him.
And for the first time in her life, she was willing to go where her heart was — even if it meant a 20-hour flight away from everything she’d ever known.
Text Message — Sent at 1:03 AM (her time)
Y/N 🪷:I found something.
It’s in Australia.
Half an hour from your parents.
I hate the idea of getting on a plane again.
But I want to see it. With you.
Oscar 🦘:You’re serious?
Y/N 🪷:I think I’m ready to start showing up for the life you’ve been building.
You never asked me to.
But I want to.
Oscar 🦘:I love you. So much.
Send me the link.
Let’s book a flight.
She hated every second of the flight.
Oscar kept her hand in his almost the whole time — soothing her through every bump and stretch of ocean. He brought lavender spray and her favorite candy and downloaded her Bible app’s “Peaceful Psalms” audio.
And when the wheels touched down?
She didn’t cry from fear.
She cried because she was there.
The drive to the cottage was short. Familiar. Lined with eucalyptus trees and corner stores. He pointed out places she’d heard about for years — the park where he learned to ride a bike, the gas station where he and Hattie used to get slushies after school.
And then, they turned into the neighborhood.
Quiet. Private. Safe.
And beautiful.
The cottage looked even better in person. Creamy paint. Tiny front garden. A wraparound porch.
He unlocked the door with the realtor’s code and stepped back so she could be the first inside.
She stood there for a moment.
Then walked in slowly, her hands tucked to her chest like a prayer.
Hardwood floors. Exposed beams. A kitchen with warm light and a window over the sink.
The bedroom looked like something out of a Jane Austen novel.
“This doesn’t look like a racer’s house,” she said softly.
He smiled, stepping up behind her. “It looks like your house.”
“No,” she corrected, voice tight. “Our house.”
They sat on the back porch as the sun dipped low.
“I’m scared,” she admitted. “Still. I don’t think that ever goes away.”
“You can still go back when you need to,” he said. “We’ll figure out the rhythm. You’ll never be trapped.”
She looked at him. “I just want to be where you are.”
Oscar reached into his coat pocket and pulled out a tiny, folded piece of paper.
She opened it.
It was a list — her handwriting, from months ago.
“Places that feel like maybe.”
Next to the line she’d scribbled “Wherever you are,” he’d written in soft pencil:
“Then let’s build it together.”
Instagram Post – Weeks Later
@oscarpiastri:She flew twenty hours.
I’d follow her forever.
New chapter coming soon 🏡🤍
—
They stood in the middle of the living room barefoot — Oscar in sweats, Y/N in one of his hoodies — just looking.
No furniture yet. No photos on the wall. But the keys were in her hand and her heart was pounding like she’d been handed the future wrapped in ribbon.
“We really bought a house,” she whispered.
Oscar smiled, slipping his fingers between hers. “We really did.”
They couldn’t move in yet.
Not officially.
Not until after they got married — a choice they’d made together, one rooted in their shared values, faith, and the life they were building on trust and commitment.
But that didn’t mean they couldn’t prepare it.
And that’s where Hattie and Mia came in — Oscar’s sisters, both with Pinterest boards and strong opinions.
“You’ll come back after the season,” Hattie said, sketching out the living room layout on a napkin. “And it’ll already feel like home.”
“Y/N, I’m buying you throw blankets,” Mia added. “You don’t get a say.”
Y/N laughed, blinking back tears.
She never expected her world to be made this lovingly in someone else’s country.
The next few days were a soft kind of magic.
Y/N and Oscar didn’t spend the night. They didn’t even bring in a mattress.
They came over in the early mornings with coffees in hand and boxes full of framed memories. They walked through each room slowly, whispering dreams into the walls like prayers.
“This’ll be our bedroom,” she said, standing in the patch of sunlight that poured through the arched window. “Maybe pale yellow curtains. And books stacked on your nightstand.”
Oscar nodded. “And this—” he opened the closet door, “—will finally be where your clothes live instead of in a suitcase.”
She smiled. “You’re sure you don’t mind my sundresses taking over?”
He laughed. “I’ve already made peace with it.”
In the kitchen, she opened drawers. Ran her hand along the countertops.
“This is where I’ll cook for you,” she said quietly. “The real way. Not just over FaceTime.”
Oscar wrapped his arms around her from behind. “You already do everything real.”
She turned. “Even when I was far away?”
“Especially then,” he whispered.
Hattie and Mia came the next day with paint swatches and samples, dragging in pillows, tea towels, and a rug Oscar couldn’t decide if he loved or hated.
But Y/N? She adored it.
It was sage green with little florals tucked between faded stripes. It looked like something she would’ve found in a boutique in town or bought at a church fundraiser.
“It looks like you,” Mia said with a grin.
“Like us,” Y/N corrected softly.
By the time they said goodbye, the cottage was still empty in the technical sense — no bed, no couch, no clutter.
But the walls were warm now.
The linen closet had hand towels already folded. The kitchen had her grandmother’s cookie recipe tucked into a drawer. There was a tiny magnet on the fridge shaped like Kentucky.
And on the mantel above the fireplace sat a small, framed Polaroid from Christmas:
Oscar and Y/N on the porch at her parents’ house. Matching flannel. Hot cocoa. Home.
Before their flight out, Oscar and Y/N walked through the house one more time.
“Feels like a beginning,” she said.
He nodded. “We don’t have to move in yet. But it’s ours.”
She touched the doorknob, then turned to him, voice softer. “Do you ever wish we didn’t wait?”
Oscar smiled gently. “Sometimes. But I think waiting is its own kind of love.”
Y/N pressed her forehead to his chest. “I’m just so excited for forever with you.”
He kissed the top of her head. “We’ve already started it.”
Caption:They’re not moving in yet. But they’re already home 🖤
#futuremrandmrs
Text from Oscar to Y/N, on the flight back to Europe:
Oscar 🦘:
Someday, I’m going to carry you over that threshold like in the movies.
Not because we have to.
But because we waited.
And we made something real.
AN- here's chapter 2!! i definitely wasn't expecting to make this a series but here we are! hope you enjoy it!!
You’re leaning against the windowsill of your Brooklyn apartment, watching the hazy summer morning stretch across the skyline. The city’s already awake—horns blaring, people shouting, a dog barking three stories down. It’s loud and messy and real.
You love it here. You really do.
Even if it’s a thousand miles away from Texas, and a thousand more from Lando.
But not today.
Today, he’s here.
Your phone buzzes right as the kettle clicks off. You already know it’s him before you even look:
Lando 🧡:
I’m outside. Do I buzz or are you gonna rescue me from the old guy judging me at the door?
You laugh, pad barefoot to the intercom, and let him in.
By the time he’s made it up the stairs, you’ve already opened the door, and he’s standing there with a grin on his face and a duffel bag over one shoulder.
“Hey, city girl,” he says, eyes lighting up like they always do when he sees you.
You step into his arms without saying a word. He smells like home and something citrusy and expensive. His hoodie is soft against your cheek.
“I missed you,” you whisper.
He pulls back slightly to look at you, brushing your hair behind your ear. “I know. I missed you more.”
The day unfolds slowly—intentionally.
You take him to your favorite local coffee shop, the one with the mismatched mugs and jazz playing from a dusty record player. He doesn’t get recognized once, and he looks grateful for it. You spend the morning walking through Central Park, splitting a pretzel and people-watching, hand-in-hand.
At one point, he turns to you and says, “I get why you don’t want to be part of the whole F1 circus. This feels… real.”
You nod. “It is real. I love your world, Lando, but I don’t want it to be mine. I love this.”
He smiles, eyes soft. “And I love that about you.”
By evening, you’re back at your place. There’s Thai takeout on the coffee table and a record playing in the background—Fleetwood Mac, because your mom raised you right. You’re curled up on the couch, Lando’s head in your lap, his fingers tracing lazy circles on your thigh.
He looks up at you suddenly.
“I know you’ve never seen me race in person.”
You tense a little. “I know.”
“I’m not asking you to,” he says quickly. “I just want you to know—it doesn’t bother me. It’s kinda beautiful, actually. That I can come here, and you’re just… you. No cameras. No interviews. No ‘Lando Norris, F1 driver.’ Just Lando.”
You smile, running your fingers through his hair. “That’s the only version of you I ever wanted.”
The week flies by. You take the subway together. Eat dollar pizza on the sidewalk. Walk across the Brooklyn Bridge at sunset. You drag him into hole-in-the-wall bookstores and he pulls you into photo booths at random bars.
You don’t talk about when he has to leave until the last night.
He’s sitting on the fire escape, legs dangling over the edge, staring at the skyline.
“I’ll be back,” he says. “Soon as I can.”
You lean your head on his shoulder. “I know.”
“I don’t need you to come to races. I don’t need any of that. As long as I’ve got this—these days with you—I'm good.”
You close your eyes. “And I’ll be here. Just living. Waiting for the next time you knock on my door.”
He turns and kisses you softly, like a promise.
You fall asleep that night with Lando wrapped around you, one arm under your head, the other across your waist. The fan hums softly above, the city outside buzzes as always—but you feel like the world is finally quiet.
--
It rains the next morning. Not a romantic drizzle—but full-on, sideways, umbrella-snapping chaos. You wake up to the sound of it pelting against the windows and Lando’s sleepy groan beside you.
“Tell me we’re not going outside,” he mumbles, burying his face into your neck.
“Only if you want bagels.”
He groans louder but sits up anyway, his hair sticking up in about five different directions. “I do… desperately.”
Twenty minutes later, you’re both soaked but laughing as you burst into the tiny bodega on the corner. The owner greets you like usual, giving Lando a once-over but not recognizing him at all—which he loves.
“Y/n, this man following you?” the owner teases.
“No, I keep him around to carry my snacks.”
Lando throws an arm around your shoulders and grins. “I take my job very seriously.”
You leave with bagels, hot coffee, and a pack of Reese’s he insists you needed.
You get back to your apartment and strip off the wet clothes, both of you in oversized t-shirts and messy hair, huddled under a blanket on the floor eating breakfast off your coffee table.
“I like this version of life,” Lando says between bites. “Where success is making it home without slipping on the subway stairs.”
You lean your head against his. “This is what I dreamed of when I left Texas. Just… peace. But it’s even better with you in it.”
--
By the sixth day, you’ve shown him nearly every corner of your little New York life.
You end up in Chinatown, splitting soup dumplings and bubble tea while tucked into a corner table of a cramped, neon-lit place he says reminds him of Tokyo.
“I can’t believe you built all this on your own,” he says suddenly, watching you like he’s still discovering parts of you. “You’re kind of amazing.”
You shrug, cheeks warm. “I just knew what I didn’t want. I didn’t want to chase fame, or live in someone else’s shadow. I wanted something real.”
“And you got it.”
You nod, then reach for his hand across the table. “And then you found your way into it anyway.”
That night, you lie in bed and stare at the ceiling, your fingers laced with his.
“You ever think about… later?” you ask quietly.
Lando turns toward you, blinking through the dark. “Later how?”
“Like—when the racing slows down. When you’re not flying every week. Could you ever see yourself in this kind of life?”
There’s a beat of silence before he answers. His voice is soft.
“I already do.”
You blink, caught off guard.
“I think about waking up next to you,” he continues. “Walking to get coffee. Grocery shopping. Getting stopped by your neighbor who always forgets my name. I think about us… here. Or maybe somewhere quiet. Somewhere where the world doesn’t ask anything of us.”
You exhale slowly, heart full. “That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”
He smiles, pulling you into his chest. “Then we’ll make it happen. I don’t care where I end up, as long as I can call you home.”
--
The week slips through your fingers too fast.
At JFK, you kiss him once. Then twice. Then again, longer this time, like you’re trying to stretch it into the days you won’t get to see him.
“You’re gonna miss my bagel orders,” you say, smiling through a lump in your throat.
“And your bodega socks,” he adds, tugging gently on the pair you bought him for fun.
He cups your cheeks, gaze serious now. “I’ll be back, okay? You’ve got me. No matter how far I go.”
You nod. “And you’ve got me. Even if I’m just the girl in New York you come home to.”
He kisses your forehead before walking toward security.
That night, your apartment feels too quiet. You sit on the fire escape, city buzzing around you, phone in your hand.
A notification pings.
Lando Norris posted to Instagram:
Caption:
No circuits. No podiums. Just us. 🗽💛
And just like that, the world knows what you’ve always felt:
You don’t have to live in Lando’s world to be part of his heart.
Because somehow, against all odds, he chose yours too.
AN- this takes place when oscar is 18 and reader is 17. she lives in america. its a very long distance relationship. they met when his family visited america when he was 14.
masterlist
There’s a framed picture on Y/N’s nightstand — taken when she was fifteen and Oscar was sixteen. He was visiting Kentucky with his parents for the summer, his arms around her in front of the church after Sunday service. He was wearing a button-up that didn’t quite fit and smiling like he didn’t want to be anywhere else.
It had been almost a year since that picture.
A year since they’d stood side-by-side. Since she’d felt his hand in hers. Since the back porch goodbye that left her heart sore for days.
Now she was seventeen. Oscar was eighteen. And everything had changed — except, somehow, the two of them.
FaceTime Call – 11:52 PM
The glow of her phone lit up her face as she lay curled on her side, her Bible still open on her comforter.
Oscar appeared on-screen — messy hair, tired eyes, but that same soft smile that always made her feel a little braver.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he said, voice low.
She smiled instantly. “Hey.”
“Sorry I’m late. Press ran long.”
“You’re okay. I’ve been praying you’d call soon.”
He grinned. “Is that what you’re using your prayers for?”
“Only some,” she teased, eyes softening. “I miss you.”
His expression faltered for a second — a flicker of guilt, of longing.
“I miss you more.”
Oscar had been racing nearly nonstop since entering Formula 3. Different countries every week, flights, media, sponsors. His schedule was relentless. But every single night, no matter the time zone, he found a quiet spot — hotel balcony, empty garage, or the back seat of a team van — and called her.
He always made time.
Because Y/N didn’t fly. Not because she didn’t want to — she just couldn’t. The thought of airports, crowds, the unknown… it paralyzed her.
She’d told him that early on, when they were fourteen, just after they kissed for the first time on her front porch. “I don’t think I could ever leave Kentucky,” she’d said, eyes apologetic.
He’d only squeezed her hand and said, “Then I’ll always come to you.”
And he had.
Until now.
“Everyone at church keeps asking about you,” Y/N said quietly, fingers picking at the sleeve of her hoodie. “Miss June asked if you were imaginary.”
Oscar laughed. “You should’ve told her I’m AI-generated.”
“I told her you were just busy. Same thing, right?”
He sobered. “I hate that I haven’t seen you. A whole year, Y/N. That’s the longest we’ve ever gone.”
“I know.”
“And I don’t want you to think I don’t care. Or that I’ve changed. I still—” He stopped, breath catching. “I still pray about you every night. Still talk about you like you’re right here.”
Tears filled her eyes before she could stop them. She blinked quickly, trying not to let them spill. “You do?”
“Course I do. You’re in every win. Every lap. Every time I see the camera on me, I wish you were behind it.”
They sat in the quiet for a moment, the only sound the buzz of electricity from Oscar’s side and the faint chirp of crickets from hers.
“I watched your race last weekend,” she said softly. “On the livestream.”
He smiled. “Yeah? Did I look as good as I felt?”
“You looked like you were flying.”
He grinned. “I was. Had you on my mind.”
She reached over and lifted her Bible from her bed, holding it up.
“Still in my corner,” she said, quoting the handwritten note he’d left inside the cover years ago.
Oscar’s face melted into something soft. “Always.”
Y/N didn’t get out much. Between her job at the local library and the responsibilities at home, life was small. Safe. Predictable. She liked it that way most of the time. But lately, the walls of her world felt a little tighter.
People asked about Oscar at church, at work, at the grocery store.
“Do y’all still talk?”
“Don’t he race all over the world now?”
“Do you think he’ll ever come back around here?”
She always smiled politely, nodded, said, “Yeah, we’re still together.”
But inside, she wondered. She wondered if a boy who lived life at 200 miles per hour could really still be in love with the girl who never left her hometown.
“I wish I could show up at your front door,” Oscar said suddenly, pulling her out of her thoughts.
Y/N blinked. “What?”
“I wish I could be there. Walk into church next Sunday with my hand in yours. Look Miss June in the eye and say, ‘Hi, I’m the boyfriend.’”
She giggled softly, imagining it. “You’d be in every prayer chain for weeks.”
“Good. I could use a few.”
They fell into silence again, a peaceful kind, until she heard his breathing slow.
“You should sleep,” she whispered.
“So should you.”
“I’ve got Bible study at 7.”
He groaned. “I’ll set an alarm. Text me when you’re done?”
“I always do.”
After they hung up, Y/N stared at her ceiling.
She missed him. But it wasn’t just him. It was them. Their Sunday afternoons. Their porch swing kisses. The way he used to sit with her and her dad, trying to figure out how to shell boiled peanuts. The handwritten notes in the back of her church bulletin. The boy who didn’t cuss, didn’t rush her, didn’t make her feel small.
He was still that boy. But the world he lived in was getting bigger.
And hers wasn’t.
One week later
It was Sunday morning. Y/N stood at the front of the church foyer, greeting the regulars with her soft smile and quiet warmth. The air smelled of coffee and hymnals.
She heard the door creak open behind her and turned, ready to welcome the next family.
And froze.
There he was.
Hair a little longer. Shoulders broader. A duffel bag hanging from one hand.
Oscar. In the flesh. Standing in the middle of her little country church like he belonged there.
“Hey, pretty girl,” he said, that same smile curving across his face.
Her knees almost gave out.
“You’re—how—what?”
“I had a week off,” he said casually. “Told my team I had somewhere important to be.”
Y/N didn’t care about the how. She didn’t care about the when.
She ran straight into his arms.
That Sunday, Oscar sat beside her during service.
Miss June cried.
Her dad shook his hand like he’d been waiting five years for it.
And when the preacher asked for prayer requests, Y/N whispered one under her breath:
“Thank You for bringing him home.”
---
Y/N could barely focus on the sermon.
She sat stiffly at first, heart still racing, fingers pressed to the side of her thigh where Oscar’s rested — close, but not touching, like he was waiting on her signal. His presence buzzed beside her like static.
Finally, halfway through the second hymn, she reached over and laced her pinky with his.
Oscar glanced sideways. That smile — that quiet, heart-twisting smile she’d only seen through a screen for nearly a year — made her feel steadier than any sermon ever could.
The church ladies whispered like it was revival Sunday.
When the pastor said, “Let’s welcome back our sister Y/N’s boyfriend, Oscar, all the way from Europe,” the whole congregation turned to wave. Miss June clutched her pearls. Brother Ray clapped loud enough to shake the floorboards.
Oscar just blushed and gave a polite little nod, the same way he did on a podium, but softer, humbler. The boy who’d grown up behind the wheel still knew how to be gentle in the quiet.
After church, everyone gathered in the back hall like they always did — crockpots steaming, folding tables covered in casserole dishes and peach cobbler. Y/N usually helped set up, but today, she was pulled in a dozen directions.
Oscar stayed close. Politely shook every hand. Listened when her dad teased him about needing to “put some meat on them skinny racer arms.” He even stayed still while a baby drooled on his shirt.
Y/N watched it all, quietly overwhelmed.
It was like the picture she’d held in her heart had come to life.
Later, on the back porch of her house, Oscar leaned on the railing beside her. The afternoon sun poured across the fields, and the scent of wildflowers drifted through the warm breeze.
She handed him a glass of sweet tea.
He took it, then bumped her shoulder. “Still make it better than anyone.”
She smiled. “I prayed for this day.”
He looked over at her, something tender in his eyes. “So did I.”
They sat together in the porch swing, the same one they’d said goodbye on a year ago.
“You’ve changed,” she whispered after a while. “In a good way. You seem… older.”
“I feel older,” he said. “But I still look for you in every crowd. Still leave room for you in everything.”
Y/N looked down at their hands. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you here again.”
“I didn’t know if I’d get the time,” he admitted. “But I promised myself if I had even one week, I’d spend it with you. And now I’m here. For real.”
Tears welled in her eyes. “I missed you so much it hurt.”
Oscar slid his arm around her shoulder. “I know, baby. Me too.”
That evening, her mom made her favorite Sunday roast. Oscar sat at the table with her parents like he’d never left — telling stories about races in Spain and France, asking about her dad’s garden, complimenting her mom’s cornbread.
And when they prayed before dinner, Y/N closed her eyes and held his hand tight, quietly thanking God for this day she’d waited so long for.
After dinner, they walked out to the edge of the pasture behind her house. Fireflies lit the tall grass like flickering stars, and the sky stretched wide and open, full of peace.
“I don’t want this week to end,” she whispered.
Oscar stopped walking and turned to her. “Then let’s make the most of it.”
He pulled her close, arms wrapped gently around her waist.
“I’ll be here every second I can,” he said. “No press, no training — just us. And when I leave, I’ll still be yours.”
Y/N looked up at him, tears in her lashes, a quiet smile on her lips.
“You never stopped being mine.”
And then, under the Kentucky sky, with cicadas singing and the world gone still, Oscar kissed her — soft and slow, like a promise sealed by time.
---
the week was full of them.
Monday Morning
The sun filtered through Y/N’s curtains like it was in no rush, golden and warm. For the first time in months, she woke up without reaching for her phone to FaceTime him — because Oscar was already downstairs, sipping her mom’s coffee and teasing her dad about the local baseball team.
She stood in the doorway in her pajama shorts and one of his old racing shirts, sleepy and disoriented.
He looked up and smiled like seeing her was the best thing he’d seen in weeks. “Morning, sunshine.”
Her voice was groggy as she crossed the kitchen and pressed her forehead into his back. “Thought I dreamed you.”
“Nope,” he murmured, kissing her temple. “Still here.”
Tuesday Afternoon
Oscar spent the afternoon shelving books with her at the library.
It was slow and quiet — fluorescent lights humming, an occasional elderly patron asking for large-print devotionals. He didn’t complain once.
At one point, he reached for a stack of books just as she did, and their hands brushed.
Y/N looked up. “Why are you looking at me like that?”
He grinned. “Just trying to picture you at one of my races — bossing me around in the paddock with your little librarian voice.”
“I would boss you around,” she said proudly. “I’d tell you to drink water and fix your posture and pray before your laps.”
He leaned closer. “You already do.”
Wednesday Night
The church BBQ was a big deal.
Everyone brought something — sweet tea in gallon jugs, casseroles still hot from the oven, peach cobbler that melted on your tongue. Y/N wore a soft yellow dress that made Oscar’s stomach flutter when he saw her waiting under the string lights in the church yard.
“You look like Sunday morning,” he said with a slow grin.
“You look like you don’t belong here,” she teased, straightening the collar of his borrowed button-up. “But in a good way.”
They sat beside each other all night — sang hymns with the older folks, chased kids around with sticky fingers, and when the fireflies came out, he wrapped a blanket around her shoulders.
“I could get used to this,” he said.
She rested her head against him. “So could I.”
Thursday Morning
They made cinnamon rolls from scratch.
Oscar’s were lopsided and uneven. Hers were perfect. They laughed until they couldn’t breathe when the icing ran off the tray and onto the floor, and she threatened to tell her mom he “ruined the Lord’s breakfast.”
“Say that again,” he said through laughter.
“Ruined. The. Lord’s. Breakfast.”
He pointed at her, eyes wide. “That is the most Kentucky-Christian-girl thing I’ve ever heard.”
Friday Night
Their last night.
They lay on a blanket in the backyard, wrapped up in each other, stargazing like they used to when they were fifteen.
“Don’t say anything sad,” she warned.
“I won’t,” he whispered. “Just want to remember this.”
She traced her finger across his palm. “I hate goodbyes.”
“Then let’s not say one. Let’s say, ‘See you soon.’”
She nodded, blinking back tears. “Promise me you’ll come back.”
Oscar turned on his side and cradled her face. “As long as you’re here, I’ll always come back.”
Saturday Morning – The Airport
Y/N didn’t go inside.
She stood with him in the parking lot, holding onto his sweatshirt like it was all she had.
Oscar wiped a tear from her cheek with his thumb. “I’ll call tonight. I’ll call every night.”
“I’ll be here,” she whispered.
He kissed her one more time — soft, slow, careful — and rested his forehead against hers.
“Thank you,” he said. “For waiting. For loving me like this.”
She closed her eyes. “Always.”
And then he was gone.
Saturday Night – 11:57 PM
Her phone lit up.
Oscar:
“Hey, pretty girl. Made it to the hotel. Want to tell me about your day?”
She smiled through the tears and replied.
Y/N:
“Only if you promise to never stop texting me like this.”
Oscar:
“Never. I love you.”
Y/N:
“I love you more.”
And just like that, they were back to the way they always were — miles apart, hearts stitched together by every message, every memory, and every promise that no distance could undo.
--
One Week Later – 12:06 AM (FaceTime)
Oscar’s face was pixelated from a spotty hotel Wi-Fi connection in Austria, but Y/N didn’t care.
He was lying flat on his back in bed, hair still damp from his post-race shower, eyes droopy with exhaustion. Y/N was curled under her quilt, her Bible open beside her.
“Tell me something good,” he mumbled.
She smiled. “Today, I got a little girl her first library card.”
Oscar grinned. “Look at you, changing the world.”
“What about you?”
He sighed. “P4. Not my best.”
“You’re still my favorite,” she whispered.
His eyes softened. “That’s all that matters.”
Two Weeks Later – Text Thread
Oscar:
Busy today. Back-to-back meetings after practice. Thinking about your sweet tea tho 😔
Y/N:
You miss it more than me?
Oscar:
😳 I plead the fifth.
Y/N:
You’re lucky I’m praying for you.
Oscar:
I need you to. Tomorrow’s qualifying.
Y/N:
I’ll be watching. Same place as always.
Three Weeks Later – Sunday Morning
At church, the pew next to Y/N was empty again.
She wore the cross necklace Oscar gave her for her sixteenth birthday, fingers curling around it every time she closed her eyes to pray.
After service, Miss June gave her a squeeze on the shoulder. “Still hangin’ on to that racing boy, huh?”
Y/N smiled. “He’s still hangin’ on to me.”
Miss June chuckled. “Well, tell him the ladies are still prayin’ for him.”
“I will.”
And she did — that night, through a voice note he played on repeat while drifting to sleep in a hotel room halfway across the world.
Four Weeks Later – Kentucky Thunderstorm
Y/N called him at 2:38 AM. The storm was loud, and her anxiety made sleep impossible.
He answered immediately, voice raspy. “I’m here.”
She sniffled. “Did I wake you?”
“Doesn’t matter.”
For fifteen minutes, he didn’t say much. Just stayed on the line while she listened to his breathing and the steady sound of rain through her window.
Eventually, she whispered, “I miss you.”
“I miss you too,” he said. “Close your eyes. I’ll stay.”
And he did.
Seven Weeks Later – Video Message
She sent him a video during her lunch break. It was short — just her in the library storage room, hair a little messy, cheeks pink.
“Hi. I don’t know why, I just needed to say I love you out loud. And that I hope you’re eating something besides protein bars. And I prayed for you this morning. And I’m really proud of you. That’s it. Okay. Bye.”
He watched it four times in a row. Then saved it to his camera roll.
Nine Weeks Later – One Missed Call
Oscar had just finished a race in Monza, podium high still buzzing in his chest, when he realized her call hadn’t come.
She always called after a race — even if it was just to say “Proud of you.”
This time, nothing.
He stared at his phone. Waited. Checked his texts. Nothing.
Finally, at 1:14 AM, it buzzed.
Y/N:
Sorry. Long day. Dad’s truck broke down. I’m proud of you. I’m always proud of you.
He exhaled. Pressed the phone to his chest.
Then typed:
Oscar:
Even when I don’t hear from you… I still feel you. Every lap.
Twelve Weeks Later – Ordinary Days
Some days they didn’t say much at all.
Just a photo — a shot of Y/N’s Bible open to Psalms beside her coffee mug. Or Oscar’s view from the plane window, clouds glowing orange as the sun rose.
Just a voice note — her reading him a verse. Him telling her how he almost stalled in the paddock and blamed it on thinking about her.
Just a good night text.
Y/N:
Sweet dreams, racer boy. I love you.
Oscar:
Dreamin’ of you. I love you more.
Thirteen Weeks Later – A Letter
In the mailbox one afternoon, nestled between bills and flyers, was a hand-addressed envelope with Australian stamps.
Inside was a folded sheet of paper, handwritten — messy, smudged in places like he’d written it fast.
I know this isn’t the same as holding you. But it’s the closest I could get to putting my heart in your hands.
I miss the smell of your shampoo. I miss the way you pray with your eyes closed like the whole world disappears. I miss your mom’s casserole, and your dad’s lectures, and the stupid way your dog barks at every bird.
Mostly, I just miss home. Because home’s wherever you are.
Please wait for me. I’m racing toward you every day.
– Oscar
She read it three times. Then folded it carefully and slipped it into her Bible, right between Proverbs and Ecclesiastes — wisdom and waiting.
And when Sunday came, she sat in the pew alone, again.
But she didn’t feel lonely.
Not this time.
---
Y/N stood just behind the McLaren hospitality tent, clutching her lanyard and praying she didn’t throw up.
The paddock pass hanging around her neck felt heavier than it should. The buzz of the crowd, the hum of engines, the shout of reporters and the smell of hot tires — it was all so much. Too much.
But she didn’t run. Not this time.
Oscar’s parents stood nearby, smiling like they already knew what this moment meant.
“You okay, sweetheart?” Oscar’s mom asked gently.
Y/N nodded, eyes wide, chest tight. “Yeah… I just need a second.”
She closed her eyes. Whispered a prayer under her breath.
Lord, just get me to him. I don’t need strength for the whole day. Just enough for this moment.
It had started with a phone call three weeks earlier. She’d been on the couch, her dog asleep at her feet, watching a grainy livestream of Oscar’s qualifying run when her phone buzzed.
Oscar’s Mum (Susan):
"Hi darling. How would you feel about coming to Miami?"
Y/N had stammered through her answer. “I… I’ve never… I mean, I don’t fly. I—”
"We’ll take care of everything. Just say yes. He misses you. It’s time."
Y/N cried for twenty minutes before texting back a single word:
Yes.
The flight was awful.
The airport made her shake.
Every second of turbulence had her second-guessing everything.
But she did it.
For him.
Now, she stood in a borrowed McLaren polo, tucked behind team trailers, watching Oscar’s crew bustle around. He was somewhere in the garage — headset on, full race suit, focused.
He didn’t know.
She’d stayed hidden during practice. Watched from the top of the paddock, heart in her throat every lap. He looked fast. Sharp. So grown, yet still completely, achingly hers.
He emerged just before the national anthem, wiping sweat from his brow, talking to an engineer.
She stepped forward slowly, heart beating so hard she thought it might split her chest.
When he looked up — scanning the crowd absently — his eyes landed on her.
And everything stopped.
Oscar froze mid-step. His face shifted from tired confusion to wide-eyed disbelief. He blinked once. Twice.
“Y/N?” he mouthed.
She smiled — nervous, teary-eyed, fingers shaking as she held her lanyard like proof.
She didn’t have to say a word.
He dropped the water bottle in his hand and ran.
Straight across the paddock, in front of photographers, engineers, the world — none of it mattered.
And then he was wrapping her up, lifting her off her feet, burying his face into her shoulder like if he let go, she’d disappear again.
“You’re here,” he breathed. “You’re really here.”
“I made it,” she whispered. “I came for you.”
He pulled back to look at her, tears in his eyes. “How?”
“Your mom,” she said softly. “God. A lot of prayer. And… because I missed you more than I was scared.”
The crowd didn’t matter. The cameras didn’t matter.
In that moment, all that existed was her arms around his neck, his forehead pressed to hers, and the quiet miracle of finally standing side-by-side again.
“I prayed for this,” he whispered. “Every night.”
She smiled through her tears. “Me too.”
He cupped her face, kissed her once — soft, reverent, stunned.
And when they pulled apart, he didn’t let go of her hand.
Not for the anthem.
Not for the grid walk.
Not even when the team called him over.
“She’s with me,” he said simply.
And the whole world saw.
--
Oscar didn’t win that day.
He finished P2.
But you'd never have known from the way he smiled on the podium — like he'd won every race that ever mattered.
Because in the crowd, just behind the barrier, stood her.
Y/N.
The “mystery girl.”
The girl fans had speculated about for years — the one he mentioned in interviews only in passing:
"Yeah, my girlfriend's been super supportive."
"She keeps me grounded."
"We’ve been together since I was fourteen."
There were no photos. No public tags. No comments. All her social media was locked down tight. A few grainy shots had popped up over the years — a girl in Kentucky hugging him at a gas station during the off-season, someone beside him in a church parking lot — but nothing ever confirmed.
Until now.
Until Miami.
Social Media — 3:17 PM, post-podium
@F1UpdatesNow:
🚨 SPOTTED: Oscar Piastri’s long-term girlfriend cheering for him in the paddock today!! The mystery girl finally revealed after YEARS of speculation 👀💛
📸 [photo of Y/N in her McLaren shirt, eyes glassy as she watched the podium]
@oscarpiastrination:
WAIT. SHE’S SO PRETTY??? AND HE LOOKED SO HAPPY?????
THIS IS ROM-COM BEHAVIOR.
@F1WivesTheory:
He saw her and LITERALLY DROPPED A WATER BOTTLE. That's some "I wrote letters every day" Nicholas Sparks type love.
@godsstrongestpiastrigf:
the fact that she’s been with him since F4 and just now came to a race because she has anxiety AND lives across the world?? and he never pushed her to change??? i’m unwell.
@pitwallpaparazzi:
She’s real. She’s soft. She’s wearing a cross necklace and clutching his hand like it’s the only thing keeping her on earth.
This isn’t a PR relationship.
This is real life.
Protect them at all costs.
The next morning, headlines exploded.
“The Girl Behind the Grid: Meet Oscar Piastri’s Longtime Love” – Motorsport Weekly
“The Sweetest Surprise in Miami: Piastri Reunites With ‘Mystery’ Girlfriend” – ESPN F1
“A Love Story Years in the Making” – RaceWeek Digest
McLaren even tweeted:
@McLarenF1:
She’s been behind the scenes for years — now she’s trackside.
Welcome to the paddock, Y/N 💙🧡 #F1 #OscarPiastri #MiamiGP
And then, late that night, after the noise started to quiet and the post-race interviews faded…
Oscar posted for himself.
@oscarpiastri (Instagram):
She’s not a mystery. She’s my miracle.
From praying for strength to finding it.
Y/N, thank you for showing up. For always being there — even when no one else could see it.
I love you.
Comments:
@landonorris: bro i helped make this happen where’s my thank you
@mclarenf1: cryin in pit lane rn
@susanpiastri: proud mum, proud of them both 😭
Back in Kentucky, Y/N sat on her childhood bed, phone buzzing nonstop, the post going viral.
Her mom popped her head in. “Honey, is it true your face is on the internet now?”
Y/N just smiled, eyes wet.
“Yeah,” she whispered. “It’s true.”
And somewhere across the world, Oscar stared at his phone too — smile soft, heart full.
For years, she’d been the secret he never wanted to protect from the world — but for her. For her peace. Her safety. Her comfort.
But now?
Now, the world knew.
And finally — finally — she wasn’t just his girl behind the screen.
She was his girl in the light.
this is the longest one yet.. and it probably won't get any longer.. but its over! i love this idea and i hope you do too
Months ago, sitting in the Piastri garage. You were both supposed to be helping with setup for a kart race, but instead, you found yourselves leaning against the wall, talking.
Oscar had just finished explaining a tricky racing line when you caught him watching you—really watching.
You’d laughed, teasing him for being distracted.
He’d shrugged, a half-smile playing on his lips.
“You’re different than I expected,” he’d said quietly.
You raised an eyebrow. “How so?”
“Not just Hattie’s best friend. You’re… something else.”
You’d blinked. Your heart had sped up, but you’d played it cool.
“Careful,” you’d joked. “That sounds like a compliment with strings attached.”
He laughed, but then got serious.
“No strings. Just… truth.”
The air had shifted, warm and charged.
You looked down, then back up, meeting his gaze.
It was a quiet understanding, the kind that didn’t need words.
And in that moment, the line between “just friends” started to blur.
--------
The villa felt different that evening. Not heavy with secrets or tension, but light — tentative, hopeful.
You, Oscar, and Hattie sat around the small outdoor table, the sun dipping low, casting golden streaks across the terrace. Plates of fresh pasta and wine glasses sparkled between you.
Hattie picked up her fork, looking between you two. “So… what now?”
Oscar smiled, reaching across the table to bump her hand with his. “We figure it out. Together.”
You nodded. “Yeah. No more hiding. No more secrets.”
She laughed, shaking her head. “You two make a ridiculous team. Honestly, I wasn’t sure if I was going to have to pick sides.”
“Never,” you said firmly. “You’re always first.”
Oscar’s grin softened. “Family comes first. Always.”
For a moment, the three of you just sat, letting the warm breeze and the hum of evening settle around you.
Then Hattie sighed. “I guess if you’re both happy, that’s what matters.”
You smiled, feeling something ease inside you — the weight of years, of unspoken feelings, of love that had to wait.
Oscar reached out, brushing a stray hair behind your ear. “It’s not perfect. But it’s ours.”
You caught his hand, squeezing it gently.
“Perfect enough.”
And for the first time, the future didn’t feel so uncertain.
The next morning, the sun felt sharper somehow, the villa quieter. You sat on the terrace, fingers nervously twisting a bracelet Hattie had given you years ago. Oscar came out, hands in his pockets, eyes cautious.
“We can’t just pretend,” he said, voice low. “We have to fix this.”
You nodded. “I know. But she’s hurt. Really hurt.”
Oscar exhaled, running a hand through his hair. “I’m going to talk to her first. Apologize. Be honest.”
You looked up, hope flickering. “Good. Because I want to too. But I’m scared she won’t want to hear from me.”
“Then we’ll show her we mean it. Together.”
Later, Oscar found Hattie in the garden, sitting under the olive tree, arms wrapped around her knees. She looked up as he approached, wary but listening.
“I’m sorry, Hatt,” he said quietly. “For hiding it, for hurting you. You’re my sister. You deserve to know everything.”
She didn’t answer at first, just stared at the grass.
Then she looked up. “You never said anything because you didn’t want to lose me.”
“I didn’t want to lose anyone,” Oscar admitted. “But especially not you.”
You joined them, heart pounding. “Hattie, I never meant to betray your trust. I care about you so much. And I care about Oscar too, but not more than you. Please believe that.”
She looked between you both, eyes softening. Slowly, she let out a breath.
“Okay,” she said. “I’m mad. But I want to try. Because you’re both important to me.”
Oscar smiled, relief flooding his face.
You reached for her hand, squeezing gently.
“We’ll be honest. From now on.”
And just like that, a crack in the ice began to melt.
The storm didn’t hit during some dramatic blow-up.
It came quietly. Late at night.
You were in your room packing your bag for a weekend trip when the knock came.
Hattie.
She stepped inside without waiting.
“Hey,” she said, but the word was already heavy.
You straightened. “What’s up?”
She didn’t answer. Just… stared.
“You and Oscar,” she said. “It’s not nothing, is it?”
The air left your lungs.
“Hattie…”
“Don’t,” she said, voice shaking — but not angry. Just… hurt.
“I’ve been watching you for days. And I kept thinking I was crazy. I kept telling myself it was in my head because… because I trust you. You’re my best friend.”
You felt your throat close.
“I didn’t mean for it to happen,” you said softly. “I didn’t come here expecting any of this. It just—happened.”
“And you couldn’t just tell me?”
Tears filled her eyes now. “I would’ve been shocked, yeah, but… I could’ve handled it. But now I just feel like the lastperson to know. Like I was some joke you both played behind my back.”
“No,” you said quickly. “Hattie, never. I didn’t want to hurt you. That’s why we didn’t say anything.”
She looked away, jaw clenched. “So you chose to lie instead.”
You opened your mouth, then closed it. What could you say?
Oscar stepped into the doorway.
“Hattie,” he said carefully.
She didn’t look at him.
“You too,” she said, voice low. “You’re my brother. You’re supposed to look out for me. Not sneak around with my best friend like I’m too stupid to notice.”
Oscar’s face crumpled. “I wasn’t trying to hide it to hurt you. I just—didn’t know how to say it.”
“You both knew this would crush me.”
No one spoke.
“I need space,” she whispered.
She didn’t shout. Didn’t slam the door.
She just walked away.
And for the first time all summer, the villa felt cold.
Just another slow afternoon. Everyone was sprawled around the villa — Oscar and a few McLaren team guys watching race footage on the TV, Hattie editing pictures on her phone, and you sitting at the dining table, trying to pretend your heart wasn’t going insane every time Oscar looked your way.
He’d gotten more comfortable. Too comfortable.
His leg pressed against yours under the table. You didn’t move.
You caught him staring while you sipped your water. You looked away, biting your lip.
Later, he passed behind you in the kitchen and placed a hand on your lower back — quick, casual, but it lingered just a second too long.
No one said anything.
Until you both went out to the balcony alone.
The air was golden — late afternoon, warm breeze, sea stretching into forever. Oscar leaned against the railing, watching the horizon. You stood beside him, fingers gripping the edge a little too tightly.
“We can’t keep doing this,” you whispered.
He didn’t look at you. “Doing what?”
“Whatever this is. The looks. The—” You stopped yourself. “It’s getting too close.”
Oscar turned now. “I know. But I don’t want to stop.”
Your chest tightened.
He stepped closer, not touching you, just looking. Really looking.
“We’ve been careful.”
“We’ve been lucky,” you corrected. “Hattie’s not stupid.”
“She’d understand—eventually.”
You looked away, jaw tightening. “I’m not ready for eventually.”
Behind you, the sliding door opened.
You both jumped back like the railing had burned you.
Hattie.
She stepped out holding two lemon sodas, one for herself, one for you.
“Did I… interrupt something?” she asked, voice light — too light.
You smiled fast. Too fast. “No. We were just—talking.”
The lake shimmered with gold as the sun dipped low, casting soft streaks of pink across the water. The boat rocked gently with every breeze, laughter bubbling from the deck as Hattie flipped a burger and Oscar’s mum passed around lemonade like it was sacred fuel.
Y/N sat cross-legged near the bow, sunglasses pushed up in her hair, watching Oscar argue (in the most adorable, over-competitive way) with his dad over whether or not ketchup belonged on a sausage roll.
“Only children believe that,” Oscar said seriously.
“You act like a child,” Y/N said, poking his side as he dropped down beside her with a dramatic sigh.
He ignored that. “I’m just saying, it’s a crime.”
“Okay, Mr. Race Car Rules Apply to Snacks.”
Oscar nudged her shoulder with his. “Are you having fun?”
She nodded, smiling softly. “I love your family.”
“You say that like they’re not all watching us from across the deck right now.”
She turned — sure enough, Hattie was very obviously pretending to take a selfie but angling the camera straight at them.
Y/N waved.
Hattie gave her a thumbs up, mouthed “SO CUTE”, then turned back to the grill like she hadn’t been documenting their entire relationship in secret.
As night fell, the temperature dipped slightly, and Oscar wordlessly wrapped one of the boat blankets around Y/N’s shoulders. His arm settled around her like it belonged there — which, it did. Always had.
The fireworks started just after 9.
Bright, bursting pinks and blues lit up the sky, reflected in the rippling lake below. Everyone had gone quiet — a rare thing for Oscar’s family — as the boat bobbed gently and the sky cracked open with light.
Oscar leaned closer, cheek brushing hers. “Pretty.”
She looked up at the sky, smiling. “Yeah.”
He looked down at her instead. “Meant you.”
She turned to him just as the next firework exploded — and this one was silver, cascading like a waterfall behind his head as he kissed her.
Soft. Sure. The kind of kiss that made time pause and air feel unnecessary.
What they didn’t know — at least, not until much later — was that Hattie, ever the silent observer, caught the moment.
Framed perfectly: Oscar kissing Y/N, a firework bursting behind them, blanket around her shoulders, his hand gently cupping her jaw.
She sent it in the family group chat with one word:
“Endgame.”
Oscar was running his fingers through Y/N’s hair while they lay sprawled out on the cushioned deck bench. His family had gone inside. The lake was quiet now, save for the occasional ripple.
“Thank you for this,” she whispered.
He pressed a kiss to her temple. “I like sharing things with you.”
“You always this sappy on fake American holidays?”
The beach bar was packed. String lights swayed in the breeze above your head as laughter and clinking glasses filled the air. It was one of those sticky-warm Monaco nights — perfect for overpriced mojitos and grainy selfies with the sea behind you.
You, Hattie, Oscar, and a few of his friends from the paddock had pushed two tables together on the patio, forming a messy circle of drinks, plates of fries, and half-shouted conversations. You sat between Hattie and Oscar, your leg brushing against his every time you shifted.
And every time it happened, you both froze.
A few people were tipsy. Some were already dancing. But you were very aware of Oscar’s presence next to you. The sound of his laugh. The way he leaned in slightly whenever you spoke.
And unfortunately, so was Hattie.
She was quieter than usual tonight — not angry, just watching.
At one point, one of Oscar’s friends made a comment that sealed it.
“Man, Y/N, I’ve never seen Oscar this chill. You two been hanging out more or what?”
You almost choked on your drink. Oscar straightened in his chair.
“We’ve known each other forever,” he said quickly.
“Yeah, yeah,” the guy waved him off. “But now you’re like… smiley around her.”
Hattie raised an eyebrow.
You tried to steer the conversation elsewhere. “So, uh—who’s driving in the simulator challenge this weekend?”
It worked for a moment. But Hattie’s eyes lingered.
Later, as everyone got up to head toward the beach bonfire, Hattie pulled you back slightly, her hand on your arm.
“Hey,” she said. “Can I ask you something?”
You swallowed. “Sure.”
She glanced ahead at Oscar, who was laughing with his friends, hands in his pockets like he didn’t have a care in the world.
“Is there something going on with you and Oscar?”
You blinked. “No. I mean… we’re just getting along better. That’s it.”
“You swear?”
You hesitated. Then smiled — tight, convincing. “I swear.”
She looked at you a second longer. Then nodded.
“Okay. Good. 'Cause I’d never want it to get… messy, you know?”
You nodded. “Of course. It won’t.”
But even as you said it, you saw Oscar look back at you — just briefly — and smile like he knew exactly what conversation you were having.
