pairing: alex albon x catherine aimée norris (oc)
contains: regency era au, bridgerton au, brother's best friend/best friend's sister to lovers trope, age gap (4 years apart), childhood friend, secret admirer, pining, yearning.
× oscar piastri ×
♡ fall, fall
oneshot
pairing: oscar piastri x reader
blurb: three times you try to convince yourself you don't have a crush on oscar piastri, four times you proved wrong
contains: fluff, high school romance, british f4 oscar
word count: 2.5k
“What do you say, Albon? Shall we form an orderly queue for Miss Norris’s dance card?"
pairing: alex albon x catherine aimée norris
contains: bridgerton AU, regency era AU, slow burn, brother's best friend to lovers trope, age gap (4 years apart), childhood friend, secret admirer, pining, yearning
If pressed upon the matter, in which he considerably prefers to avoid—Alexander Frederick Albon might have admitted that marriage had never yet felt necessary. He did not oppose the majestic sacrament. Indeed, he considered it perfectly respectable in other men, but he had never found occasion to imagine himself in such a situation.
Life, in its present form, had suited him tolerably well. There had been great companionship that is enough to spare him from solitude, occupation enough to prevent idleness, and freedom enough that surrendering to domestic expectations seemed a decision best delayed. Alexander had always assumed, with his dangerous confidence, that affection—if ever required of him—would arrive in its own sensible time.
However, his mother did not entirely share the sentiment. She recently acquired the troublesome habit of observing him with the sort of fond concern ordinarily reserved for unfortunate widowers and gentlemen of peculiar habits.
It had begun innocently enough. An occasional remark upon this young lady's excellencies, that young lady's beauty and elegancies, another upbringing of her passing observation regarding how remarkably the last season had become since it is filled with accomplished daughters.
Yet, lately, her remarks and efforts have grown difficult to mistake.
"You are one-and-twenty. One of your sisters had married," she said one morning, with all the deceptive gentleness a woman who had rehearsed the matter privately and intended not to abandon it too easily. She stirred her tea absently, though her attention remained fixed upon her son at the opposite end of the drawing room. "A gentleman may spend enormous amount of time insisting upon independence before his family begins to suspect that he is merely hiding behind it."
He glanced up from the newspaper he had scarcely been reading. "I am not aware of such image. Had I been a mysterious creature to the society, Mother?"
"How you are not if at ball you scarcely dance, or at the very least talk with a young lady?" Lady Albon sighed.
"I am putting the whole lot of my energy to chaperone my sister. We had to ensure she finds only the best husband."
"Our family is grateful Chloe marries to the Duke of Norfolk. It is not to be questioned that he is an exceptional young man. However, you also had to find only the best wife. How could you find one if you stay silent?"
"Do we in a hurry, Mother? I believe I still need to chaperone Zoe's debut next season. We also have to find a husband for Alicia a few seasons later."
"Good God, bless my heart!" His mother massaged her forehead. "Alicia will not debut at least in four seasons after this upcoming one. She is only thirteen. Do you intend to marry above five-and-twenty?"
"I find that age is still considered young for a gentleman to make an attempt in obtaining a wife."
Lady Albon sighed, though not without affection. "I merely confess," she paused, "that it would comfort me to see you settled. You have a respectable Earl title, a well-managed estate, sufficient sense—when you choose to employ it, and a face society seems irrationally unwilling to dislike. I cannot imagine what further delay appears necessary."
"Perhaps I am waiting for divine intervention."
"You need to be either fully optimistic to God or fully pessimistic to yourself to depend solely upon miracles."
A reluctant smile betrayed him then, though brief it was. Alexander folded the newspaper at last and rose from his chair with suspicious promptness.
“Must you leave already?” his mother asked, narrowing her eyes with maternal familiarity. “You have scarcely defended yourself."
“I do not defend myself where judgment has long since been decided.”
“The club again?”
“A most unfortunate obligation.”
“Cards, liquors, poor company, and men equally determined never to marry?”
He bent to kiss her temple with the practiced ease of a son who had survived such interrogations before.
“You speak of them with extraordinary prejudice.”
“I speak of them with experience.”
“Then I shall endeavor not to be corrupted.”
“You already are.”
Alexander laughed softly at that and reached for his gloves. “Do try not to arrange my future while I am away.”
“I make no promises,” she replied, entirely too quickly.
And with that—suspecting, quite rightly, that remaining another quarter hour might result in an invitation to dine with some impossibly suitable young lady—so he made his escape for the sanctuary of his club.
The club, he had long maintained, possessed many virtues—none greater than its remarkable ability to free a gentleman from maternal discussions of matrimony. By the time he arrived, he found the familiar gathering already established near the fire, glasses half-forgotten and newspapers neglected in favor of conversation of considerably less consequence. Lando Norris, George Russell, and Carlos Sainz, his best mates, bond closer over education at Eton. Norris himself lounged amongst them, appearing offensively comfortable.
“You are late,” Lando remarked.
“I was detained.”
George glanced over with immediate amusement.
“By maternal anxieties regarding my bachelorhood.” Alex sighed.
“Again?” Carlos said. “Good God. At this rate, your poor mother shall begin introducing heiresses at breakfast.”
“I suspect she already intends it.”
“Then we must consider mourning attire,” George remarked gravely.
“For whom?”
“Albon's freedom.”
A round of laughter followed, and Alex sank into the empty chair beside George Russell with the resignation of a man long accustomed to ridicule among friends.
"I believe this started from your successful attempt to chaperone your sister?" George filled his glass.
"It seems she is entirely satisfied to see Chloe's successful marriage that she needs to see her other kids marry in such a hurry."
"I am forever grateful upon the fact I am the last child." George stated.
"I don't need to worry for my brothers." Carlos added.
"I am also grateful such whirlwind will only happened once since I have only one sister." Lando remarked.
“Speaking of siblings,” George said, turning toward Lando, “we are informed your sister has returned.”
Lando gave a short nod. “Yesterday. She has spent the better part of two years in Scotland.”
“Scotland?”
“Music. Pianoforte. Extensive instruction with our aunt."
“Two years in Scotland for pianoforte lessons,” George repeated. “Your family commits to excellence with alarming seriousness.”
“My mother commits to excellence,” Lando corrected. “My sister merely survived it.”
"It is amazing to me," said Alex, "how young ladies can have patience to be so very accomplished as they all are."
“Then society gains another accomplished young lady prepared to punish innocent men after dinner.” Carlos huffed a quiet laugh.
Lando sipped his liquor before answering. "In my honest opinion, she simply prefer to learn pianoforte in Scotland rather than debuting."
Yet despite himself—though for reasons he could not immediately account for—the information lingered unpleasantly in his thoughts.
“How unfortunate for you, Norris.” Carlos said with quiet amusement.
“How so?”
“A sister returned from Scotland, accomplished, and of debuting age?” George lifted his glass. “You are to become intolerably occupied.”
Lando sighed in the manner of a man already burdened. “Do not remind me.”
Carlos looked intrigued. “She debuts this season, then?”
“Next month, the first ball of the season, to be exact.” Lando replied grimly. “My mother has already surrendered the household to dressmakers, correspondence, and inexplicable panic.”
“Ah,” Alex said. “The beginning of society’s annual sport.”
“Marriage hunting?” George asked dryly.
“Precisely.” Alex returned.
“You speak with extraordinary cynicism for a gentleman not yet married,” George remarked.
“I speak with observation.”
Lando exhaled quietly and set down his glass. “My mother is determined the season shall be a success.”
“And your sister?” Alex found himself asking.
Lando gave him a curious glance before answering. “Terrified.”
George laughed. “Sensibly.”
“She always hated attention,” Lando continued. “I suspect she would sooner return to Scotland than endure a ballroom full of strangers examining her like horseflesh.”
“Encouraging,” George said. “A debutante who wishes not to debut.”
“That alone makes her superior to half the Ton,” Carlos replied.
Alexander did not engage with the conversation for a moment.
The timid girl who had once disappeared at the mere inconvenience of conversation returning from Scotland, transformed by years and accomplishment, was a notion he oddly difficult to picture.
It was oddly difficult to reconcile the image before him: the stubborn child trailing after them in muddied boots, the shy young woman forever escaping rooms, and now—somehow—a lady preparing to enter society.
Next month. First ball of the season. The notion unsettled him in ways too faint to properly name.
Time, he thought with some dissatisfaction, had proceeded without consulting to him. More curious still, he found himself attempting to remember her face and discovering, to his faint embarrassment, that he scarcely could.
“And shall we be granted the honour of introductions?” Carlos could not help but smile.
“You already know her,” Lando returned.
“Childhood acquaintance scarcely signifies,” George sets down his glass. “Society insists we all begin pretending familiarity anew.”
Carlos leaned back with exaggerated thoughtfulness. “Then perhaps,” he said, “we ought to secure advantages early.”
"Explain yourself." Lando observed.
"Do we have the honor to dance with her at the first ball?" George ventured.
“No.” Lando replied, too quickly.
Carlos laughed. “You refused far too quickly.”
“I had the answer prepared.”
“Cruel,” George sighed. “What if Miss Norris is devastated by our neglect?”
“My sister,” Lando replied, “possesses excellent judgment. She shall survive.”
“In any case,” Lando continued, with the unmistakable tone of a man issuing warning under the disguise of conversation, “I trust none of you intend to become overly attentive.”
George placed a hand over his heart. “You wound me.”
“I intend to.”
Carlos laughed. “You speak as though suitors shall arrive in battalions.”
“Have you seen society?” Lando muttered. “A tolerably young lady capable of conversation and pianoforte? Men lose all discernment.”
Carlos turned then, far too entertained by himself.
“What do you say, Albon? Shall we form an orderly queue for Miss Norris’s dance card?”
Alexander, who had not expected involvement in the matter whatsoever, glanced up from his drink. “I value my continued friendship with Norris.”
“Coward,” Carlos declared.
“Alive,” Alex corrected.
Lando gave a short approving nod. “At last, someone sensible.”
Yet despite himself, Alex found his thoughts drifting inconveniently toward a ballroom not yet arrived, and to the strange possibility of meeting not the timid girl memory had preserved, but the young woman she had become.
Carlos smirked. “Besides, if memory serves, Miss Norris could scarcely endure your presence long enough for conversation.”
George laughed. “Ah, yes. The little creature used to vanish whenever Albon entered a room.”
Alexander frowned faintly. “You noticed that?”
“Everyone noticed it,” Lando said, far too casually.
“And no one thought to explain?”
“We assumed,” George said, with great seriousness, “that you had unknowingly committed some grave offence.”
“Comforting.”
“Perhaps,” Carlos offered, “she merely finds you intimidating.”
Alexander considered this.
It was, admittedly, the kinder explanation.
Yet the memory of her expressions towards him in most occasions returned unpleasantly—always the same visible alarm, the same hurried retreat. The same red face, sometimes accompanied by a squeal.
No.
Timidity alone could not reasonably account for such urgency.
“I think,” he said at last, with measured resignation, “Miss Norris simply dislikes me.”
Lando, to his credit, attempted for nearly two seconds to appear sympathetic.
Then failed entirely.
Alexander had, in former years, attributed her behaviour to timidity.
It had seemed the kinder explanation.
Young ladies were often shy; younger sisters especially so. One could hardly expect the same child who had once trailed confidently after boys through gardens and stables to remain unchanged upon growing older. If Miss Norris had become quieter with age—more reserved, more inclined to lowered glances and abbreviated conversation—it was hardly extraordinary.
Indeed, he had thought little of it.
Until now.
He arrived at Norris' Mansion upon an afternoon of no particular significance, having accepted an invitation that required little more effort than crossing the square. Let's do chess after lunch, Lando said. His friend had just ordered a new set of chess board.
Upon his arrival, Lando had not yet descended.
“Lord Norris shall be but in a moment, Your Grace,” the footmen informed him.
Alexander offered little complaint and wandered instead toward the drawing room, expecting nothing more alarming than tea and ordinary conversation. He had scarcely entered when movement near the pianoforte caught his attention.
A young woman stood beside it, sheets of music gathered in her hands. Alex had only been able to saw her smooth chestnut hair fall over her shoulder, a petite figure wrapped in pink dress from behind. There was something singularly unfair in how the afternoon light settled upon each strands, the braids, adds to the beauty. She hummed, the airy sound fills the room with joy.
For a brief, uncertain moment, Alex admire the scene.
The young lady later turned her body, her hair falls to frame around the face. Her hazel eyes shine softly towards the music sheets in her hand that had acquired her whole attention. Her nose, delicate nose, has a blush around the tip. The same pink shade could be found on her lips, gentle upward curve of the mouth.
Lovely, Alexander Albon whispers.
Recognition arrived gradually.
The lovely lady in front of him is Catherine Norris.
Not the child memory had preserved, all untidy confidence and grass-stained hems, but someone altogether altered. Scotland, society, and time had evidently conspired in remarkable agreement. Catherine Norris had grown into such a beauty. Elegance, soft, radiant lady that she is.
Alexander was far deep observing every curl in her hair the moment she looked up.
Saw him.
Catherine blinked once. Then blinked again.
Froze.
Alexander, with every reasonable intention of civility, inclined his head. “Miss Norris.”
Her expression changed so quickly he nearly believed he had imagined it—surprise yielding at once to something perilously close to alarm. Catherine's eyes perfectly circled, the music sheets miserably falls off her hand.
“Lord Albon,” she said, rather too quickly.
“I had not realised—”
She murmured indescribable, immediately reaches for scattered music sheets on the floor.
Alexander took a step forward, mostly from politeness. He helps to gather the papers.
“It has been some years.” He handed the music sheets. Her fingers gripped to the opposite corners of the paper.
“Yes,” she answered immediately.
Silence.
An alarming one minute of silence.
She seemed, absurdly, as though endurance itself had become a great personal trial.
Her fingers tightened around the papers.
She glanced towards the doorway.
Then towards him.
Then towards the doorway again.
A terrible suspicion began, slowly, to form.
“I ought to—” she began abruptly.
“Of course,” Alexander said, stepping aside at once.
“Please excuse me.”
And before conversation—if such a strained exchange deserved the dignity of the word—might properly begin, she was gone.
Entirely gone.
Quickly enough, indeed, that the matter bordered upon retreat. Alexander remained standing precisely where she had abandoned him.
After a moment, he glanced toward the still-swaying door.
Lando entered scarcely thirty seconds later.
“Ah,” his friend said easily. “You are here.”
Alexander looked at him with measured seriousness.
“Your sister hates me.”
Lando blinked once. “What?”
“I have just witnessed a level of distress usually reserved for military conflict.”
“You spoke to her?”
“Briefly.”
Lando stared at him for a moment longer before an altogether unhelpful smile threatened the corner of his mouth. “What precisely occurred?”
“I entered this room,” Alexander said flatly. “She fled the very second she saw me.”
“Mmm.” Lando could not bite back the curve of his lips.
“Do not sound pleased.”
“I am only considering,” Lando replied, with suspicious patience, “that you have always possessed a remarkable talent for alarming women unintentionally.”
A/N: i rewatched Bridgerton S4 and listened to some music and got this idea OMGGG i can't wait to tell you the song inspired this story for the next chapter! i also quoted from Pride and Prejudice in this one ♡
tag list is open! feel free to leave a trace and i hope you'll enjoy the story 💛
contains: bridgerton AU, regency era AU, slow burn, brother's best friend to lovers trope, age gap (4 years apart), childhood friend, secret admirer, pining, yearning
A/N: This is my interpretation for the original character of my upcoming fic, 'Solely, Deeply' (an Alex Albon x OC Regency Era AU Series). I will refer to her appearance based on this description. However, feel free to self-insert her appearance if that's what you find best.
The taglist is open. Feel free to leave a trace in this post if you want to read her story!
Basic Information
Birth Name: Catherine Aimée Norris
Daughter of: Lord Adam Norris, Viscount of Hereford
Age: 17
Family Members: Adam Norris (Father), Cisca Norris (Mother), Lando Norris (Older Brother +2 years), Benjamin Norris (Younger Brother -7 years)
Appearance
Eye Color: Dark Hazel
Hair Color: Chestnut Brown
Height: 157 cm
Distinct facial features: Tiny mole under left eye
Behind The Name
Catherine means 'pure', derived from the Greek word "katharos".
Aimée means 'love', derived from French.
Her parents chose this name in the hope that she would grow up to be a lady who is full of caring. A pure lady, the embodiment of pure love. Someone who will find love as pure as her heart on the proper phase of her life, to shower her with the same notion of affection when the time comes.
Personality
Catherine, as a child, was a bold kid who often fought with her brother, Lando Norris. Nothing serious. It was usually sibling banter or Lando pranks to 'kill the boredom'.
Growing up, she had become calm. Rarely talk. Always calculating. Her eyes move around, observing a lot more than her mouth does on every occasion. She appears more timid around gentlemen rather than bold as she was a kid.
She is a sweet, obedient daughter to her family. Though she finds no need to talk a lot more since her brothers do the divine work perfectly.
Interests
Catherine Norris loves pianoforte. She finds enjoyment in pressing tuts that resulted in beautiful music. Music has been her favorite company, as she can convey her feelings through them. After a few years of education with her governess and her mother feeling she is a prepared young lady, she traveled to Scotland for two years to accompany her newly widowed aunt.
Her aunt, Lady Dowager Viscountess Williams, is also accomplished at pianoforte, so Catherine Norris had her extensive pianoforte lessons with her. She still continues her governess lessons, too, in Scotland, because her aunt finds it's best for her to prepare with education before debuting. For her to learn society, since she finds Catherine Aimée Norris is too pure of a heart that her aunt afraid someone might take advantage.
Reading has just become a hobby, actually an obligation, for young ladies. Nonetheless, Miss Norris loves to read, too. Her favorites are romance novels and poems, though she finds the importance of reading various genres of books.
Not many know, but Catherine Norris also grows polishing her drawing skills. Not much, really. It is usually a potrait sketch. She kept one sketchbook with her dearly throughout the years.
Fun Facts
She is fluent in both English and French.
Though her family color is red and her attire mostly consists of pink dresses, her favorite color is actually blue. Azure blue, to be exact. It is a popular color among young ladies, and she finds the tone matches her skin the best.
Catherine Norris is a good friend of Zoe Albon. The young lady of Albon family is such a social butterfly. She asked Miss Norris to befriend her the first time they met as both 7 years old, and so they kept their friendship through years. Zoe Albon also exchanges correspondence with Catherine during the time young lady of Norris family is in Scotland.
Her favorite books are 'Marmion' and 'The Lady of the Lake' by Sir Walter Scott. Her aunt sent the book when she was 14, and she took those poems deeply into her heart.
Catherine loves to hear violins as she finds those tunes bring out melancholy feelings the best.
Oscar Piastri is surprisingly composed for a 15-year-old boy.
That makes him stand out from his chaotic peers besides his tall figure, Aussie accent, and extraordinary physics score. You find that those things will make him a great camaraderie to endure three years of boarding high school. His cute face is a bonus, since you won't admit that out loud.
He appears to find you're a good friend too since the first chemistry project in Year 10.
Both of you sat next to each other accidentally that day. You're running late because Mrs. Anderson extended her history class, which left a 5-minute gap, and that resulted in the only vacant seat in chemistry class being right next to Oscar Piastri. He still catches his breath as you sit, you presume he runs from his previous class too.
His eyes widened when he heard a rustle beside him. He didn't expect someone—especially a girl— to sit next to him. Oscar made a pact with Logan Sargeant to be his teammate in chemistry last night, but he didn't have the heart to push you away. It's okay, he will convey his apology to Logan later. Oscar looks around and finds his friend sitting three tables away. Logan was deep in conversation with a girl in a twintail beside him. He lifts his head and thumbs up when he sees Oscar.
Whatever that means.
Boarding school is the smallest form of society. Everyone knows a fact or two about each other even if they never talked. It was three weeks since you first saw him and you already know Oscar does kart races. He probably heard you're a mathlete somewhere. But you two never talked, didn't have any friends in common either. That usually makes introductions a little bit awkward. You were glad Oscar extended his hand first.
"Hi, I'm Oscar Piastri."
"Oh—I'm Y/N." You pressed your palm against his and shook his hand.
The corners of his lips lift. "Are mathletes good at chemistry too?"
That earned a chuckle from you. "We do try. The result depends."
One more fact about Oscar Piastri you learned that day is that your first impression remained correct; he will be a great camaraderie to endure three years of boarding high school. He rarely talks, but is a good teammate to form a chemistry experiment report. You're already grateful for that.
"You finally talked to a boy! See? Not all of them are annoying." Your roommate clapped her hands. She waited her whole life for this moment.
You shrugged your shoulders. "It's Oscar Piastri. He rarely talks and stays calm. Of course, I won't be annoyed by his presence."
"Maybe nerd boy is your type?"
You don't know why, but that makes your cheeks burn. This is exactly the time when people in your batch start dating. Everyone makes a fuss and tells stories about how good it is. Crush, boyfriend, hug, kiss, date ... Everyone talked about it. Every girl has their crush. You never thought of Oscar Piastri that way, but your roommate's words get into your head. Oscar Piastri is the only boy who doesn't annoy you. Is that counted as type?
"No—no. He's not!" You shook your head wildly. "We're just... friends. We just talked today, Grace!"
Your roommate, Grace, poked your cheeks. "And my socks are neon green. Admit it, you like him. You're as red as a tomato!"
This is ridiculous. You're used to think in a logical way. Mathematically. Everything has a reason. To like someone on the first day of talking? Doesn't make sense. But why can't your cheeks comprehend and embarrassingly blush every time Grace mentions Oscar's name?
Days after that, you tried to prove Grace wrong. You don't have a crush on Oscar Piastri.
Starting from staring at his face while doing chemistry and didn't feel anything.
Which, if you think again, was a bad idea.
Oscar scratches the back of his neck when he feels your eyes on him. "Is there something on my face?"
"Oh." See? Your cheeks blushed again. "No—nothing—I was just—just trying to find the formula."
"On my face?"
He turns his head to face you. Wow. You never see him this close. He smells like chocolate and citrus. You just realized he has gorgeous brown eyes under those eyebrows, moles scattered across his face, a fine nose, and lips ... his lips smiling wide, as if they almost burst into a laugh.
You cough, try to neutralize your tone. "What can I say? Inspirational."
He chuckled, the noise ringing in your ears. "I'm flattered. Did I remind you of John Dalton? Marie Curie?"
"Oh—stop it!" You turn away, about to stand up, finding some fresh air outside. His hand catches your wrist fast. His thumb brushes your pulse. The warmth from his palm spreads on your arm. He's the first boy to hold your wrist. It feels weird. Weirdly good. His hand is warm and soft.
"Stay, would you? We're almost done. It's okay, stare at my face if that helps you."
You pursed your lips as you found his cheeks turned red too.
Turns out it's hard to stare at Oscar Piastri's face and not feel anything.
"Proving You Don't Have a Crush on Oscar Piastri" Project Part 1: Failed.
That fuels you further to prove you don't have a crush on Oscar Piastri. He's a good lad. That's why he's nice to you. Probably nice to everyone. You can't fall for him just because he's nice and smells good and cute and funny and ... the list goes on.
You think harder. It's almost Year 11 now, you need to study for GCSE and you can't do that if this still bothers your mind. Do you have any other way? Something with more impact? Such as ... watching him do crickets with a flat face? Yes. That could work. You can bring Grace along too. She would stop teasing you after this.
"You will see for yourself, Grace. I don't have a crush on him." You walk with confidence.
Grace squiggles her eyebrows. "Are you sure? Boys in cricket outfits are equivalent to boys in basketball outfits. Sporty. If he does karting, he's also fit, doesn't he?"
Your step falters. You never considered that part. All you thought was that you didn't understand cricket, so you would just focus on the game rules or score rather than the players—
Okay, you can see why this is the worst idea to prove you didn't have any feelings for Oscar Piastri.
The Aussie boy stands distinctively tall, proper, and fit among his friends in all-white cricket attire. His brown hair follows the breeze, leaving it slightly messy when the wind stills. His cheeks are pink under the sun. Oh, you just realized your school has a custom-made emblem attached to the sweater on the stomach. Nice strips. The cable knit is high quality, and it spreads nicely on his shoulder. It has a white shirt underneath too, see the collar? Oh, Oscar has moles on his collarbone.
"Do you realize you're basically ogling at him?" Grace is laughing beside you.
"I—I'm not!" You cough, turning your head away. "I pay attention to the uniform details."
"Everyone wears the same uniform, why only focus on a certain Aussie karting boy?"
You can't answer her.
"Proving You Don't Have a Crush on Oscar Piastri" Project Part 2: Failed.
Oscar Piastri didn't have a particular friend group. His weekend is busy with racing, after all. He's close with Logan, both of them do racing, but that boy is madly in love with Beatrice, the twintail girl from chemistry class. So he is usually seen alone, sometimes with trophies or a folded racing suit on his arms. On top of that, he is still a good pupil. Oscar often asked you about things he needed to catch up on. You started hanging out with him at the study lounge, with or without chemistry paperwork. He stays long after the team report is submitted, focusing on his other work. You didn't mind since he stayed silent, the only sound coming out was from his keyboard.
Then comes another Tuesday when you don't have any chemistry work to do with him, he just slips beside you. Oscar opens his laptop and does his things.
You didn't lose your hope. There must be another way to prove that you don't have a crush on Oscar Piastri. Perhaps you can ask him to explain the infamous Einstein's theory of relativity? Ask for his help with physics? That's neutral. That will add useful information to your brain and maybe by then you can see he's just a boy.
You cleared your throat as you pushed a piece of physics question towards him. "Can you help me? I'm struggling with the 5th question."
"Well, let's see your answer sheet." His hand reaches the paper on your hand, accidentally brushes.
It's supposed to mean nothing. Just hand brushes. Totally civil.
But every inch of your skin that is briefly in contact with him leaves a weird tingle.
Weird. And warm. And you feel like you're about to lose your mind.
Oscar looked at your answer sheet. He circles a number with the back of his pen. "You did every step right, but converted this wrong. It should be in joules..."
His voice does something weird to you. It is low and calm, whispering in the usually quiet study lounge. Your stomach churned, the sensation is close to when you're anxious. He leans toward your ear as he continues to explain, but you couldn't care less. Not when he's this close.
"Is that clear?"
You blink your eyes, retreat to create a distance. "Yeah," you whisper. "Thank you."
Your palm pressed to your stomach. Your fingers cradle, squeezing the skin as if that would help to get rid of the butterflies. Spoiler alert: it doesn't. You move uncomfortably on the sofa. That catches Oscar's eye. He observed the way you move away, awkwardly switching your legs, facing forward and sideways. The Aussie guy leans to whisper again, but you fall back until your spine hits the side of the sofa. He cornered, his body hovering above you.
"May I?"
Is this it? Your first kiss?
Your head moves to make the smallest nod.
Your mouth falls open when he drapes his grey jacket over your thighs and lifts your calves to stretch over his thighs. His palm is warm on your ankle, his thumb pressed slightly to massage.
"My sisters do that too when they walk or sit for a long time," Oscar says in a clinical tone. Like it's normal. "I hope this helps."
Yes. Very helpful, Oscar.
Very, very, helpful.
Now you realize not only he's attractive, he's also very nice too.
"Proving You Don't Have a Crush on Oscar Piastri" Project Part 3: Failed (Miserably!).
You finally admit it.
You have a crush on Oscar Piastri.
A little bit. Not that much. Tiny. Tiny crush.
A tiny crush on your friend won't hurt, right?
"Hey, so how does this equation work?" He nudged your arm.
You look at the brighter side. Studying with your crush is motivating. You help each other a lot. Your grade is increasing significantly and he never missed any schoolwork now.
You explained the equation to him. His eyes followed your neat handwriting, nodding along.
"Great. Thanks." He scrabbles on his answer sheet.
Oscar stopped his hand. "Anyway," he lifted his head. "I can't do chem this weekend. I started British Formula 4."
You have no idea what it is or how it works, but you assume it's racing too. You will look that up after this. A smile rises to your face. "It's okay. We can do it on Thursday or Monday. Congratulations, by the way."
A shade of pink crept up his cheeks. "I—I just started."
"Still, congratulations." You nod. "You worked hard for this. Good luck with your race."
You don't have any idea how Formula 4 works. You rarely watch F1 anyway. Yet here you are, skimming information about it. Cross upon his karting blog. Looking for livestreams on YouTube. Body buried under the blanket, you watch the boy in red 81 car, trying to understand. You smiled when you saw Oscar step onto the podium two times that weekend.
It's almost midnight when you tiptoe to the pantry, in a need of emergency hot chocolate. You let the room dark so the security guards won't find you. The buzzing dispenser and soft rattled spoon knocked against a mug is your company. Your heart leaped out of your mouth as you heard the pantry door click.
"Hey."
You can recognize that voice everywhere. That's Oscar.
"Why are you here? Can't sleep?" He continues, the rustling sound from a drink packet fills the room.
Your fingers clutched to the mug. "Yeah, kinda. You just came back from the race?"
"A few hours ago. I need to finish an English essay for Monday."
The coffee smell goes straight to your nose. You put your mug in the sink.
"C—Congratulations, by the way. You step onto the podium." You were hesitating if you worded that wrong.
"You watch me?" His eyes glimmer in the dark.
"There's this livestream—" Your words cut off when you feel his hand reach your waist, pulling you close. His figure swallows your tiny body. Warm. He's so warm and comfortable. Oscar's thumb rubs your back, his other palm pushes your waist closer. Your whole body buzzes, helplessly clinging to his arms. You're afraid he can feel how hard your heart beats.
Oscar Piastri is the first boy outside of the family to hug you. Now you understand why those girls make a big deal out of this crush thing. It's... Great. Comfortable. You wish to keep his hug at all times.
"Thank you." His breathy voice whispers.
"You—You're welcome."
Fine, you finally admit you're in love with Oscar Piastri.
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A/N: Thank you for reading my first ever F1 fics in this blog! I actually have a plan to write the sequel. Does anyone want to be tagged?
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