summary: yn, a newly famous painter, was invited to the mclaren garage for the 2026 australian grand prix. oscar and yn hit off immediately, but when they keep it private, fans are trying to figure out what's up.
notes: oscar's time :) slowly making my way through the grid
masterlist | writing tag
liked by mclarenf1, user, user2, and more!
youruser australia! i'm so excited to be working here and i've got a little surprise in the books! 💗
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user3 OH MY GOD I SAW YOU AT THE BEACJ
↳ youruser you can always come say hi! i'm friendly, i promise <3
user little surprise with some papaya?
↳ youruser you've been here the longest, you tell me 👀
user2 MCLAREN F1??? i can't believe you're finally being noticed!!! ♡ liked by the author
user4 your online pieces are GORGEOUS. do you have biddings open?
↳ youruser hello! my biddings open on the first monday of each month :) i think that i'm going to have 4-6 pieces this month! and sometimes i go to galleries so people are able to bid there (for different pieces) if you have any questions, feel free to dm me <3
user5 do you have any tips for painting?
↳ youruser practice practice practice! and watch lots of videos or tutorials, but develop your own style <3
user6 i loveee your whole aesthetic ♡ liked by the author
user7 that mclaren car!!! ♡ liked by the author
youruser [so thankful for mclaren for this opportunity! and it's great to be cheering for someone from home 💗]
story replies:
oscarpiastri nice meeting you :)
↳ youruser same at you! hopefully we can keep our conversation going on later too <3
mclarenf1 amazing to have you by!
↳ youruser THANK YOU FOR EVERYTHING!!! <3
user can i say i called it?
↳ youruser of course haha, you wouldn't be my first supporter otherwise xxx
user9 OH MY GOD CROSSOVER??
oscarpiastri [exploring melbourne :)]
story replies:
youruser thank you very much for the coffee, mr piastri :)
↳ oscarpiastri she's amazing so far :))))
↳ hattiepiastri dorkkk but i gotta meet her
lando this is what you're telling me next debrief instead of listening ♡ liked by the author
liked by user, user4, oscarpiastri, and more!
youruser i have an exhibition and auction today! come check me out 💗
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user i'm so so so excited!
↳ youruser thank you for all of the support over the years <3
user13 the painting of the girl is GORGEOUS
user17 learn how to paint something real
↳ user16 girl gtfo no one cares about you
user14 am i the only one who sees oscar in the likes???
user2 i see it girl, i see it ;) ♡ liked by the author
user4 your dumps always hittt ♡ liked by the author
user3 <3
user15 you've really helped with my paintings :)
↳ youruser i'm so glad! :)
cranderymuseum.art looking sharp, yn! excited to be hosting you
↳ youruser excited to be there!
oscarpiastri [who knew art conventions could be fun! cranderymuseum.art]
story replies turned off
oscarpiastri [can't wait for more of this]
story replies turned off
liked by user34, user23, user39, and more!
f1gossipofficial has oscar piastri turned into an art collector? the mclaren driver has been seen with a new woman around australia, and has visibly posted on his instagram about going to art shows. discuss!
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user19 put some respect on her name, that's australian artist yn ln and she's AMAZING!
user20 they're obviously trying to keep it private... is what i would've said before oscar's last story
↳ user23 showing he's claimed before miami lmao
user21 he doesn't need someone, he needs to focus
↳ user34 i dunno, after last year maybe its helpful ? i'm sure it's nice to have someone to turn to
↳ user22 YOU can't be talking, you're a lando fan
↳ user34 what did i do???
↳ user39 you're not going to win that battle. but yeah, i think its wonderful osc has someone!
user24 her hair looks so pretty!
↳ user25 and that COAT oh my god beautiful!!!
user26 another wag? can't people do things for themselves anymore
↳ user27 she's literally an artist. the auction they went to was of her art
user28 they look very pretty together!
↳ user29 no they look like siblings
↳ user30 sybau <3
liked by mclarenf1, youruser, lando, and others!
oscarpiastri p4 + more
comments restricted:
mclarenf1 strong race today oscar 💪
↳ oscarpiastri all for the team
youruser 💗
↳ oscarpiastri 💖
lando this is what ur doing... omgggg
↳ oscarpiastri what.
user YN i'm so happy for you!!! i've finally got the courage to greet you at the beachhh
↳ oscarpiastri she says thank you for her biggest fan <3
In which you're getting ready for a night out but you need your boyfriend's help. Or do you?
Warnings: none unless you hate tooth achingly sweet fluff
Pairing: Lando Norris x fem!reader
When you heard the front door snick close, your eyes fall straight to your phone. 6:45. Shit. You were going to be late and you weren’t even dressed yet. In your defense, you had spent a few extra hours at the salon that day with Carmen who kept talking you into more and more treatments. ‘It’s a reward for getting through your first F1 season as a WAG!’ she had joked while Lily nodded along in agreement on your other side, which lead to you adding a facial on to the end of your massage Lando had booked for you today.
You were regretting it now because that door closing signaled that your boyfriend was home and you were still sat in front of vanity mirror in the skimpy black lingerie that was supposed to be a surprise for Lando after the FIA awards tonight. You knew he was still salty about losing the championship to Max by 20 points and the bits of lace and silk were supposed to help get his mind off things.
While the season had ended well, with Lando picking up a total of seven wins and McLaren securing their first constructors championship on ages, the sting of losing out to Max in the end was just a bit too much for your boyfriend to handle. You had known him for years, your brother racing the same circuits as Lando as a child, so you knew how competitive he was and how badly it hurt him to come up just short. While your brother had left the sport after he turned 16, he had joined the McLaren racing team as first an engineer before being promoted to strategist.
You had run into Lando at the McLaren Technical Center one afternoon two years back while visiting your brother, a spark that had been present when you both were younger igniting again with one single look. The rest, as they say, was history. It had been a whirlwind really, the timing of it all simply perfect.
“Babe, you almost ready? The car is going to be here in fifteen.” Lando calls from what sounds like the kitchen. He had just popped out to get bottle of whiskey to put in his flask, insisting that being half way drunk was the only way he was going to survive the awards dinner.
In the kitchen, Lando sets the bottle of whiskey down before opening the silver flask you had gotten him for his birthday in November. Engraved on the side was his monogram and a tiny little F1 car under it.
“Almost ready! Be out in five!” You shout back and Lando can’t help but chuckle. Five minutes in your time was actually closer to 15 so he knew he had time for a drink.
Lando busies himself in the kitchen while he waits, knowing he’s going to tease you about taking so long to get ready while not meaning a word of his banter. You scurry about the bedroom, for once glad he hasn’t come looking for you so you can get ready quickly without being distracted. It was Lando’s constant state: Distraction. His curls distracted you. His smile distracted you. The way he said your name distracted you. Everything about your boyfriend caused you to be utterly distracted and while you wouldn’t have it any other way, sometimes a girl just needs 10 minutes alone to focus and get her makeup on.
Minutes pass and the house is quiet, save for the clink of some ice in a glass as Lando enjoys a quick drink before you leave for the night.
“Lan?” You call and God does that do something to him. The nickname you have for him is his favorite word. Not because he likes being called Lan, although he doesn’t mind. No, he loved it because of the way his name fell off your lips like sweet slow drips of honey, sugary coated and thick.
He makes his way down the hall, knowing exactly where to find you: your dressing room. It had been your only demand when you moved in with him 3 months ago. If he got a gaming room, you deserved a dressing room. And Lando, not being one to ever say no to you, had immediately had his workout room converted to the dressing room of your dreams.
He stops once he reaches the doorway, pausing to lean against the frame to take you in. Your hair was done in loose curls, the shiny locks tumbling down over your shoulders made him forget his last name. Your black dress, shimmering under the dim lights you only used after your makeup was finished, was a long column of silk that made Lando’s throat go dry.
When you see him standing there, practically eating you alive with the feral look on his face, a slow grin spreads across your face. “Hi baby.” You coo before gathering your hair up in one hand while spinning around. “Can you zip my dress up for me?”
Truth be told, you could have probably done it yourself but you also wanted to give Lando a sneak at what was under your dress right when he couldn’t do a damn thing about it. Teasing him with little glimpses of skin was one of your favorite past times. Lando knew that you could have done it yourself too, but he appreciated being needed and would never pass up the opportunity to run his fingers up your bare skin.
“Of course.” He says, crossing the room in a few strides to come stand behind you. Your perfume, a sweet and spicy dream of a fragrance, settled across his skin where it would linger all night, a constant reminder that you were his now. When you had waltzed into the MTC visiting your brother two years ago, he hadn’t recognized you at first. The moment he heard your voice though? He had known he was a goner.
His fingers deftly maneuver the zipper up towards the top of the gown, the pads of his fingers leaving a smattering of goosebumps in their wake. When his job is done and your dress is secure, Lando dips his head to drop an open mouthed kiss in the crook of your neck, a place you can often find him kissing. When he starts to drag his tongue from his favorite spot up the column of your neck, you can’t help the sigh that falls from your lips on a whisper. Here it was, the distraction.
“You look exquisite tonight.” He murmurs when his mouth reaches your ear, breath dusting along the shell of your ear.
“Thank you.” Your voice is embarrassingly breathy but Lando’s fingers digging into your hips says he’s not embarrassed one bit. He didn’t say a word about the lace that was for him, but you know he saw it. “Sorry I’m running behind. Carmen, Lily, and I took longer at the salon today than I anticipated.”
Lando spins you around, shaking his head when your gaze meets his. “It’s fine, we’re not really all that late. I’m glad you’re getting along with the other girls.”
You nodded, the corner of your mouth ticking up at the thought of your friends, also girlfriends of F1 drivers, who had really taken you under your wing this season. Being in the public eye like the WAGs tended to be was not for the faint of heart and there had been several times this season where only the girls were able to understand your struggle to adjust to life with Lando.
The two of you stand there for a moment, taking in the sight of each other. You were able to travel to most of the races so you didn’t often go too long without seeing Lando, but there was something settling about it now being winter break, all work suspended for the time being while everyone decompressed after a hard season. You had made it through, relationship stronger than ever, and the silent conversation that happens while you two reflect on how everything has changed so quickly has your heart fluttering in your chest.
Lando’s the first to break the spell, forced to drop his attention to his phone that was buzzing quietly. “That’s the car.” He says, sounding almost sad that the two of you will have to leave the comfort of your private cocoon tonight and put on your public faces for the evening.
Moments later, Lando is helping you into your jacket before twining his fingers with your own. More kisses are dropped on your cheeks and neck as you both scuttle towards the door, the hired car likely double parked in front of your building. You knew Lando would have rather stayed home tonight, not wanting to have to share you or your attention with anyone but you also knew tonight would serve as a good closing chapter on your first year together and for that, you were forever grateful.
pairing -> lando norris x you (9.8k words oops!!!)
summary -> the five times your best friend almost kissed you and the time he finally got his act together and ruined the friendship.
warnings/tropes -> drinking mentioned. childhood best friends to lovers. two idiots in love. yearning upon yearning.
msb says -> i am a SLUT for this trope. this one was so fun to write. i hope you like it!! <3 follow @the-msb-library to make sure you never miss a post from me! thank you to @lestapiastrisgirl for being the best beta reader bff EVER!! <3
master list
i love to yap!
Lando Norris was as ingrained in your life as you’d expect a best friend to be. You didn’t have a childhood memory that didn’t have him present in some sort of capacity, even if it was just at the edges. When you both were six, Lando’s dad Adam and your dad spent three weekends in a row building a tree house in the stand of trees that covered the property line between your house and his. For almost a decade afterwards, it was where you spent most of your time with Lando, doing homework and avoiding chores.
Tonight was different though.
Anxiety hung heavy in the air as you waited in the old wooden house for Lando to get finished packing. Tonight was the last night he’d be home for a stretch of time that was still unknown. Friday had been his last day at your secondary school and tomorrow he was leaving to go race cars full time.
You were incredibly proud of your best friend. Who wouldn’t be? Aged sixteen and already making money racing cars and doing what he loved. You were also heartbroken that you were losing your partner in crime. Lando had always been there for you, through thick and thin, the two of you had been attached at the hip for as long as you could remember.
And now it was all coming to an end. At least, that’s what it felt like. He was growing up, running off to Europe to chase his dreams and you were terrified that it was going to lead to the two of you becoming nothing but a memory from childhood, someone that you looked back on fondly and said ‘I wonder what he’s doing now?’
“Are we going to a funeral tonight?”
You startle slightly, the bottle of water in your hands wobbling from the sudden jerk that wracks your body when Lando’s head pops around the corner of the treehouse door.
Clutching your chest, you lean back against the wall and heave a sigh, “Jesus Christ, Lan. Give a girl some warning before you scare the daylights out of her.”
Lando gives you one of his signature boyish, lopsided grins as he flops down next to you, his shoulder bumping with yours. “‘M sorry, ladybug.” You narrow your eyes at the nickname he’d given you (against your will) when you were ten. “I just was concerned there was a funeral you forgot to tell me about, what with the way you were frowning into your water just now.”
You shake your head, “Just thinking about how much maths is going to suck on Monday without you.”
Out of the corner of your eye, you see his shoulders droop just a fraction. You know how excited Lando is to go racing in Europe with his new team so you’d tried your best to hide how anxious the loss of your best friend was making you.
“I’m sorry I’m leaving you to deal with Ms. Dahlin by yourself.” He says quietly but there’s more behind that statement and you both know it.
He didn’t want to leave you, not alone with Ms. Dahlin and not alone here in the treehouse. If Lando could have brought you along, he would’ve done it in a heartbeat. The thought of not being able to see you every night, of you doing your homework alone in the treehouse, of you falling asleep by yourself after a particularly bad nightmare made his heart squeeze painfully. You’d been his rock, his compass for as long as he could remember and while Lando knew that going to race Formula 4 was the next logical step in his career, he just wished he didn’t have to leave you behind to do it.
“You won’t be gone forever, right?” You ask, voice small.
Lando slips an arm around your shoulders, pulling you further into his side. You melt into the warmth, drawing in a breath to commit his smell to memory, your head resting on his shoulder like it belongs there.
“Of course not. We don’t even race every weekend. I’ll be back as often as I can.” Lando squeezes your shoulder, pressing his lips to the crown of your hair.
The affection isn’t new between you but for some reason, the casual brush of his mouth against your body sends shivers down your spine. It’s always been easy between you two, the touch of his body against yours usually doesn’t even phase you. You seek it out as naturally as breathing but tonight, tonight it feels different. Heavier. More meaningful.
“I’m going to miss you.”
Lando hooks his finger underneath your chin, pulling your gaze up to meet his. “And I’m going to miss you too, bug but it won’t be forever and it’s not like I’m going to forget about you. I’ll call you whenever I can.”
Tears sting at the corner of your eyes, “You swear?”
Grabbing your pinky finger with his, he hooks them together.
“Pinky promise, swear.” He says seriously, eyes searching yours. “That’s like a double promise that can’t be broken.”
The air shifts then, something heavy with anticipation hanging between your bodies. Outside, the crickets chirp in the late summer twilight. You can just barely see the lights from Lando’s house over the hill behind the treehouse as the sun finishes its nightly journey below the horizon.
Lando’s gaze flickers to your lips, just briefly, so quickly that you almost miss it but it’s there. Your breath catches in the back of your throat at the way he’s looking at you, a foreign heat stoking low in your belly. Your mouth is just centimeters away from his now, all it would take was the slightest of movements for your lips to cover his.
It was a line that you’d never crossed, something that neither of you had been willing to risk. At sixteen, there was no way you wanted to put your friendship in jeopardy for the possibility of ‘what if it works’ but tonight? Tonight feels different. Like if you don’t do something about the electricity between you that’s always simmered just below the surface, you’ll miss out on something bigger.
“Lan…” You breathe when his fingers brush at a lock of hair that falls across your forehead.
“Yeah?” His breath fans out across your cheek as his hand frames your face.
This is so dangerous, your heart screams. So dangerously close to crossing a line that neither of you had ever dared to do before.
“I…”
“Lando! You up there?” Lando’s older brother Oliver’s voice shatters the moment and you practically leap out of your skin, hand pressed to your heart.
Lando shoves a hand through his curls, blowing out a breath as he stares at you. You blink slowly, shaking your head as you attempt to calm the hammering of your pulse.
“Yeah, I’m up here.” He calls back, eyes not leaving yours.
“Mum wants you to come and make sure you’re all packed, yeah? She says if you forget anything tomorrow she’s not sending it to you in the post!”
What had nearly just happened settles between you and Lando, the almost of what could have been a disaster or a new beginning teetering delicately in the dim treehouse.
“Alright! I’ll be right down.”
You can hear the shuffle of Oliver’s feet as he retreats back towards their house.
Quiet settles heavily in the treehouse as you pick at a hangnail, not quite sure where to go from here.
“I should go make sure I’ve got everything but I’ll stop by before we leave in the morning?”
You grin, shoving aside the tangle of emotions that whirl around anxiously in your stomach. You weren’t going to let anything destroy the moment, even if you wanted nothing more than to talk about what had just passed between you and Lando. It was too dangerous and he was leaving in less than twelve hours. You were too young and the distance wouldn’t help. Nothing about the two of you together as more than friends made sense and you knew it.
You decide then and there that nothing was worth the risk of losing your best friend so you were going to pretend nothing had happened just now.
“You’d better, you muppet.” You say, voice falsely light considering the circumstances.
Lando smiles and you swear you see a hint of sadness in his gaze as he stands. “G’night ladybug.”
You roll your eyes, huffing a laugh as you watch your best friend clamber down the rope ladder, wondering if you just missed the only opportunity you’d ever have with the boy you’d been in love with for nearly your entire life.
You weren’t quite sure how you managed, but over the next two years the distance didn’t do much to deminish your friendship with Lando. It was a little more distant than you would have liked and you both branched out into friendship circles that didn’t revolve around each other for the first time in your life, but for the most part, you and Lando were still as intertwined as you could be.
It was easy to do when he was home often those first two years and you’d managed to convince your parents to spend some weekends with the Norris family during races that were closer to you.
Things began to shift the fall you turned eighteen though. Lando was in the middle of his first year of Formula 2, his road to competing in Formula 1 opening up like he’d always dreamed. If he managed to perform over the next few seasons, everyone knew he might be one of the next tapped to take a seat on the grid in the pinnacle of his sport.
With that increased competitive drive came increased pressure and you noticed him becoming a little more distant as time went on. It certainly didn’t help that you’d moved to London to go to university, your life suddenly packed with study sessions, club activities, and roommate dinners. You hated when it happened, but it became more and more common that you’d miss a FaceTime here and he’d miss a text there. You hated it and so did Lando but it was just the nature of where your lives were at the moment.
There was one exception to this: your birthdays. Your birthday was exactly twelve days after Lando’s and for as long as you could remember, you’d celebrated them together. One time, when you were turning eleven, your mother had asked if you wanted to do a special birthday trip to London with just a few girlfriends (emphasis on girl), complete with a no budget shopping spree and you’d turned it down because Lando hadn’t been included.
It took a some extra coordination and a late night flight from Italy to London on Lando’s part but you two did end up celebrating turning eighteen together the weekend of your birthday. You’d planned the entire thing with your two flatmates from university and Lando invited Max Fewtrell and a few other racing friends into town as well.
The pub was loud, your dress was sinfully short, and your heels much too high to be walking around for longer than fifteen minutes. By the time your group spilled out onto the sidewalk well after midnight, your feet were aching and your head was buzzing with a few too many drinks.
“Lan.” You whine, leaning heavily into his side. “My feet hurt.”
Lando chuckles, wrapping a steadying arm around your waist. He’d stopped drinking several hours ago, around the time you’d ordered your fourth drink. He didn’t like the idea of you being drunk without someone there to make sure you didn’t wander off.
“I tried to warn you off those stilts, love.” He says casually, steadying you as you trip over something invisible in the middle of the sidewalk.
“But I wanted to look pretty tonight.” You argue.
Your friends swarm around you, all in various states of inebriation, as you make your way back towards your flat. The pubs are just starting to get a little rowdy on a warm Saturday night but you were ready to call it quits, the alcohol making your head swim.
“You always look pretty, no matter what shoes you wear.” Lando tells you, somewhat brave with his confession. He figures you won’t remember what he says in the morning anyway.
He was wrong.
You stop dead in your tracks in the middle of the sidewalk, pout still prominent on your face. Everyone else in your little group filters around you, rolling their eyes at your antics. It’s only Lando that stops for you.
Your gaze swings over to his and Lando knows he’s in trouble.
“Carry me?” You whine.
Lando rolls his eyes, hands on his hips as you pout up at him. Both of you know he’s utterly powerless against it.
From the corner of the street, someone yells your name. “Oi! Get a move on you two!”
“I can’t walk another block, Lan.”
Lando blows out a breath, shaking his head. “Will you promise to listen to me next time we go out and not wear those damn shoes?”
You shrug, “I make no promises.”
“Of course not, you muppet.” Lando turns around and holds his arms out to his side, “Come on then, I’ll give you a piggy back ride back, but only because your flat is two blocks up the road and everyone else has left us.”
Both of you know he would’ve carried you back ten blocks if that’s what you needed.
You jump onto his back, squealing when he stumbles a bit, your shoes dangling from your finger tips. Lando tries not to show how being this close to you affects him, tries to give off the annoyed but affectionate best friend vibes but isn’t sure how good of a job he’s doing. Having you so close to him, your nose buried in the crook of his neck, is making it very hard to concentrate on anything other than the fact that his hands are curled around your bare thighs and you smell like lavender and honeysuckle.
He’s not quite sure how he manages it, but Lando successfully gets you the last two blocks without dropping you on the concrete and suddenly, you’re tumbling into your flat behind the rest of your friends. Everyone is in various states of inebriation but you’re almost asleep, nose tucked behind Lando’s ear.
“I’m sleepy.” You murmur into his skin and Lando does his best to suppress a shiver.
“I’ll take you to bed then, sweetheart.”
Your bedroom is dark when Lando swings the door open but he manages to knock the light on with his elbow. You’re still attached to his back like a baby koala. The moment he shuts the door behind you, you’re slipping out of his grasp and something in Lando’s chest aches at the loss of contact. Still quite drunk, you wobble over to the bed where you flop down on the edge, staring up at Lando with wide eyes.
“Thank you for making sure I got home safe.” You say, breathless.
A small smily tugs at the corner of his lips as he tucks a stray hair behind your ear, “Always, bug.”
His hand lingers on your cheek and you find yourself leaning into the warmth of his touch. Everything is still a little fuzzy, your entire body feeling heavy and sluggish.
“Do you want to change into something comfier before going to sleep?”
You nod, but the room spins when you go to stand up. Lando catches your elbows when you teeter to the side, “Woah, okay. You drank more than I thought you did.”
“It’s my birthday!” You argue.
Lando chuckles, guiding you back down onto the bed. “I know, I know. It’s fine, I’m not scolding you. Let me get you some clothes and we’ll get you ready for bed.”
You lay back on your bed, the soft sheets beneath your body feeling like the best thing in the entire world. “You always take such good care of me, Lando.” You say, absentmindedly as you watch Lando shuffle through your closet.
He turns to you, one of his old karting shirts in his hands. “Of course I do, you’re my best friend.”
The way he says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the entire world has something in your chest squeezing.
“Always?”
Lando nods, handing you the shirt and a pair of shots. “Always. Now, you get changed and I’ll be right back with some water and pain killers. You’re going to have a killer hangover in the morning.”
By some miracle, you do manage to get yourself changed without falling over and bumping your head and by the time Lando is slipping through the door a few minutes later, you’ve tucked yourself into your bed, your eyelids heavy with sleep already. Setting the glass by your table, Lando leans over you to make sure you take the pills in his hands before taking a step back.
“Will you stay with me?” You ask, voice raspy and soft in a way that completely disarms Lando. “Please?”
He knows he shouldn’t. He knows that staying with you in the same bed is a dangerous game but he also knows he can’t say no to you. “Anything for you.” He confesses quietly, hoping for the second time that night that you’ll forget his words once you sober up.
You don’t.
Sharing a bed with you isn’t anything new but as you’ve grown older, there has always been that line drawn between you. A line that, for some reason, feels a little more blurry tonight than it ever has. Maybe it’s the alcohol. Or the fact that you haven’t seen your best friend in what feels like a lifetime, but when he slips underneath the covers that night, you curl into his warmth without a second thought.
“You’ll be here when I wake up?” You ask as Lando clicks off the light on the table beside him, your legs tangling with his.
Lando hooks a finger underneath your chin, pulling your gaze up to his. In the dim light of the moonlight that spills in through cracks in your curtains, he looks down at you. You can’t really read his expression but it’s a look that you’ve never seen Lando give you before. Like he’s painfully torn between doing something incredibly stupid and being wildly reckless with his words.
Your breath catches when Lando’s eyes dip down to look at your lips for a fraction of a second.
“Of course I will be, ladybug.” He murmurs, his breath warm against your cheek.
For one single, desperate, lingering moment you think your best friend is about to kiss you.
Your entire existence narrows down to the way Lando is looking at you, the way his fingers curl underneath your chin, the way his legs pull you closer to him.
The moment hangs, suspended between you, waiting to see if either of you have the courage to make the final move. Your eyes lock with his, pupils blowing wide as he strokes his thumb over your bottom lip.
Alarm bells ring in Lando’s head. He couldn’t do this. Not tonight. Not like this. You were drunk and he wasn’t going to make a move on you while you were this vulnerable, no matter how badly he wanted to cross that line tonight. You were his best friend and there was no way he was going to allow anything to happen tonight. He had to regain control over the situation and quickly.
“You should get some sleep.” Lando breaks the spell, the tension popping like a soap bubble.
You blink, telling yourself that you’ve misread the situation in your drunken haze. You were being silly, you told yourself as you smiled sheepishly over at your best friend. Why on earth would Lando want to kiss you of all people anyway?
“G’night Lan.” You whisper as he pulls you deeper into his chest.
Tears streak down your cheeks as you furiously swipe at them with the sleeve of the sweatshirt you have on. You gasp against the crushing weight of another bad breakup that’s left you devastated and reeling.
“What the hell do you mean he said you weren’t good enough for him?” Lando growls, dropping down next to you on the couch of your London flat.
You’re twenty-one now, moved out of your university apartment and in a tiny flat that you pay rent for all by yourself with your salary from your first big girl job you had in London. By a sheer stroke of luck, it’s an off weekend for Lando and he just happened to be in Woking at the MTC doing some sim work. You’d called him, sobbing so hard you’d barely been able to get words out just a few hours ago and he’d dropped everything the moment he’d heard the words ‘he broke up with me’.
“He said that I didn’t have a good enough pedigree and his family would never accept me!”
Lando scowls, pouring you another glass of the cheap red wine that was the only alcohol you had in your flat. “Pedigree? What is he, a dog breeder?”
You laugh wetly, shaking your head. “Stop making me laugh.”
“I’m being serious! What kind of asshole says that you don’t have enough inbreeding in your family tree to be considered blue blood? What is he, a Duke?”
You’d been dating Christopher for just over a year after being introduced through work. You’d been working as an intern on the home remodel his grandmother had commissioned for her country home in the outskirts of the city. It had caused a bit of a stir at first, the architecture intern dating the client’s grandson and all, but you had insisted on waiting to get serious until after the project had been completed.
Lando had tolerated the stuffy, uptight trust fund baby for one reason only: your happiness. He’d seen straight through the scum bag’s facade the moment he’d met him one night when you’d brought Christopher to Monaco for a race weekend. But Lando knew you, knew you had a stubborn streak a mile wide and he knew he was going to have to wait until that idiot showed his true colors. It had taken much too long for his liking, but sure enough, Christopher had outdone himself with this one.
“His grandmother is a Contessa.” You say weakly, taking a long gulp of wine.
Lando rolls his eyes and scoffs.
“I never liked him anyway.” He mutters, reaching out an arm to pull you into his side.
He hated seeing you this upset, even if it meant that Christopher was finally out of your life and he never had to see the stuck up brat ever again.
Your head falls into the crook of his shoulder and he drags in a deep breath, the scent of your perfume grounding him. Lando had felt like he’d been losing you lately, like you didn’t need him anymore. He was, admittedly, busier than ever in his third season in Formula 1, racing around the world for a good stretch of the year. You were in the city, starting your job at an exclusive boutique architecture firm working hours that made even him wince. The distance hadn’t been easy but something loosened in his chest knowing that he had been your first call tonight.
“I thought maybe he was it for me.” You say softly, resigned.
Lando’s chest seizes for a reason he refuses to examine. You were his best friend, nothing more. He didn’t own you or your affection and it was something that he’d steadfastly made sure he kept in the front of his mind for years now. Your friendship mattered too much to him for Lando to risk everything.
“Anyone who doesn’t think you’re good enough to give his last name to isn’t worth your time.”
You knew Lando was right. Knew that it would have never worked out with Christopher. In the dim golden lighting of your living room you nearly tell him as much. You nearly tell him your deepest secret, the secret that you’ve kept from him for nearly your entire life now. You nearly tell him that the reason that you and Christopher would’ve never worked, that the reason that no one ever seemed to last longer than a few months in your life was because of him.
You nearly tell him that the reason that you can’t find anyone good enough is because you compare everyone else to him and no one has ever come close to measuring up to Lando.
Instead you just sigh and nod your head.
A comfortable silence settles like a blanket over your living room then. You’ve had your fill of crying and Lando is content to just be there with you, the quiet something that he doesn’t get much of lately.
“What if it’s me?” You ask into the stillness, almost afraid to venture down the road of ‘what if’. “What if I’m the problem and that’s why no one wants to stick around? Because I’m not worth all the trouble.”
Lando shifts then, turning around so he can fully face you. You’re startled at the fierce look on his face when he lifts your chin to look up at him. His brows are drawn tight and he’s frowning at you.
“Listen, I’m all about self-reflection and learning from your mistakes, bug but that? That is just insane behavior. You are not the problem, you hear me? You are the prize and the man that ends up with you…” Lando pauses then, throat tightening.
The thought of someone coming into your life and sweeping you off of your feet completely is repugnant, churning his stomach.
He clears his throat, pressing on as you stare at him with wide eyes. “The man who ends up with you is going to be the one dating out of his league.”
You narrow your eyes, the buzz from the alcohol you’ve had making you brave. “You’re just saying that because you’re my best friend. You have to.”
I’m saying that because I love you, he nearly says but the words stick behind his teeth.
He swallows thickly, courage failing him. You were in a vulnerable state, Lando knew that. He didn’t want to take advantage of that. But he doesn’t miss the way you lean into him, bringing your face closer to his. The way the heat of your body presses into his own, your touch searing hotly into his skin.
Lando watches, utterly helpless, as your tongue darts out to wet your lips, his eyes mesmerized. All it would take was a slight shift of his body and he’d be there, his mouth on yours. It was just like the night when you were sixteen together in the treehouse, the possibility of crossing that line dangling between you.
A sharp knock sends your heart rate skyrocketing. Lando leaps off of the couch like it’s on fire and you’re left with a dizzy head and aching heart.
Had that just happened? Had you nearly just kissed your best friend? Had you nearly ruined everything?
“Dinner’s here.” Lando says, voice falsely bright. “I’ll uhh…” He falters. “I’ll get the door.”
You run your hand through your hair as you finish the last of your wine, trying to put yourself together before Lando returned from your front door.
“Thanks, Lan.” Is all you can manage.
Music floated through the open windows of the old treehouse as crickets chirped in the meadow that surrounded the aging hideaway. From your spot on little covered porch, with your feet swinging down over the edge, you can see the fairy lights strung across your backyard, glimmers of the lights from the large white tent shimmering at you from across the lawn.
You’d been going since 6am that morning, your job as your older sister’s maid of honor today requiring you to be up before anyone else. It was a role you took seriously, making sure that your sister would have the most flawless wedding day possible but it was also a role that had drained a lot out of you as well.
Despite being endlessly happy that your sister had found her other half, it was also a stark reminder that since your breakup with Christopher two years ago, you hadn’t dated anyone seriously. There had been first dates, of course. Even a few second and third dates but beyond that, it just didn’t seem like there was anyone that fit you like you felt you deserved.
You knew why. Of course you knew why but you refused to put words to the reason why no one else measured up to that idea of who you wanted to spend your life with. It was just not an option, as much as you wanted it to be. Lando was never going to be an option for you so you’d resigned yourself a long time ago to the fact that you were going to have to find someone ‘close enough’.
Leaning your head against the railing beside you, you watch a figure approach from over the hill. You know who it is even before you see the details of his sharply tailored suit. Silhouetted against the twilight, Lando’s smooth gait is easy enough to identify from a mile away. You’d recognize those curls anywhere too.
When he gets closer, you can see the look of concern etched on his face as he shoves his hands deeper into his pockets.
“I thought I’d find you here.” He calls when he reaches the trunk of the old oak tree.
“I needed to take a breather from all of the noise.” You say, smiling as you watch him start to scale the rope ladder.
Lando grunts, focusing on making sure he doesn’t rip the expensive Ralph Lauren suit that he was wearing. “How in the bloody hell did you get up here in that dress?”
You laugh, brushing at the sage green skirt that pools around your ankles. “I used to climb these trees in dresses all the time when we were little.”
Lando drops down next to you, dangling his feet over the edge just like you. His shoulder brushes yours in a casual way that has your chest aching. It had been several months since you’d seen your best friend and his presence has you feeling a little unsettled. Like you didn’t quite remember how to act around him because you’d gotten so out of practice at pretending you weren’t helplessly in love with him.
“So what’s really wrong?” Lando asks, voice low.
You blink over at him, caught off guard at how well he was still able to read you, even after spending most of the last two years apart. He was busy driving full time in Formula One still and having his best year yet, with a fast car and the experience of several years under his belt. It didn’t leave much time for things like old friendships and casual hangouts.
“What makes you think there’s something wrong?”
Lando quirks a brow at you, as if to say ‘are you really asking me that?’
You huff, “I hate how well you read me.”
Lando bumps your shoulder. “I’ve known you for too long to do anything but read you like a book, bug.”
He pauses for a moment and then reaches out his pinky finger to hook it around your own. The touch should be be causal, should feel like a friend reaching out to comfort another friend and nothing more but to you it feels like everything.
“C’mon, you can talk to me.” He pushes. “What’s going on in that pretty brain of yours?”
Your heart squeezes.
“Do you ever wonder if someone forgot you when they assigned us all soulmates? Like maybe you’re not meant to have someone to spend your life with?”
“No.” Lando says without hesitation.
The confidence in his answer has you arching a brow at him, a silent invitation for more context.
An invitation that Lando ignores.
“I’m just saying,” You start, shaking your head. “Sometimes it feels like everyone else has found their person and that I’m just…going to end up being the one friend who is always the third wheel.”
Lando looks at you for a long moment, as if he’s trying to come up with the right words for the situation. You shift, a little uncomfortable with how he’s looking at you in the dim light. Like he’s looking straight into your soul, watching the gears turn in your head as you figure out how to accept you’ll never be able to tell him how you actually feel.
“You are absolutely insane if you think you’re not going to find your person, ladybug.” Lando insists as he snakes an arm around your waist so he can pull you closer.
You allow yourself to melt into his side, your head falling onto his shoulder. “Then why am I still struggling to make it past the first date with anyone who even shows the mildest interest in me?”
Lando tilts his head so it’s resting on yours and pulls you closer. He hated seeing you like this, so unsure of yourself when all he could see were the reasons why anyone would fall in love with you. It was stupid how deeply he was in love with you and it scared him that he could lose you if you didn’t feel the same way.
“Maybe you’ve already met them and they just haven’t figured out how to tell you.” He murmurs, the tips of his fingers flexing on your hip.
This was as close as he was willing to go with a confession and even now, as the words left his mouth, his heart thundered with how terrified he felt.
You tilt your head to get a better look at his face, the stubble that dusts his jaw catching your eye. He’d changed so much since you’d first met him all those years ago when you were basically babies but the one thing that hadn’t changed was the way Lando looked at you. Like you were everything to him, like he’d do anything to make sure you were happy. Not for the first time in your life, you wondered if that person he was talking about was him.
Did he feel like that about you? Was this whole ‘unrequited love’ you were sure you felt for him not so unrequited after all? Your gaze drops to his lips when his tongue darts out. They bounce back up to the where he’s still looking at you, like he has words stuck behind his teeth that he wants to say but is afraid to put it out into the world because then it would be real.
Lifting his free hand, Lando cradles your face, grinning when you lean into his touch. The moment shimmers, the air between you thickening with all those years of unsaid confessions and almost moments. That time back when you were sixteen, in this very treehouse, flickers in the back of your mind. How you’d been so very close to crossing that line. It had felt stupid then, like you were risking too much with the ‘what if it works?’ But now, a few years on, maybe you could make it work.
“Lando…” You murmur as you lean just a fraction closer to him. “I…”
“There you two are!” Just like all those years ago, Oliver’s voice rings out from across the lawn.
Lando drops his hand from your face like he’s been burned, your hand flying to your throat as you nearly jump out of your skin.
“Your sister sent me to find you! It’s nearly time for the cake cutting!” Oliver stands underneath the treehouse, hands on his hips as he looks up at you and Lando.
You nod, swallowing down the almost for what felt like the fiftieth time of your life. “We’ll be right there, Oliver!”
Lando is already scrambling to his feet, offering a hand out to you to help you off the ground. “Think I’ll catch the garter?” He jokes, running a hand through his hair as he follows you towards the rope ladder.
You just laugh, shaking your head, because you don’t trust your voice not to waver with the emotions that are burning your throat.
“Monaco, baby! Yeah!” Lando’s shouts play over your headset in the viewing area above the track.
Tears stream down your face as you’re sandwiched between Adam and Cisca, face tipped up towards the tv screen that plays footage of Lando’s cool down lap.
Monaco. He’d just won Monaco and you had been there for it. The 2025 season was shaping up to be one of your best friend’s most successful and struggle filled season he’d had since joining the grid and for that reason, you’d made a conscious effort to go to more races this year. You’d been to the season opener in Australia as well as China thanks to your job’s flexible work from anywhere policy. Now you were here in Monaco, watching him win the one race, besides Silverstone, that had been in Lando’s sights since he’d started racing.
You knew how much this meant to him and as you followed Cisca and Adam out to the the crowded front straight, Monaco’s strange podium procedures making you anxious with the close quarters, the tears didn’t stop.
Watching him get out of the car, get interviewed by one of his childhood heroes in Jenson Button, and then accept the trophy from the Prince felt like a dream that day. He’d put together a dream of a qualifying lap, snatching pole away from Charles in the closing seconds of quali the day before. He’d been anxious that morning as he’d watched you get ready. You were the only one allowed to stay with him the night before. Lando had assigned you the guest bedroom in his apartment before anyone else had a chance to argue.
He’d reasoned that your trip had been last minute and there had been no other hotel options for you that weren’t going to charge you an outrageous amount and no one argued with him because everyone else saw what the two of you refused to. The reality of it was that he just wanted you close. Something about being around you when he felt like everything else was out of control and too loud made him feel like there was potential for this season to turn out the way he wanted it too.
You’d worried that morning that he’d let the nerves get to him, like he was somewhat prone to do. He had sat on the counter next to you in the bathroom while you’d put on your makeup, rambling about lap times and tire strategy, fuel loads and battery deployment. You’d just let him do his thing, knowing that he needed somewhere to put the anxiety that was burning a hole in his chest.
Staring up at him on the podium all those hours later, the look of relief and joy etched onto his face as he sprayed the team with champagne, you knew that there wasn’t a trace of anxiety left in him. Cisca held your hand as you both watched him from the concrete below, tears in both of your eyes. It was an out of body experience watching your best friend live out the dream you used to talk about tucked away in sleeping bags late at night under the stars in your treehouse.
It’s not until hours later that Lando comes stumbling back into his apartment, with you by his side. There had been press and interviews and then the Prince’s ball, endless hours of watching him light up the room the moment he entered. It was like watching a comet burn brightly across the night sky, mesmerizing and awe-inspiring.
“I think I could sleep for days.” Lando says, speech slightly slurred from all of the champagne he’d consumes.
You laugh, tossing your bag onto the counter before following Lando into his bedroom. “I think you’ve earned it.”
Shucking out of his jacket, Lando tosses it over a chair before falling face first onto his mattress. You follow suit, collapsing down beside him. The pins from your hair stick into your skull painfully but you’re so tired from the day you can barely keep your eyes open.
“Thank you for being there today.” He says quietly after a few moments.
You tilt your head to the side to find Lando looking at you, a soft expression on his face. “I never miss Monaco.”
“I know but after the last few races and how much I’ve been struggling, it just felt like you being here was a good omen. I feel like I do better when you’re with me for the weekend.”
Reaching out, you run your fingers through his messy curls, grinning when he closes his eyes. “Sounds like I should just quit my job and become your full-time good luck charm.” You tease.
Lando rolls onto his side. “Your mum would ring my neck.” He says as he reaches out to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear.
“You know that’s a lie. She loves you more than all of her children combined.” Rolling your eyes, you shift onto your back, sinking deeper into the mattress.
For a several moments, Lando goes silent. You almost think that he’s fallen asleep, he’s gone so still. His breathing evens out and when you dare a look out of the corner of your eye, you’re surprised to see he’s actually just looking at you. It’s a look you almost recognize, it’s something you’ve seen from him before. It’s the kind of unguarded expression he only allows himself to have when he thinks you’re not looking. Like he’s seeing the real you that only he gets the privilege to see.
“You’re staring.” You mutter, eyes fluttering closed.
“How can I not?” He replies, voice hoarse.
It sends shivers down your spine.
“Stop.” You huff, refusing to acknowledge how much you like it when Lando looks at you.
“What if I don’t want to?” He pushes, trailing his fingertips up your bare arm. “What if I like looking at you too much to stop. That dress on you is…I couldn’t keep my eyes off of you all night and I wasn’t the only one, bug.”
Lando leans forward, face dangerously close to yours. You can see the flecks of gold in his eyes, how they spark when they look at you. You’d noticed his gaze tracking you all night, the way he had looked at you sending fire licking down your spine. It was a feeling you didn’t often allow yourself to indulge in. The ‘what ifs’ were dangerous because if you thought about them too much, you started to believe it could work. That you could make it work with him and that was scary, something that you didn’t want to risk.
Alarm bells sound in your head. This is too close, too much. You can’t risk the lifelong friendship that is the glue that keeps you two together. You couldn’t bare losing Lando if it didn’t work out romantically between you. You’d decided years ago that this was all that you’d ever ask for from Lando, that friendship was the safest option and anything else was too risky.
You sit up, pulling away form his advances, “Lan, you don’t know what you’re saying. You’ve been drinking and you’re exhausted. You should go to bed, get some sleep.”
Lando blinks, watching as you retreat from him across the room. He swallows thickly, unsure if he should push against the rejection because both of you know full well that there is something more between you two. There always has but you’ve both always been too scared to put words to it.
Tonight had felt different though. At least to him. You’d sat next to him at dinner, gotten photographed with him willingly after the race, sat between his parents. Usually you hated being recognized or connected to him, insisting that you weren’t meant for the spotlight. He knew you hated it so he always respected it, never pushed. So he had been excited that you’d allowed yourself to be so public with him.
Maybe he had been wrong.
“Is that what you want?” He asks roughly, sitting up as you lean against the door frame.
“I want to take a shower and then go to sleep.” You say stiffly, shutting down any further discussion.
Lando’s stomach churns, anxiety sitting heavy on his chest. He thought you’d been ready to see what had been going on between you for years but he’d misread the situation apparently and had seemingly pushed you further away.
“Okay, bug. Go take a shower. I’ll be here when you’re done.” He says, shaking his head a bit.
If you needed patience, he’d give it to you. If you needed space, he’d give it to you. But that night after Monaco, something shifted in Lando’s chest. He just had to figure out how to get you to accept that you were as in love with him as he was with you. And that was going to take some time, he realized now.
You palm at the back of your neck, “Okay.”
Something shifts after Monaco.
You try pulling back, too scared to face the intimacy that felt so real when Lando had looked at you that night. To his credit, Lando allowed you your space but didn’t go too far. He knew you better than he knew himself and that meant knowing you just needed Tim to wrap your head around what was finally happening after a lifetime of avoiding it.
You fill your time with work, throwing yourself into projects that require your attention with more fervor than ever before. You get to the office early, even on days that you would normally just work from your office in your flat. You stay at the office late too, ignoring the concerned looks of your coworkers.
Everyone can tell that there’s something wrong, something you’re avoiding but whenever anyone asks you about it you just pull that happy mask in place and tell them you just have a lot of work to get done and that everything is just fine.
You try your best to avoid being alone with Lando, something that feels so wrong deep down in your soul that it starts to physically make you sick. Abandoning him completely just isn’t an option though, no matter how scared of the truth of what is happening between you and your best friend you are. You attend almost all of the European races, are there for his heartbreaking DNF in Zandvoort, call him the moment you see the headline of the double DSQ after Vegas. You’re there for him the best you can while you try to figure out what the hell is going on in your head.
The last almost kiss you had after his win in Monaco plays in your head on repeat late at night, when you should be asleep. The way he’d looked at you. The way you’d liked how he’d looked at you. The way your stomach had clenched at the thought of him crossing that line once and for all. What would it mean for your friendship? What if it ruined everything? What if it made things weird and you lost the most important person in your life all over one stupid kiss?
Was that something you wanted to risk?
You spend the rest of the season asking yourself those questions over and over, deciding that until you knew the answers, you needed to make sure you didn’t let another ‘almost’ kiss happen.
That didn’t stop you from being in Abu Dhabi for the last race of the season though. You wouldn’t have missed that for the world, with the championship coming down to the wire. You wanted to be there no matter the outcome, knowing that Lando would need to lean on you if the worst cast scenario came true and he ended up losing to Max or Oscar.
You sit between Cisca and Flo that evening, your heart in your throat the entire time. Lando loses a place to Oscar right off the bat, falling down to third with Charles breathing down his neck the entire time. If Charles manages to pass him, if he finishes lower than the spot that he was right now, everything would come crashing down.
“I’m going to be sick.” You mutter as the crew prepares for Lando’s pitstop.
Beside you, Flo simply nods, and you know she feels like she’s going to throw up too. You can feel Oliver and the younger Cisca behind you, their anxious energy sparking in the tension filled garage.
“He’s got this.” Cisca reaches for your hand, giving it a squeeze.
You admired her positivity.
It wasn’t that you didn’t believe in your best friend. You knew that if anyone could pull off this championship comeback and win, it was Lando. What you didn’t believe in was everyone else’s ability to behave and help him win. It sometimes felt like Lando had the absolute worst luck on the grid and you just kept waiting for the other shoe to drop.
The rest of the race passes by sluggishly, your anxiety and heart rate at an all-time high the entire time. Much to your relief, Lando manages to hold a steady distance between the Ferrari and himself the entire race. Max is out front with a commanding lead but it isn’t enough to make a difference in the overall championship.
The tears start when Lando begins his last lap.
You’re almost too afraid to breathe, as if the smallest shift in the universe might tip it in someone else’s favor. Your heart hammers so thunderously against your ribcage, you wonder if anyone else can hear it. He comes around the last corner, radio silent, and then he’s hurtling down the last straight towards the checkered flag. Max has already taken P1 and Oscar is in second but there’s no time left for Charles to attempt a last second bid for that third place.
Lando crosses the line in third, just enough to take the championship.
Cisca throws her arms around your neck as you all sob together, the weight of what Lando had just done crashing down on everyone in the garage. He’d overcome all of the bad luck, the mistakes, the challenges and stayed consistent enough to pull off one of the most impressive comebacks that anyone had witnessed in a long time.
There’s a flurry of confusion and activity as everyone makes their way to where Lando’s car sits on the main front stretch. It seems as if all normal post-race procedures have been forgotten as normally the access to park ferme is closely monitored and everyone kept behind the barriers so that no one can get close to the car.
You watch, standing between Cisca and Flo, as Lando hoists himself out of the car. He keeps his helmet on and you know that it’s because he’s crying. Lando has been accused of being too emotional his entire career and you know that he doesn’t want to cry in front of everyone, despite the fact that not a single person who mattered would fault him for it.
Finally, Lando takes his helmet off and your suspicions are confirmed. His eyes are red rimmed and watery, streaks of tears tracking down his cheeks. His eyes are wild, scanning the crowd. He sees Adam first and runs over to throw his arms around his father’s neck, burying his head in the crook of his neck.
You stand behind all of his siblings, not wanting to intrude on this precious memory that they all will have for the rest of their lives. You know better than most how much the entire Norris family has sacrificed to put Lando in this spot tonight. It meant more to you than anything else to allow them to have their moment.
The noise of the crowd around you drowns out anything that Lando is saying to his family but suddenly, all you see are his eyes on you. His grin stretches wide across his face, bright as the sun, as he starts towards you. Zak is calling for him somewhere, David Couthard was waiting for him to give a post-race interview but judging by the look on Lando’s face, that was all going to have to wait because he was walking straight towards you.
Out of the corner of your eye, you see a knowing smile cross Cisca’s face as her gaze darts between you and Lando. Adam shares the same look with Oliver, both of them grinning like idiots at what they can feel is about to happen.
Lando is in front of you in just a few strides, his helmet clattering to the ground so he can scoop you up in his arms. You hear yourself laughing, tipping your head back as he spins you around.
“Put me down!” You cry, locking your arms around his neck so he doesn’t drop you.
Surprisingly, he obeys but his arms stay locked solidly around your waist, pulling you close. “I am so glad you’re here for this.” He says in your ear, quiet enough for it to only be heard by you.
You beam up at him, tears still flowing. “I am so proud of you.”
The entire crowd seems to hush around you, disappearing in an instant when you see the way Lando is looking at you, like you’ve hung the stars in the sky and are solely responsible for the sun rising every morning.
“I’m going to kiss you now.” Lando murmurs as he lifts a hand to frame your face.
You don’t have a moment to process what your best friend has just said, the moment completely overwhelming you. All you can do is nod because the next thing you know, Lando is kissing you. It’s warm, familiar, hungry in all the ways you’ve ever dreamed of. His lips are a little chapped but none of that matters as his mouth devours yours, slow at first like he’s testing the waters. Like nothing else matters, that there aren’t six cameras shoved in his face and thousands of people cheering his name. Like it’s just you and him, alone in the world and all that matters was that he kissed you then and there.
You freeze for half a breath, caught off guard at what’s happening. When your brain finally catches up, your hands fist at the collar of his race suit, pulling him closer as you lean into his kiss. You can feel Lando smiling against your mouth, the waves of relief rolling off of him that you’re actually kissing him back. He’s warm and feels like home, familiar and safe in all the ways that matter the most. It feels like the final piece of your soul slots into place, like you’d been incomplete for the entirety of your life up until this very moment.
All of your fears, the lifetime you’d spent holding him at arms length, fizzles away when his tongue sweeps into your mouth. It feels so natural, like kissing Lando was what your body was meant to do from the moment you were put on this earth. It baffles you as you lean into his warmth, his mouth pressing firmly into yours with a hunger that has your stomach clenching, how you’d been so resistant to his advances over the years. You knew the moment his lips touched yours that you were insane for thinking that being anything other than just friends would ruin you.
The way he’s holding you has you completely dizzy, the kiss you’d been dreaming of since you were in your teens finally happening in front of the entire world. All around you, people cheer and shout at the way Lando is publicly claiming you. Flashes pop and cameras click, trying to capture the moment that everyone will want a piece of.
When Lando finally pulls away, his chest heaving and your lips swollen, he’s smiling so wide his eyes crinkle at the corners.
“Hi.” He laughs as he brushes his thumb over your bottom lip.
You laugh, bright and loud as the entire world seems to disappear around you. “Hi.”
“I’ve been wanting to do that since we were sixteen.” Lando says, ignoring the camera that has been shoved in your faces.
“I know.” You manage, your brain still fuzzy with affection after the way he’d just kissed you. “That was the best first kiss I’ve ever had.”
“Good, because there’s going to be plenty more from where that came from because now that I’ve had one, I’m never letting you go.”
“You’ve always had me, Lan. Always.” You stand on your tiptoes to press another kiss to his cheek before taking a step back. “But I think there are a few other people that need to talk to you now. I can’t monopolize your time any more.”
Lando laughs, reaching out to pull you back to him, his hand resting solidly on your hip, “One more and then I’ll let you go. For now.”
You stand on your tip toes, pressing a kiss onto his lips. This one feels more grounded, more comfortable, like this was supposed to happen lifetimes ago and you both knew that you’d spend the rest of your lives making up for lost time. It’s warm and rich and you feel Lando lean into your body, like he’s relieved that he has a soft place to land. You’re that soft place, you realize as Lando raises your chin up with the tips of his fingers. You’ve always been his soft place, his home, his safety net and he’s always been yours. It just took you a little longer than it should have for the both of you to realize what that meant.
“Lando, we really need you for media duties.” Andrea tries his luck at pulling Lando’s attention away from you this time. “You can come right back to her when you’re done, but everyone is getting antsy.”
You pull back first, knowing that Lando fully intended on ignoring the McLaren boss. “I think you have a trophy to go collect, you muppet.”
Lando rolls his eyes, “How inconvenient. I finally get the guts to kiss the love of my life and I have to leave right away.”
You can’t help the giggle that escapes, swatting at his shoulder, “Go! We’ll have plenty of time after.”
Lando shakes his head but takes a step away from you, “Fine. But don’t go far, okay?”
You snag your bottom lip between your teeth, barely stifling the silly grin that makes its way across your face. “Okay.”
જ⁀➴ Zuko’s changed over the years but the one thing that stays constant is how much he loves his wife, she’s the only thing he believes in. There is no other above the women who’s so beautiful it could challenge Aphrodite and win.
Request
Zuko’s has proven himself to truly be nothing like his father when it comes to his way of ruling and especially in his love style. His always been gentle and loving towards you, so patient and soft. You’re the finest piece of porcelain he has gotten his hands on, nothing could compare to you in any way.
His built a statue in your name that lies in the courtyard of the palace. He lets you in to all negotiations even when the chamberlain advises against the idea because your opinion has more weight than anything in the world, you’ve demonstrated yourself to be an acknowledgeable person in all you’re involved in. The nation has thrived under his rule and your guidance, and if it keeps the kingdom expanding further than Zuko would gladly allow you to stand by his side as you please.
Despite being a man in a position of immense power and influence, Zuko is extremely humble. He is humble enough to be standing on his knees as you sit down on the edge of your bed, Zuko’s head resting on the silk on your robe. Gently on your thighs as you stroke the dark locks that grace his head, your fingers running through his hair so smoothly, he can’t help but release a soft moan, “mhm, that’s so so good,” he softly murmured.
You softly chuckled as you paused to move your hand to gently cup his face, a slow gesture as you guided his face to look at him. His soft eyes staring up at him as if he were looking a being beyond his understanding, his mouth slightly ajar as he stared at you, “a fly will get into your mouth,” you mused as you stroked his cheek, his eyes fluttering closed as he leans into your touch.
“Have I ever told you, you look absolutely stunning?” He weakly asks as turns to kiss the inside of your palm and all you could do is let out a soft and breathless, “I could name a couple of times,” you said tucking a strand of hair behind his ear.
“I should tell you more. You’re so perfect, I need to kiss you,” he murmured into your palm before pulling back and pushing the slit of your robe to have access to your bare thighs before placing a kiss on them, “I should appreciate you…your body…” he sighs as he smiles into your thigh, “you’re so…ngh—“ he moaned as he slowly spread your legs apart to kiss the inner of your thighs.
You slightly shudder at placement of the kisses as you tilt your head back, “Zuko.” You murmured into the air before he pulled back and wrapped his arms around your mid length, “don’t say my name like that, I’m not a strong man when I’m with you.” He pleaded as you softly laughed.
Do You Love Me? Yes or Yes? || Zuko x water bender!Reader
Warning: it felt too short so I made this more dramatic then it had to be lol, fem presenting reader, dramatic Zuko/nonchalant reader
Messing with Zuko accidentally sent him spiraling thinking you’re going to leave him.
It was the hottest day the Fire Nation had experienced in over two hundred years. Everyone had shed their usual long layers for something airy, breathable, and light. Most were used to the heat, but for anyone not from the Fire Nation, it felt like hell on earth.
You had just come from a meeting planning your wedding. Now you lay sprawled across your bed, barely clothed, waiting for this miserable day to end.
A knock sounded at the door before it slid open, then shut again.
“How are you feeling? Do I need to ask the servants to bring you more water? Should we visit the beach so you can cool off?”
You chuckled, propping yourself up on your elbows.
“I’m fine, my love… although it would be nice if you’d lay with me,” you said with a soft smile, tilting your head.
He chuckled, making his way toward the bed. Then, very deliberately, he dropped his full weight across you, crushing you into the mattress.
“Ow—Zuko!” you giggled, playfully pushing and slapping at his arm.
“Oh, wow. I never realized how bumpy this bed is,” he said, continuing to squirm around and make things worse.
Your giggle become louder “Zuko, stop it—you’re heavy!” He gave one last squirm before going completely still.
After a moment, he rolled off and settled beside you. The room fell into a comfortable silence as his hand searched for yours, fingers lacing together.
While you lay there, your eyes tracing the golden engraved symbols on the ceiling, your mind drifted back to your wedding.
Your mother was visiting, determined to give her daughter the grandest wedding this nation had ever seen. She had been extremely skeptical at first, marrying her only daughter off to the Fire Nation, given its history…but your father had reassured her. He’d insisted you would be fine. That you could handle your own and he was right.
Besides, if you didn’t like Zuko, you would’ve found a way out of this betrothal just like you had with the last four. You were good at scaring men off, although… it would be a little more difficult with Zuko. He matched your crazy a little too well.
Which got you thinking.
“Hey, Zuko?”
“Hm?”
“What would you do if we broke up?”
It was as if he stopped breathing. His body went stiff beside you, and after what felt like forever, his head slowly turned to face you.
“…Why would we do that?”
You turned toward him and shrugged. “I dunno. Just curious.”
Zuko sat up, concern written all over his face. You followed.
“Have I done something to offend you or make you uncomfortable? I know I have a temper, but I’m working on it. And if I haven’t been spending enough time with you, that can be arranged—”
You laughed, shaking your head.
“Is it the citizens? I know they aren’t too happy I’m marrying someone from the water tribe, but I can have that dealt with—”
Your eyes widened as you shook your head again. “No, no, Zuko. I’m just curious. It’s hypothetical.”
He went quiet for a moment.
“Well… if we were to ever call off our engagement, I would… I would be saddened by that,” he admitted. “I’ve grown to enjoy your company. You’re a very intelligent woman. I appreciate your love for literature. I like our late-night walks. I admire the effort you’ve taken to learn our history and traditions.”
He paused briefly.
“I especially like when we sneak into the kitchen after hours to steal sweets.” A faint smile tugged at his lips.
“You are a kind soul. I believe you are a good woman… and would make an even greater wife… and mother, if— if that’s what you choose.” He looked away, his voice lowering at the end, a faint pink tinting his cheeks.
You raised an eyebrow. “Do you just see me as someone who can carry your heir?”
He panicked immediately.
“No no, I didn’t mean it like that! I just meant— you have a maternal side—you’re good with children— I mean, not that you have to— I-”
“Zuko,” you said, laughing as you fell back onto the mattress, “calm yourself. I’m just messing with you. I’m not going anywhere.”
He slowly laid back beside you, though the skeptical look on his face lingered.
•••
The rest of the week… Zuko had been off. Not distant— no, the complete opposite. He constantly hovered.
“Do you need anything?”
“Are you too warm?”
“Should I have the servants bring you something?”
“Do you want to rest? I can cancel my meetings.”
At first, you thought it was sweet. He was being very attentive, catering to your every need but by the fifth day, it was too much. You couldn’t even pee without him being right outside the door, even the servants were starting to notice.
Zuko’s not known for being openly affectionate let alone clingy.
“Zuko,” you sighed, barely glancing up from your book, “I’m fine.”
He lingered anyway, sitting across from you.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes,” you said simply.
Every time you denied his help, something in his expression dimmed just a little more.
By the end of the week, the silence between you had grown awkward and heavy.
Dinner that night was quiet. The long table stretched between you, dishes laid out beautifully. Steamed rice, glazed fish, roasted vegetables but neither of you seemed interested. The only sounds were the soft clink of utensils against porcelain and the faint crackle of lanterns lining the walls.
Zuko hadn’t said more than a few words since sitting down.
And you… you hadn’t tried to fill the silence. You picked at your food, eyes occasionally drifting up to him. His posture was stiff, movements controlled, like he was holding something back.
He hadn’t been like this before, not with you so why now?
You sighed quietly, setting your chopsticks down. “You’re doing it again.”
His hand stilled “…Doing what?”
“This,” you gestured vaguely between the two of you. “The hovering. The silence. The weird energy, what’s the matter?”
He didn’t respond right away.
You leaned back slightly in your chair. “Zuko—”
“Why would you even ask that?” he finally snapped. The words cut through the room, sharp and sudden.
You blinked, caught off guard, looking up at him confused. “Ask what?”
He let out a short breath, pushing his plate away as he stood. The legs of his chair scraped softly against the floor. “That question,” he said, beginning to pace. “About us breaking off the engagement.”
Oh.
You frowned, turning in your seat to follow him. “Zuko, it was a joke—”
“Well It wasn’t funny.” The room went still, even the lantern flames seemed to quiet. You watched him for a moment, your expression tightening just slightly.
“You’re still on that?”
“I don’t understand why you would say something like that if you weren’t thinking about it,” he continued, voice tightening with each word. “Unless you are thinking about it.”
You let out a small, disbelieving laugh, shaking your head. “You’re overthinking. I told you it was just hypothetical. Its not that deep.”
He stopped pacing just slowly, he turned to look at you. “Right,” he muttered, looking away. “Of course it’s not.”
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He didn’t give you the chance anyway with a quick turn, he headed for the door. The sound of it sliding open echoed louder than it should have.
Your gaze dropped to the untouched food in front of you, the warmth from it already fading. You exhaled slowly, leaning back in your chair, arms crossing.
“He’s being dramatic,” you muttered under your breath, but deep down you felt horrible.
•••
Later on that night you found him in the training room.
Of course you did.
The air was thick with heat instantly covering your skin in a thin layer of sweat The sharp scent of smoke lingering as he moved through forms quick, controlled, but just a little too aggressive.
You leaned against the doorway, watching for a second thinking of what to say.
“…You know,” you started, “if you keep training like that, you might actually melt the floor. Then we’ll have a whole new problem.”
He didn’t even pause. Okay… humor won’t work. You pushed off the doorway and stepped fully inside, slower this time.
“Zuko.” Nothing. He ignored you as if you weren’t there. Which kind of stung but you couldn’t blame him.
You exhaled softly, “listen i’m sorry.”
His movements came to an immediate halt. His shoulders rose and fell once before he turned to face you.
“I shouldn’t have brushed you off like that,” you continued, more serious now. “I didn’t realize it actually bothered you.”
He looked at you for a moment, all that tension still sitting in his expression.
“I just…” he started, then stopped, running a hand through his hair. “I thought—”
“I know,” you said gently. “You thought I was trying to leave and I’m sorry.”
He let out a quiet breath, gaze dropping. “I overthink,” he admitted. “I know I do. I just—when you said that, I couldn’t get it out of my head.”
You stepped closer. “I’m not going anywhere,” you said simply.
That made his eyes lift back to yours. “I like you too much,” you added, a small smile tugging at your lips.
Something in his expression softened immediately.
“…Yeah?” he asked, quieter now.
“Yeah.”
There was a beat of silence. Then he huffed a small breath, almost embarrassed.
“I may have been… a little much.”
You raised an eyebrow. “A little?”
He gave you a look paired with an eye roll. “…Okay, very.”
You laughed softly, closing the distance between you.
“And I shouldn’t have called you dramatic,” you admitted. “Well— out loud.”
That earned you the smallest hint of a smile. “Come here,” he murmured.
You didn’t hesitate, you walked closer closing the space between you.
His hand found your waist, pulling you in as your fingers curled against his sweaty chest. The tension from the past week melted quickly, replaced by something softer, something warmer.
Your lips met his, slow at first, then deeper as he pulled you closer.
“See?” you murmured against his lips. “Still want you, and very much might I add.”
He let out a quiet breath, pressing his forehead to yours before kissing you again, this time with more certainty. You smiled into it.
Summary ━━━ In a world where everyone is born with a soulmate mark, most people live their entire lives without ever finding the one person it binds them to. Some are lucky enough to discover their match in old age, often in their 70s or 80s. A blessed few find theirs early in life—and when they do, it’s considered a miracle. The universe offers no promises, only the mark itself.
Throughout all of recorded history, not a single person has ever rejected their soulmate.
But Y/N believes she will be the first to be rejected.
When Y/N, a shy but fiercely guarded woman haunted by childhood trauma and deep insecurities, discovers that her soulmate is Lando Norris—one of the most famous, charming, and emotionally unreachable men she’s ever met—she makes a decision that changes everything. She tells no one. Not even him.
For fourteen months, she carries this devastating secret while Lando unknowingly breaks her heart over and over again. He flirts with other women in front of her, maintains ties with his ex-girlfriend, and treats Y/N with a casual cruelty that cuts deeper than he could ever imagine.
What Y/N doesn’t know is that Lando feels something too—something that unnerves and confuses him. So he buries it beneath sharp words and cold shoulders, lashes out, and pushes away the one person he can’t seem to get out of his head.
He feels the pull. He just doesn’t understand what it means.
Until one moment, by pure accident, he sees the mark on her body.
The universe stops.
Suddenly, the girl he’s spent over a year pushing away is no longer just another name in his orbit—she’s his. His soulmate. The one fate carved into him before he was ever born.
As realization crashes down on him, Lando finally understands why she always looked at him like he was both everything she wanted and everything she feared.
And Y/N—fragile, angry, and terrified—must face the one thing she’s spent months trying to avoid: the truth that he knows.
But the cruelest truth of all? She still doesn’t believe he could ever want her back.
Because while no one in history has ever rejected their soulmate, Y/N has spent her entire life being rejected by everyone else.
And she’s convinced that not even cosmic destiny can make her worthy of love.
Pairing ━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader
Overview:
soulmate AU
enemies to lovers trope
loads of angst
loads of sexual tension and frustration
fuckboy Lando
complicated relationship with emotionally abusive parents (Y/N)
hyper-independent and emotionally guarded Y/N
jealous Lando
“I don’t need anyone” Y/N vs “I’d give her everything” Lando
protective Lando once he finds out the truth
unrequited love (but not really)
Y/N hiding her trauma behind success and control
slow burn
Y/N putting up walls Lando desperately tries to break through
yearning and longing
smut (at some point)
mutual pining
idiots fighting fate (mostly Y/N)
Lando falling first and harder
touch-starved but terrified Y/N
moments of softness that wreck them both
“I’m not good enough for you” trope
Each chapter contains its own content warnings.
Chapter 1: Fight
| 10.9k | Summary: A brutal fight erupts between Y/N and Lando at a friends' gathering, where he unknowingly destroys his soulmate in a way no one thought possible. His attack confirms every fear she’s carried alone for years, shattering the last piece of hope she had. That night, overwhelmed by heartbreak and years of buried trauma, Y/N suffers a panic attack more severe than anything she’s ever experienced.
Chapter 2: Breaking
| 4.8k | Summary: After the fight with Y/N, Lando is left reeling in guilt and self-loathing, realizing too late that his cruelty came from fear of how deeply he cared for her. Meanwhile, Y/N suffers a severe panic attack and is hospitalized, feeling irreparably broken and unloved.
Chapter 3: Spain
| 11.9k | Summary: Pietra persuades a reluctant Y/N to join a vacation in Spain, where a booking mix‑up forces her to share a room and a king‑size bed with Lando. All week, she must keep her hidden soulmate mark concealed from him while wrestling with her nerves and his unexpected closeness.
Chapter 4: Tension
| 16.8k | Summary: Y/N panics when she breaks her foundation, and Lando unexpectedly spends an entire day helping her search Spanish shops to find a replacement. Despite growing attraction and moments of connection, both misinterpret each other's signals—Y/N thinks Lando finds her repulsive while he's actually desperately attracted to her but hiding it.
Chapter 5: Realization
| 11.6k | Summary: Y/N secretly masturbates while listening to Lando jerking off in the shower. Later, he says something that completely devastates her.
Chapter 6: Truth
| 14.8k | Summary: Lando and Y/N see each other for the first time since the Spain trip—and the truth is finally revealed in a single, accidental moment.
Chapter 7: Conversation
| 25.3k | Summary: Y/N and Lando have a serious and heartbreaking conversation.
Chapter 8: Change
| 13.8k | Summary: Lando begins pursuing Y/N with thoughtful gestures and messages, making significant changes to his life to prove his sincerity. Despite being moved by his efforts, Y/N struggles to trust his intentions after being hurt before and chooses to protect herself rather than risk further disappointment.
Chapter 9: Dreamy
| 17.3k | Summary: Lando gets jealous during a dinner with friends. Later that night, a dream occurs.
Chapter 10: Exposed
| 10.4k | Summary: Paparazzi photos of Lando and Y/N leaving dinner together leak online, and Lando witnesses a phone call between Y/N and her mother.
Chapter 11: Cracks
| 21.5k | Summary: After her mother's call, Y/N breaks down in Lando's arms, but panic overwhelms her, and she pushes him away, unable to trust that his feelings are genuine. Later, she meets Pietra for coffee but still can't reveal the soulmate secret. Meanwhile, Lando drives to his parents and confesses everything.
Chapter 12: Shattered
| 20.5k | Summary: A confrontation between Lando and Y/N reaches a devastating breaking point that forces both to face painful truths. In the aftermath, Y/N begins to lower her walls for the first time, though she still can't promise him anything.
after your estranged grandmother leaves you her apartment in monaco, you’re ready for a fresh start. too bad the man next door seems determined to make your life a living hell.
﹙ ⓘ ﹚ warnings: non f1!au ( oscar is an engineer ), angst, slow burn romance, elements of humor. grumpy x sunshine / opposites attract, emotionally unavailable love interest that disguises pining as irritation. 8.0k words
✶ author’s note 𑣲 oh my gawddd i luv you all so much !!! the feedback i've gotten from f1blr after posting my first fic ( linked here ) is the sweetest thing everrrr ... you're all so kind i genuinely want to cry just thinking about it !!!! i don't have enough words to express my gratitude as a beginning ff writer ... anyways , this is my next offer , i was inspired to write this story because my neighbors are always soooo loud , and i sure wish that one of them was a socially awkward but handsome man that was in luv with me ( unfortunately , they are not , ugh ) . anyways , i hope you like it , the grumpy x sunshine trope is one of my faves to read about : )
THE FIRST THING YOU LEARNED ABOUT MONACO WAS THAT THE WALLS WERE THIN ENOUGH TO HEAR YOUR NEIGHBOR SWEARING AT HIS ESPRESSO MACHINE AT SIX-THIRTY EVERY MORNING.
Not loudly, either. That was the unsettling part.
Most people yelled when they were angry, but not your neighbor. He sounded calmly, professionally furious, like a man filing a formal complaint against God himself.
“You useless piece of —”
A metallic clank. After a moment, very distinctly: “I swear to Christ.”
You stared up at the wood tiled ceiling of your grandmother’s apartment, still tangled in unfamiliar sheets, sunlight spilling through the gauzy curtains in watery gold. For one peaceful second after waking up, you forgot where you were.
And then it punched you in the gut. You were in Monaco, following the surprise inheritance…and the funeral. You still couldn’t believe the fact that you’d uprooted your entire life — or whatever meager semblance of a life you had — on what could generously be described as an emotional breakdown and a legally binding whim.
Then the espresso machine hissed again, like a snake waiting to strike.
“Oh, come on.”
You blinked slowly. Your neighbor’s accent was distinctly Australian, so unlike the prim and prudish French accents that were common in Monaco.
That difference, somehow, made it worse.
Rolling onto your back, you checked your phone. 6:34 A.M. Why the fuck was your neighbor cursing at his coffee machine at such an ungodly hour of the day?
You considered several possibilities.
One: your neighbor was the victim of a murderous kitchen appliance.
Two: he was deeply unstable.
Three: Monaco apartment walls were apparently constructed from decorative tissue paper.
The machine gave one final tortured sputter before a cupboard slammed hard enough to rattle a framed painting in your bedroom.
You bolted upright, heart pounding. “Jesus,” you muttered.
On the other side of the wall, the man sighed. Not a normal sigh, either. A long-suffering, exhausted sound. The sigh of someone moments away from throwing a very expensive appliance directly into the Mediterranean.
Against your better judgment, you laughed at the thought. Immediately there was silence, and you froze.
The silence somehow felt… pointed. Like he’d heard you. Which was very possible, considering you could hear every phonon of movement that he made.
Then came three sharp knocks against the shared wall. You stared at the blank space, contemplating what to do — either respond and interact with your Negative Nancy of a neighbor at an hour where half the population was fast asleep, or just go to bed yourself and pray he didn’t send that espresso machine flying through the wall. Before you could choose, though, another three knocks were rapped. Your eyebrows lifted slowly in pure astonishment. “No way.”
Three more knocks in quick succession.
You climbed out of bed, still wearing oversized sleep shorts and one of your oldest university hoodies that definitely had a hole in the armpit, and crossed the apartment barefoot. The hardwood floor was cold beneath your feet as you pressed your palm lightly against the wall.
“…Hello?”
Nothing for just a second.
“Your laugh is loud.”
You gasped. Actually gasped. “Oh my God,” you whispered to yourself, horrified.
The voice came again, muffled through plaster. Dry. Flat. Annoyingly attractive. “And your footsteps.”
You narrowed your eyes at the wall. “You’re the one verbally abusing an espresso machine before sunrise.”
“It’s not my fault.” He said it as easily as though he were stating the freezing point of water.
You stared for a beat longer before a disbelieving laugh escaped you again.
Instantly, your neighbor shot back: “See? That.”
“Oh, you cannot possibly be serious.”
“You’ll find,” the voice replied coolly, “that I usually am.”
The audacity. The sheer, unbearable audacity of this man. Whoever he was, he had a massive ego and a chip on his shoulder, and you wouldn’t stoop so low as to engage in these petty squabbles.
You looked around your grandmother’s apartment as though searching for hidden cameras. Yesterday, you’d landed in Monaco carrying two suitcases, grief wrapped tight around your ribs, expecting reinvention and glamour and maybe a little healing by the sea.
Instead, you’d inherited a passive-aggressive wall enemy before unpacking your shampoo.
“Incredible,” you muttered. No response. You waited another second before asking, “…Did your coffee at least work?”
Begrudgingly, your neighbor answered, “No.”
You bit your lip to stop smiling. Which was unfortunate, really.
Because you had the distinct feeling your neighbor would hate that.
A month prior, you’d been standing in uncomfortable black stiletto heels beside a coffin wondering whether grief was supposed to feel more dramatic than this.
Rain tapped softly against the church windows. Someone in the second row was crying. Your aunt was pretending to dab away tears.
And you? Well. You mostly felt tired. You hadn’t seen your grandmother in almost four years.
That was the part nobody said out loud. Not during the service, at least.
Instead, people spoke about her elegance, her intelligence, her impossible standards. They talked about the way she carried herself through rooms like royalty and the way she never repeated an outfit twice in the seventies and how she once insulted a French ambassador so severely he refused to attend dinner parties she hosted afterward.
You believed every word of it.
Your grandmother had been difficult in the way expensive perfumes were difficult: sharp, overpowering, impossible to ignore. Loving her had always felt like the equivalent of losing an argument.
“You should stand straighter,” she used to tell you as a child, gently tapping your spine with two fingers.
“You should call more,” she’d say later, over increasingly strained phone calls, where long stretches of silence became more and more frequent. “You should want more from your life than this.”
This, apparently, meant everything. Your studio apartment in New York City. Your degree in art history. Your relationships, of which you had none. Your job as an intern at the Met.
You never seemed to reach the moving target of her approval, and eventually, you stopped trying to.
So one missed Christmas became two, a birthday phone call never went through.
And now she was dead.
The priest said something solemn. Your cousin sniffed loudly. You stared at white lilies until they blurred at the edges.
You thought grief would feel heavier, but instead it felt unfinished. This couldn’t be it; it just couldn’t. And yet it was.
After the burial, your family gathered beneath gray awnings outside the cemetery while rain misted over black umbrellas and expensive coats.
Your aunt Marianne caught your elbow before you could escape.
“There you are,” she said tightly, words clipped. “The lawyer is asking for everyone to meet Monday regarding the estate.”
You blinked, taken aback. “There’s an estate meeting?”
“She owned property in three countries,” Marianne replied, as though you were thick-headed. “Of course there’s an estate meeting.”
Right. Normal grandmothers left behind photo albums and recipe cards, but yours was anything but normal.
You almost didn’t go when Monday arrived, heavy and humid. You spent most of the morning sitting in your old Kia outside the law office debating whether you could fake your own death instead.
Unfortunately, curiosity won.
The lawyer’s office smelled like polished wood and old paper. Everyone sat around a long table wearing expressions ranging from grieving to openly competitive. Your cousins looked like they were putting on their best imitation of a shark, eyes bloodthirsty and slitted as they waited to hear what the lawyer had to say. You took the chair closest to the exit. Just in case.
The lawyer adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “Thank you all for coming. We’ll begin with the personal allocations.”
The meeting dragged on.
Jewelry, investments. Art collections. Properties in two different continents, places you’d never been to and could only dream of going to. A stake in a film company.
Your grandmother apparently possessed the financial portfolio of a minor Bond villain.
You stopped listening after twenty minutes. Until —
“And to her granddaughter —”
You looked up automatically, heart suddenly thrashing in your chest like it were a rabbit trying to free itself from a trap.
The lawyer smiled politely. “The apartment located in Monaco.”
Your brain completely shut down.
“…Sorry,” you said after a second. “What?”
Across the table, your aunt’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly.
“The residence in Monaco,” the lawyer repeated calmly. “Per your grandmother’s instructions, ownership transfers fully to you.”
You laughed. Not because it was funny, but because there was genuinely no other possible response. “I think there’s been a mistake.”
“There hasn’t.”
“No, I —” You looked around the room helplessly. “I haven’t spoken to her in years.”
The lawyer’s face softened slightly. “She amended the will six months ago.”
Six months ago.
“She also left a letter,” he added.
A cream envelope appeared in front of you moments later, your name written across the front in your grandmother’s elegant handwriting.
Suddenly, you couldn’t breathe properly. You stared at it for several seconds before opening it apprehensively.
Darling,
If you are reading this, then I am dead, which is unfortunate timing because Monaco is beautiful in spring.
You swallowed hard, tears pricking in your vision, yet you charged on.
You were always too sentimental for your own good. Too soft-hearted. I suspect the world has punished you for this already. But softness is not weakness, no matter what I may have taught you otherwise.
The apartment is yours because you are the only one who will live in it properly. Do not waste your life waiting for permission to become someone else.
And for God’s sake, answer your phone more often.
— Grand-mère
By the time you finished reading, your vision had gone embarrassingly blurry. You stared down at the paper, feeling completely out of your depth. Even her final act of affection still somehow sounded like criticism.
“Are you alright?” the lawyer asked gently.
You folded the letter carefully before answering.
“No,” you admitted. After a beat, you added: “But maybe I could be.”
By the time you arrived in Monaco, you were operating almost entirely on caffeine, blind optimism, and the kind of emotional dissociation that only occurred after making several catastrophic life decisions in rapid succession.
The train station spilled sunlight and noise and expensive luggage onto the streets in dizzying waves. Everything gleamed. The sea in the distance looked unreal, too blue to belong to an actual country, and every person you passed seemed aggressively well-dressed. Women in silk trousers walked tiny dogs that probably had trust funds. Men in linen shirts leaned against polished cars worth more than your student loans.
Meanwhile, you were dragging two overstuffed suitcases with one broken wheel through the streets while sweat collected at the base of your spine.
A glamorous entrance like no other, truly.
The apartment building itself sat tucked along a quieter street several blocks from the marina, elegant in that understated European way that made American luxury suddenly feel embarrassingly loud. Cream-colored stone climbed four stories high, ivy curling around wrought iron balconies. The windows were tall and narrow, their shutters painted faded green from years of Mediterranean sun.
You stood across the street for a long moment staring up at it.
Your grandmother had lived here.
The realization landed strangely every time it returned. You could still barely connect the woman who corrected your French grammar over Christmas dinners with this place that looked like it belonged in a film.
For a second, fear crawled unpleasantly into your throat. What if you didn’t belong here either?
Then one of your suitcases tipped sideways and nearly launched itself into traffic. “OK,” you muttered, yanking it upright. “Fantastic start.”
Inside, the building smelled faintly of lemon polish and old books. Cool air wrapped around your overheated skin as you stepped into the lobby, immediately grateful.
Until you saw the staircase. You stared upward. No elevator. Presumably, your grandmother’s final wish was for you to die dramatically hauling your earthly possessions up four flights of stairs.
The apartment keys dug into your palm while you mentally calculated how many trips this would take. Too many.
By the second trip, your arms were shaking. By the third, you were actively considering abandoning half your belongings on the staircase and reinventing yourself as the kind of woman who owned exactly two shirts and no cookware. The final box, a massive one filled almost entirely with books because apparently you’d inherited your grandmother’s inability to travel lightly, was balanced precariously against your chest as you stumbled up the last flight.
You couldn’t see, vision blacking out with sweat and sheer fatigue.
“One more step,” you whispered to yourself breathlessly. “One more —”
The box slipped out of your slick grasp. You made a strangled sound, knees buckling as the entire thing tilted sideways. And — a hand caught the edge of it, steadying it effortlessly.
You looked up. Oh.
Oh, that was unfortunate.
The man standing above you on the landing was tall in a way that felt deeply inconvenient at the moment, broad shoulders blocking part of the afternoon light streaming through the stairwell window. Dark brown hair curled slightly at the ends like he’d run a hand through it too many times, and his expression?
His expression was profoundly unimpressed.
Not annoyed, exactly, as that would have implied emotional investment. No, he looked at you the way someone might look at an unusually loud pigeon.
You straightened slightly, breathless and sweaty and immediately defensive. “Thanks,” you said, as politely as you could manage.
His eyes flicked once over the massive box in your arms, over your wobbling posture, and back to your face. “You know,” he said evenly, accent unmistakably Australian, “most people make more than six trips.”
You blinked at him. The nerve. “I have made more than six trips.”
“Hm.”
“Hm?” you repeated incredulously, too winded to even think about the ridiculousness of that one word.
He released the box slowly, clearly unconcerned whether it crushed you or not. “That explains why you look like that.”
You stared.
He stared back. Completely serious.
The worst part was that he wasn’t even mean about it. There was no cruelty in his voice, no mocking grin. Just blunt observation delivered with the emotional warmth of a spreadsheet.
You adjusted the box against your chest with increasing offense. “Wow. You’re really committed to being unhelpful, huh?”
His gaze drifted toward the staircase below, where another one of your bags had fallen over dramatically. “You seem to have it handled.”
“I very clearly do not.” You waited for him to help.
He did not help.
Instead, he slid one hand into the pocket of his dark trousers and tilted his head slightly, studying you with mild curiosity. Like he was trying to determine whether your situation was genuinely concerning or simply entertaining. You suspected it was the second one.
You narrowed your eyes in suspicion. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Not at all,” he responded.
“You hesitated.”
“I was thinking.”
You cocked your head to the side, studying him. “About?”
“How someone survives adulthood while carrying a box like that.”
You let out a disbelieving laugh. He blinked once at the sound, almost caught off guard by it.
Up close, he looked around your age. Mid-to-late twenties, maybe. Tired eyes. Sharp jawline. One of those faces that would probably look devastating if he ever smiled…which, judging by current evidence, had perhaps never occurred.
He wore a black button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing strong forearms dusted faintly with grease or graphite. Engineer, maybe. Or mechanic. Something precise and frustratingly competent. Definitely not a job that involved being surrounded by people, for sure.
“Do you always stand around watching women suffer for fun,” you asked, shifting the box again, “or am I special?”
His gaze dropped briefly to the way you were struggling to hold it. “You’re loud,” he answered.
You frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’ve been swearing in the stairwell for twenty minutes.”
Heat crawled immediately into your face. “Oh my God.”
“One box said fragile before you dropped it.”
“It slipped!”
“Hm.” There it was again. That stupid little hum.
You already hated him. Which would’ve been easier if he weren’t annoyingly attractive in that severe, exhausted sort of way.
“Do you live here?” you asked.
“Yes.”
“Great. Then you’re my first Monaco enemy.”
Something shifted in his expression. Not quite amusement, but close enough to count. “You just moved in?” he questioned, lips quirking upward insufferably.
“Yes.”
His eyes flicked toward the door beside yours. The apartment next door.
The realization hit you instantly. Looks like this intolerable, unaccommodating jerk was going to be a staple of your new life in Monaco. How wonderful. And you didn’t even know his name — which was for the better, since you did not want to be on friendly terms with this jackass.
He glanced down at the box still threatening to crush your internal organs. “You’re holding that wrong.”
“Oh, now you want to help?”
“No,” he said calmly. “I’m criticizing your technique.”
You made a noise of outrage. And to your absolute horror, the corner of his mouth twitched. Just slightly.
Not a smile.
But dangerously close.
Five days into living in Monaco, you came to two important conclusions.
First: the city was absurdly beautiful in a way that became almost irritating after a while. Every street looked curated, a perfect home feed on Pinterest. Every café seemed to exist solely to make tourists romanticize their lives. Even the air smelled expensive, saltwater and sunscreen and citrus drifting together beneath the afternoon heat.
Second: your neighbor was either avoiding you deliberately or naturally moved through life like a suspicious alley cat.
You’d heard him through the walls plenty.
Cabinets opening at precise times. Low music occasionally humming through the apartment. Classical sometimes, instrumental piano other times, once an aggressively miserable jazz playlist that lasted nearly four hours. You’d also discovered he worked insane hours, judging by the fact you’d heard his front door close sometime after midnight twice already.
But actually seeing him was rare.
It was beginning to annoy you on principle.
Especially because every interaction so far had ended with him looking faintly exasperated by your existence while you developed an increasingly inconvenient curiosity about his.
So on Thursday afternoon, after unpacking exactly half your kitchen and collapsing over a box labeled miscellaneous wires, you decided you deserved a break.
Monaco unfolded lazily beneath the sun as you wandered downhill toward the older part of the city. Laundry fluttered from narrow balconies overhead. Scooters buzzed past. Somewhere nearby, church bells rang softly through the heat.
You stopped in little shops mostly to escape the temperature. A tiny bakery where the woman behind the counter called you darling after you butchered your French pronunciation. A stationery store filled with fountain pens you absolutely could not afford.
Then finally… the bookstore.
It sat tucked between a wine shop and a florist, nearly hidden beneath climbing ivy. The sign overhead was faded slightly with age, the windows crowded with stacked novels and handwritten recommendation cards.
You paused outside immediately. Unlike most places in Monaco, it didn’t feel polished. It felt lived-in.
Inside, the air smelled like paper and dust and old wood soaked warm by sunlight. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling in crooked little aisles, books stacked sideways where they no longer fit properly. Soft jazz played somewhere overhead. You exhaled slowly.
OK.
This might be the first place in Monaco that didn’t make you feel wildly underdressed. You wandered aimlessly at first, fingertips brushing over spines. French novels. Travel memoirs. Architecture books bigger than your torso.
A sleepy orange cat blinked at you from atop a stack near the register.
“This is perfect,” you whispered.
The cat yawned.
You drifted toward the back corner before stopping abruptly, fear clenching your chest nonsensically.
Your stupid neighbor — Oscar — stood near one of the shelves with a book open in one hand, entirely absorbed. Dark gray T-shirt this time. Black trousers. Glasses perched low on his nose.
Glasses.
You stared for a second too long. They somehow made him look even more severe, like he was someone who corrected grammar in emails for fun.
Unfortunately, they also made him hotter, which felt deeply unfair considering his personality.
You should probably leave him alone. Instead, you walked directly toward him.
“Are you stalking me,” you asked pleasantly, “or is this just fate?”
Oscar looked up slowly. His expression changed the exact same way it always did when he saw you: a tiny flicker of recognition immediately followed by visible mental exhaustion. “You live next door to me.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“No,” he agreed calmly. “It doesn’t.”
His eyes returned to the book.
You stared at him. He focused on the page, as though you no longer existed to him.
“Wow,” you muttered. “You really commit to the whole emotionally unavailable thing.”
“I’m reading.”
“In public. Dangerous choice.”
A pause. Without looking up, he countered: “You’re loud in bookstores too?”
You scoffed. “That was almost a joke.”
“Well, it wasn’t supposed to be.”
You moved beside him anyway, tilting your head to read the title in his hands. Advanced Structural Systems Engineering.
You blinked. “Holy shit.”
“What?” he said, exasperatedly.
“You actually read these voluntarily. And here I was, thinking that nobody could ever find building infrastructure fun.”
Oscar finally looked at you properly again, gaze steady and unreadable behind his glasses. “It’s relevant to my work.”
“Oh God, that’s worse. Why would you choose that of all careers?”
“You ask too many questions,” Oscar muttered, but he lowered the book and affixed his eyes on you again.
“And you answer too few,” you retorted.
“That usually discourages people.”
“Well, disappointingly for you, I’m deeply irritating.” You flashed him a wide smile.
He scowled, lines marring his face. “I noticed.”
The thing was, he never sounded cruel. Dry, yes. Constantly unimpressed, absolutely. But there was something strange underneath it all, something restrained rather than genuinely cold. Maybe speaking too much physically pained him, but listening didn’t.
Because he did listen. You were beginning to notice that.
Even now, his attention stayed fixed on you with unsettling steadiness despite his minimal responses. Most people waited impatiently for their turn to speak. Oscar seemed content letting silence stretch between your words.
“So,” you said, pulling a random novel from the shelf and thumbing through it. “Engineer.”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Mechanical.”
You blew out a low breath. “That sounds important.”
“It’s mostly spreadsheets and suffering,” he remarked, tilting his head to the side.
You laughed. Again, there it was, flitting on Oscar’s face — that almost-expression. Close enough to a smile that you caught yourself wanting to earn another one. You leaned lightly against the shelf. “You know, when I first met you, I thought you were incredibly rude.”
“That implies you changed your mind.”
“Oh, no,” you said quickly. “You absolutely are.”
Oscar’s eyebrows raised.
“But,” you continued with a hint of a smile on your face, “I think maybe you’re secretly less horrible than you pretend to be.”
There’s a moment of silence as he thinks of what to say. “That sounds like a disappointing realization for you.”
You laugh again, bright and loud. Everything Oscar claims he hates.
The bookstore owner shuffled past pushing a cart of books, eyeing the two of you curiously before disappearing again. Oscar glanced toward the architecture section nearby.“You inherited the apartment?”
The sudden change in conversation surprised you slightly. Maybe because it was the first personal thing he’d asked. “Yeah,” you answered more softly. “My grandmother’s.”
“She lived there a long time.”
“You knew her?”
“A little.”
You watched him carefully. “Did she terrorize you too?”
To your shock, his mouth actually twitched upward. Small. Brief, but definitely real. “She corrected my pronunciation once.”
“Oh my God.” You snorted. “That means she liked you.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” he objected.
“No, seriously. She only bothered correcting people she found interesting enough to fix.”
Oscar looked down at the book in his hands again, thoughtful now. The light from the windows caught against the frames of his glasses, softening the sharpness of his face. For the first time since meeting him, he looked less like an irritation and more like he was… lonely, maybe.
You wondered how long he’d lived next door. The thought sat strangely heavy in your chest. “You know,” you joked, “you can smile. I checked. It won’t kill you.”
Oscar looked at you for a long moment, and then reached past you toward a shelf overhead, entirely ignoring the comment. Unfortunately, his arm brushed yours lightly in the process.
Your brain short-circuited instantly. He pulled a book free.
“You’d like this one,” he said, handing it to you.
You looked down automatically. A Moveable Feast. Your brows lifted slightly. “You’re recommending me books now?”
“It’s Hemingway.”
“That doesn’t answer the question either.”
Oscar met your gaze evenly. “No,” he said again, quieter this time. “It doesn’t.”
Something shifted after the bookstore, but not as dramatic as one might expect.
Oscar did not suddenly become warm or talkative or capable of expressing emotions like a normal human being. He still looked vaguely inconvenienced every time you appeared unexpectedly within his line of sight. He still answered most questions with the fewest words possible. He still treated social interaction like a mildly unpleasant administrative task.
But the edges softened, tiny things at first. The next morning, the espresso machine was quieter. Not fixed, exactly — you still heard a muffled curse around six-thirty — but quieter in the deliberate way that suggested Oscar had used a modicum of effort to not be as loud.
Which was a ridiculous thing to think.
You stood in your kitchen holding a spoonful of yogurt and stared at the shared wall suspiciously. “Was that for me?”
Faintly, Oscar’s disgruntled response. “No.”
You grinned into your breakfast.
Later that afternoon, you found a folded piece of paper slid beneath your apartment door. Not a note, but a list. Three cafés written in precise handwriting. Good coffee, not tourist traps. Stop going to the one on the corner. Their espresso tastes burnt.
You laughed so suddenly you nearly scared yourself. Even though there was no signature, you knew exactly who the list was written by. Like there was anyone else in the building passive-aggressive enough to leave anonymous coffee criticism at your doorstep.
You went to all three cafés. And despite your reservations, he was right.
After that, Monaco started feeling smaller in strange ways. You’d spot Oscar unexpectedly throughout the week like some bizarre recurring character only you seemed able to unlock.
At the market buying exactly six oranges and nothing else. Walking home late at night with rolled-up blueprints tucked beneath one arm. Standing outside the florist beside your building while an elderly woman enthusiastically spoke French at him while he listened with the exhausted patience of a hostage negotiator. And every time you interacted with him, he stopped a little longer when talking to you.
Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you to. You were observant in that sort of way. “You’re becoming significantly less terrifying,” you informed him one evening when you crossed paths on the staircase.
Oscar glanced at you from beneath tired eyes. “That sounds unlikely.”
“You gave me coffee recommendations.”
“You were drinking bad espresso. I could smell it.”
You harrumph. “OK, but you carried my groceries upstairs yesterday.”
“You dropped a tomato,” he rebutted.
“It burst dramatically.”
“It exploded.”
You smiled brightly. “And yet you helped me anyway.”
He adjusted his grip on the folder tucked under his arm. “That’s since you were blocking the staircase.”
“See, that’s the thing,” you said, pointing at him accusatorially. “You always pretend you’re helping people accidentally.”
Oscar looked almost wary now, like he disliked being perceived too closely. “Do you analyze strangers often?”
“Only interesting ones.”
That earned you silence. Not the dismissive kind you were familiar with, but the thoughtful one. You were beginning to understand the difference, slowly but surely.
A handful of days later, rain swept over Monaco in silver sheets so heavy the streets below your apartment blurred completely. Thunder rolled somewhere over the sea while warm wind rattled the shutters. You’d spent the evening curled beneath a blanket reading the Hemingway novel Oscar recommended.
Which was annoying, because it was good. Quiet and aching and observant in ways that slipped beneath your skin without permission.
You were halfway through rereading and admiring a paragraph for the third time when someone knocked on your door. Three sharp taps.
Your stomach flipped immediately, and you opened the door to find Oscar standing there holding two mugs of coffee.
You blinked at him. Rain darkened the shoulders of his dark ebony sweater slightly, curls damp from the weather. He looked unfairly good in low lighting, all sharp lines softened by the glow spilling from your apartment.
“The power’s out in my kitchen,” you said.
Oscar glanced past you toward the darkened appliances.
“I know.”
“You know?”
“The whole building lost partial electricity twenty minutes ago.”
“Oh.” You looked at the coffee, then back at him. “So to commiserate the loss of my appliances, you brought me pity beverages?”
“You looked miserable earlier.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “You noticed I looked miserable?”
“You sigh loudly when frustrated.”
“I do not.”
Oscar smirked. “You do.”
Offended, you crossed your arms. Oscar held one mug out slightly.
“It’s temporary,” he said. “The outage.”
You took the coffee carefully, fingers brushing his for half a second.
Warm. Dangerously so. “Thanks,” you murmured.
“You finished the book?” The question caught you off guard, and you took a second to reorient yourself.
“Almost.”
Oscar nodded once towards the general direction of his apartment. “I have more. If you want.”
Your brain buffered as you understood what he was suggesting. “You’re inviting me over?”
A flicker of hesitation crossed his face then, so brief you almost missed it. Like he was already reconsidering the decision in real time. “It’s raining,” he said finally. “And your apartment currently smells like burnt toast.”
Heat rushed immediately into your face. “That happened one time.”
“Not true. You set off the fire alarm twice.”
“The second one was unrelated,” you argued.
Oscar’s expression remained perfectly neutral. “You can come over,” he said. “Or continue destroying your kitchen independently.”
You stared at him for another second, but you couldn’t help it. A slow smile grew on your face. “Wow. Oscar Piastri voluntarily initiating social interaction. Historic moment.”
“I can leave,” he pointed out.
“No, absolutely not.”
His apartment looked exactly how you imagined it would. Clean to the point of suspicion. Dim warm lighting. Bookshelves arranged with alarming precision. One massive desk crowded with sketches, mechanical parts, and monitors filled with things you absolutely did not understand.
The place felt lived in quietly, as though someone who spent most of his life inside his own head but had tried, carefully, to make solitude comfortable.
Music played softly somewhere in the background. Piano again.
“You own candles,” you said immediately, spotting one lit near the bookshelf.
Oscar shut the door behind you. “That’s your first observation?”
“You don’t seem like a candle person,” you informed him.
“What does a candle person look like?” Oscar scoffed.
“Happier.”
To your delight, you caught it again. That tiny near-smile. “You can sit down, you know.”
You wandered instead, deciding to uncover some fragments about the mystery that was Oscar’s life. “You alphabetized your books,” you accused him as you inspected his perfectly organized shelves. The ones in your apartment looked nothing like this.
“No.”
You paused, looking closer.
“Don’t tell me it’s chronologically? By publication date?”
“Yes,” he confirmed, a soft blush spreading on his cheeks.
“That’s somehow worse.”
“You reorganized yours by color yesterday.”
You turned sharply. “How do you know that?”
Oscar froze for approximately one second too long. “You left your curtains open,” he answered finally.
“Oh my God.” You pointed at him accusingly. “You do watch me.”
“I live next door.”
“That is not helping your case.”
He looked genuinely unimpressed by your delight over this revelation, but there was something looser about him tonight. Less guarded around the edges. You settled onto the couch eventually, curling one leg beneath yourself while Oscar sat in the armchair opposite, coffee resting untouched in his hands. “You liked Hemingway?” he asked after a while.
You looked down at the book beside you.
“Yeah,” you admitted quietly. “It feels… lonely.” Oscar’s gaze lifted toward yours. “Not sad,” you continued thoughtfully. “Just… like someone trying very hard not to say what they actually feel.”
Silence settled between you. Heavy suddenly. And for the first time since meeting him, Oscar didn’t immediately look away first. “You do that too, you know,” you said softly before you could stop yourself. His expression stilled. “With the whole pretending-not-to-care thing.”
The rain filled the quiet for a moment. Then Oscar leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you with that same unsettling steadiness he always seemed to reserve only for you. “You’ve known me for a week.”
“Mm. And?”
“And you think you understand me already?”
“No,” you clarified honestly. “I just think you want people to underestimate how much you notice.”
Something flickered across his face then. Recognition, changing the air between you two. The room didn’t suddenly become charged with cinematic tension. Nobody leaned closer. Nobody confessed anything dramatic beneath the rain and candlelight.
Oscar simply looked at you for a fraction too long. And for a man who treated eye contact like a limited resource, it felt strangely intimate.
The piano music hummed softly through the apartment while thunder rolled somewhere over the sea. Outside the windows, Monaco glittered silver and gold beneath the storm, headlights smearing against rain-slick streets below.
Inside, Oscar remained very still in his chair across from you. “You say things like that often?” he asked eventually.
“What, annoyingly perceptive things?”
“Yes.”
You smiled slightly. “Only when I’m trying to bother someone.”
“And is it working?”
“You invited me into your apartment voluntarily. I think I’m making incredible progress.”
That earned you the smallest exhale through his nose. Not quite laughter — or a smile — but God, you were becoming disturbingly addicted to making Oscar Piastri happy.
His fingers tapped once against the side of his coffee mug before he asked, quieter this time, “What made you say it?”
“The underestimating thing?”
A nod. You considered him carefully. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “You notice everything.”
Oscar’s brows pulled together faintly.
“You remembered which café I kept going to. You knew I reorganized my books. You notice when I’m frustrated… through a wall.” You gestured lightly around the apartment. “Half your personality is pretending not to care while secretly paying attention to literally everything.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It sounds lonely.”
The words slipped out before you could soften them. Immediately, silence settled again. You watched his expression shutter slightly. He wasn’t angry, or offended, just instinctively guarded. You’d stepped accidentally too close to something private. Your stomach twisted. “Sorry,” you said quickly. “That was probably—”
“No,” Oscar interrupted. His voice was calm. “It’s fine.” Which, you were beginning to learn, usually meant absolutely not fine at all.
You shifted slightly on the couch. “You don’t have to answer personal questions, by the way.”
“I know.”
“You just look at me like I’ve committed a federal crime every time I ask one.”
“That’s because you ask invasive ones.”
“You invited me over to discuss literature. This is what happens.”
“I regret it already.”
“No, you don’t,” you corrected him.
Oscar glanced at you then, and there it was again. That impossible almost-smile threatening at the corner of his mouth before disappearing. “I usually don’t invite people over,” he admitted after a moment.
Something about the quiet honesty of it made your chest ache unexpectedly. “You don’t seem like you usually invite people anywhere.”
“You’d be right about that.”
“Do you have friends?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“You hesitated,” you said, pouting.
“I was deciding if you counted as one.”
Your heart did one deeply humiliating thing, but you recovered with visible effort. “Wow. That was almost nice.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
After that night, things changed in ways so subtle you almost convinced yourself you imagined them. Except you didn’t.
Oscar started existing around you differently.
You’d hear your front door open in the mornings only to find coffee sitting outside sometimes — not every day, just occasionally. No note, no explanation. Just a paper cup from one of the cafés he’d recommended.
The first time it happened, you knocked on his door immediately. When he opened it, he looked annoyingly unsurprised to see you. “Did you leave this outside my apartment?”
Oscar leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “Probably.”
“Probably?”
“You drank the terrible coffee near the marina again yesterday.”
“You can’t punish me into having better taste,” you reminded him.”
He shrugged. “I can try.”
You stared at him, looked down at the coffee, and back up again. “Wait. This is kind of sweet.”
His expression changed instantly, like the word itself physically alarmed him. “No, it isn’t.”
“It absolutely is.”
He fumbled for what to say next. “You looked tired.”
“So your solution was caffeine and emotional repression?”
“That solves most things.”
“Jesus Christ.” But you smiled the entire walk back into your apartment.
Another evening, you came home balancing groceries against your hip only to find Oscar sitting on the floor outside his apartment door with a screwdriver clenched between his teeth.
You stopped short. He glanced up briefly from where he was taking apart the lock mechanism. “…Did you break into your own apartment?”
“No.”
“You look like you did.”
“The lock jammed,” he corrected you.
You crouched down nearby immediately despite the groceries cutting painfully into your fingers. “How long have you been out here?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“And you didn’t call someone?” you inquired, choking out a laugh.
“I can fix it.”
“You say that with the confidence of a man currently sitting in a hallway.”
Oscar removed the screwdriver from his mouth with visible patience. “Go inside.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m doing.”
“I know moral support is important,” you added, beaming.
He flicked his gaze up to you, brown eyes crinkling with frustration. “I don’t need moral support.”
“That’s objectively false.”
He sighed quietly. You sat cross-legged on the floor anyway.
The hallway was warm from the lingering heat outside, golden evening light filtering through the stairwell windows. Somewhere downstairs, someone played music softly while dishes clinked faintly through open windows. Oscar worked in silence for another minute before speaking suddenly. “You really don’t get discouraged easily.”
You tilted your head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Most people stop talking when I clearly want them to.”
“Oh.” You smiled brightly. “That’s because I think you secretly enjoy it.”
“I don’t.”
“You invited me over.”
“That was one time,” he refuted.
“You bought me coffee.”
Oscar tossed his head back. “You looked exhausted.”
“You repaired my window latch yesterday.”
“It was hanging off.”
You inhaled, annoyed. “You notice every time I come home late.”
“That’s because you stomp up the stairs like a soldier returning from war.”
You grinned triumphantly, finally having gotten what you wanted. “See?”
Oscar looked deeply dissatisfied with the direction of this conversation. Before you could say anything, the lock clicked open. He blinked once. “Hm.”
“That’s your reaction?” you asked incredulously. “Not even a little celebration?”
“It’s a lock.”
“You have the emotional range of a Victorian widower. God.”
Oscar looked up at you from where he still sat on the floor. And finally — he laughed. Small and startled, like the sound escaped accidentally. But real.
You froze instantly. That was significantly worse than the almost-smiles. Because now you knew what he sounded like when he genuinely laughed, and unfortunately it was warm and low and unfairly nice.
Oscar seemed to realize what he’d done a second later because his expression shifted immediately back toward guarded neutrality. Too late.
Your eyes widened slowly. “You can laugh.”
“That was barely a laugh.”
“But it was one.”
“No.”
You nudged his shoulder. “You literally laughed at my joke.”
“I exhaled.”
“You’re embarrassed,” you chortled.
“I’m opening my door now.” He stood up smoothly, towering over you again as he pushed the apartment door open. “Goodnight,” he said flatly.
You got to your feet far slower, still grinning like an idiot. “Goodnight, Oscar.”
He paused just before stepping inside, glancing back toward you standing in the hallway. “You can borrow the other Hemingway book I have when you finish,” he said. And then he disappeared into his apartment.
You stood there for another few seconds holding your groceries, heart beating strangely hard beneath your ribs. Somewhere between the bookstore and the coffee and the quiet conversations in the rain, your grumpy neighbor had stopped looking at you like an inconvenience.
By the fifth week of you living in Monaco, Oscar started lingering. That was how you knew things were getting dangerous.
Not because he became openly affectionate — heavens no. Oscar still spoke like every additional sentence cost him money. He still answered the door looking mildly inconvenienced by human interaction. He still acted personally betrayed whenever you made him laugh unexpectedly.
But now he stayed. In the hallway after brief conversations should’ve ended. At your apartment door after returning borrowed books. Beside you at the little market near the marina while you spent fifteen minutes dramatically debating between peaches and nectarines.
“You can’t actually taste the difference,” he informed you.
“That is an insane thing to say.”
“You’re choosing based entirely on vibes.”
“You say that like it’s wrong,” you protested.
Oscar looked at the fruit. “The peaches are objectively better.”
“You have strong opinions about fruit,” you grinned, “I’m surprised.”
“I have correct opinions about produce.” There it was again, that warmth hiding underneath the dryness.
It showed up more often now. In the way he automatically walked on the outside edge of sidewalks without seeming to realize it. In the way he started bringing an extra coffee downstairs if he saw your lights on early in the morning. In the way his apartment door remained cracked open occasionally while he worked, a silent invitation that you’d somehow learned how to read.
Sometimes you sat there for hours doing nothing together. You’d curl up on his couch reading while Oscar worked at his desk nearby, sleeves rolled up, glasses slipping lower down his nose while blueprints and mechanical sketches crowded his screens.
You’d always thought connection had to be loud to matter. Big conversations, grand confessions, immediate understanding.
Oscar was quiet in a way that made tiny things feel enormous. One night, you looked up from your book to find him watching you absentmindedly from across the room. “What?” you asked.
Oscar blinked once, like you’d caught him doing something embarrassing. “Nothing.”
“You’re staring at me.”
“You’re reading intensely.”
You frowned. “How does someone read intensely?”
“You keep making faces.”
“That’s because I’m emotionally invested.”
“You gasped twenty seconds ago,” he concurred.
“It was warranted!”
His mouth twitched faintly. Your chest did something deeply pathetic. The thing was, you couldn’t pinpoint exactly when you started falling for him.
Maybe it was the bookstore. Maybe it was the rainstorm. Maybe it was every tiny moment afterward: the coffee, the conversations, the way he always noticed things about you nobody else did. Or maybe, it was moments like these. The terrifying gentleness hiding underneath all that restraint. Oscar never reached for attention, instead for specifics.
The exact pastry you liked from the bakery downstairs, the fact you hated overhead lighting at night, the way you reread paragraphs when you were anxious.
He noticed everything.
And once he cared about something, you got the feeling he cared permanently. Which was horrifying, really. Especially since you were beginning to suspect the same thing about yourself.
It happened on a Thursday evening.
Warm wind drifted through the open balcony doors while the city glowed beneath the sunset. You sat cross-legged on Oscar’s kitchen counter eating strawberries directly from the carton while he made coffee with the concentration of a surgeon.
“You know,” you said thoughtfully, “for someone who claimed I was too loud, you spend a shocking amount of time with me.”
Oscar slid a cup toward you without looking up. “You’re still loud.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Hm.”
You smiled into your coffee. Outside, Monaco buzzed softly with evening life. Scooters somewhere below. Distant laughter from the street. The sea beyond the buildings turning molten beneath the setting sun.
Oscar leaned back lightly against the counter across from you, arms folded. “You like France?” he asked suddenly.
You looked up, surprised by the question. “I think so.”
“Think?”
“I’ve never… really been.” You glanced toward the balcony. “I mean, unless you’re counting Monaco as being a part of France. But I’m not sure if you are or not. Anyways, my grandmother would have loved the thought of me moving here… at least that’s what I hope.”
Oscar watched you, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “She was difficult.”
“She was terrifying.”
“She liked you,” he murmured. The certainty in his voice made you look away from him unexpectedly, refocusing down at your coffee.
“I don’t know about that.”
Oscar was quiet for a moment. “She talked about you.”
Your head lifted immediately. “What?”
He looked almost reluctant now, like he already regretted speaking. “She mentioned you sometimes,” he admitted. “Mostly after you stopped visiting her in Newport.”
Something inside you twisted painfully. “Oh.”
“She kept photos.”
Your throat tightened further.
Oscar’s gaze stayed fixed somewhere near your shoulder instead of your eyes now, voice calm and even in the way it always became when talking about emotional things too directly. “She worried about you.”
For a second, neither of you spoke. The air between you felt fragile suddenly. “I thought she was disappointed in me,” you admitted quietly.
Oscar looked at you then. Really looked at you. Something about his expression made your pulse stumble. “I don’t think,” he said carefully, “you disappoint people as much as you think you do.”
The words landed harder than they should have. Oscar never said things he didn’t mean, either because he noticed too much, or because somewhere along the way, his opinion had started mattering to you in ways that felt terrifyingly irreversible.
The dying sunlight caught against the edges of his hair and the curve of his jaw. You suddenly became hyperaware of how close he stood. How easy it would be to step forward.
Neither of you moved.
Oscar cleared his throat softly and looked away first.
“There’s a vineyard in Nice,” he said.
“That’s… random.”
“I know.” He laughed, then played it off as a cough before you could point it out.
“You hate random.”
“I tolerate some exceptions.”
Your lips curved slightly. “Do you now?”
Oscar rubbed a hand once across the back of his neck, and to your absolute shock, he looked — nervous? “They do outdoor dinners sometimes,” he continued, gaze fixed very firmly on the coffee machine instead of you. “It’s quieter this time of year.”
Slowly, your smile faded into something softer. “Oscar.”
“They have good wine,” he added, clearly making things worse for himself now. “And olives. You like olives.”
Your heart practically melted onto the kitchen floor. “You noticed I like olives?”
His jaw tightened faintly like he regretted existing. “You order them constantly.”
“And this is…” You tilted your head slightly. “What exactly?”
Finally, Oscar looked at you again. Steady, certain, but terrified regardless. “A date,” he said simply.
The word settled warmly between you. You smiled before you could stop yourself. Gentle enough that something in Oscar’s expression immediately unraveled at the sight of it.
“I’d love to go,” you said.
For a moment, he just looked at you, like he couldn’t quite believe you answered that easily. And then he smiled. Not the tiny restrained flickers you’d spent weeks chasing.
A real one.
Small and crooked and devastating enough to knock the breath directly from your lungs.
Suddenly, with the sea glowing outside the windows, you understood something all at once: You hadn’t moved to Monaco to start over.
summary: one little conversation between Nicole Piastri and the McLaren social media admin brings you back into Oscar's life
fc: gala nikolic
warning: I am aware of all the spelling errors, but to change them I’d have to rewrite, screenshot and insert the slides all over again and I’m just too lazy to do that, so you’ll just have to life with it
a/n: I love them you guys!!! I’m totally open to writing a part two if you’re interested, but I also might just do it anyway. I hope you enjoy🍀
oscatpiastri
oscatpiastri LMAO admin just said ‘I’m so hungry, I could eat YN YLN’ and that was the face Oscar pulled😭😭 what kind of trauma did they unlock??
view all comments…
user I’M CRYING the man was flabbergasted
user I NEED TO KNOW WHO THAT IS IK YOU GUYS ARE GOOD AT STALKING
-> user I could only find a private acc with that name @.yourusername but there is no way to tell if it’s actually her
-> user wow you guys are quick
user oh to be able to read his mind rn
user admin chose violence today
-> user he looked so betrayed my poor boy💀
user how did admin even get such private information about Oscar?? like there is absolutely no history of a YN YLN anywhere in Oscar’s digital footprint
-> user I mean, that’s their entire job no? find things that get clicks and oscar’s past def does that
🔒 yourusername
yourusername university is slowly turning me into a hermit
view all comments…
yourfriend1 caption is so real dude
yourfriend1 one more class with professor brenner and I’ll actually break all of my good pencils
-> yourusername REAL
yourfriend2 movie binge night was so good we have to do it again
-> yourusername ‼️‼️
yourbestfriend girly you’re famous
-> yourusername fuck you mean by that?
-> yourbestfriend have you ever watched f1? does the name oscar piastri ring a bell?
-> yourusername YOURE FUCKING JOKING
yourfriend3 I’m so hungry I could eat oscar piastri🤔🤔
yourfriend4 what just happened
yourfriend5 the art faculty bathroom is actually so peak
yourfriend6 you’re so gorgeous one chance pls pls pls
TEXTS BETWEEN NICOLE AND OSCAR
TEXTS BETWEEN YOU AND YOUR BEST FRIEND
👤 OSCAR PIASTRI WANTS TO SEND YOU A MESSAGE
oscarpiastri: Hello YN, I’m not sure if you remember me, we went to kindergarten together. I just wanted to give you a heads up, incase you haven’t seen it yet. There is a video going around on the internet of the McLaren social media admin mentioning you in an interview and people are taking it all sorts of ways. I hope it doesn’t cause you any trouble, if it does, please don’t hesitate to reach out and I will take full responsibility for it. I hope you are doing well!
INSTAGRAM DIRECT MESSAGES BETWEEN YOU AND OSCAR
yourusername: Hello Oscar, it’s nice to hear from you! Thank you for the heads up, that’s really kind of you. I saw the video and the reactions, but don’t worry, it’s really no trouble. How are you? Maybe we could catch up? We haven’t seen each other for so long
oscarpiastri: Good to hear that it’s not troubling you. I’m sorry anyway. And I’d love to catch up. Are you still in AUS? I’m there from December until February, incase you are.
yourusername: Yep! Still an Australian resident:) I have a small semester break in Janurary, if that works for you?
oscarpiastri: Great! 👍
🔒 yourusername
yourusername touching grass because why am I doing all that over a MAN
view all comments…
yourfriend1 I just looked oscar piastri up and jeezus YN go get him or I will
yourbestfriend my girl is crushing on the f1 championship leader… i always knew you had big ambitions but I didn’t think they were that big
-> yourusername YOU REALLY ARE NOT HELPING IT
yourfriend2 we’ve lost her😞😞
-> yourfriend3 to a MAN of all things smh
-> yourusername YOU GUYS
yourfriend4 why do I have to be on an semester abroad right now of all moments I FEEL SO LEFT OUT
yourfriend5 she was crouching like that for a good 5 minutes btw
-> yourusername STOP EXPOSING ME
-> yourfriend4 why was she even crouching??
-> yourfriend5 he was texting her really dryly and she freaked out bc obviously that means he hates her and she wants to die and he should crash
-> yourfriend4 you are absolutely hopeless YN
-> yourusername I need to find friends that actually love me
yourfriend6 yk when you start dating you’ll have to open this insta to him and he’ll see how pathetic you are for him
-> yourusername WAIT THATS SO EMBARRASSING
🔒 yourusername
yourusername no idea what just happened I just know it wasn’t good at all I’M SO SORRY OSCAR WHEN I SAID I WANTED YOU TO CRASH I DIDNT MEAN IT
view all comments…
yourfriend1 you’re so unserious wearing a tshirt that says your tears don’t fall they crash around me after your CRUSH DNFED
-> yourusername gotta have some humour or I’ll cry
yourfriend2 I’m seeing this as a sign that he’s so obsessed with you that he does everything you say
-> yourusername THEN HE SHOULD LOCK IN AND WIN THE STUPID CHAMPIGNONCHIP OR WHATEVER
-> yourfriend2 CHAMPIGNONCHIP I‘M CHOKING
f1updates
f1updates oscar piastri when asked about the title fight and the support of family and friends for the race this weekend:
“I know a lot of things have to go right today, in order for me to win, but as long as it is a possibility, I will stay positive that I can do it.” Said the Australian. “I’ve got a lot of people here to cheer me on, my mum, dad and sisters, for one, but also an old friend, who I haven’t seen in a long time. They give me the strength to push one last time.”
view all comments…
user I KNOW HE CAN DO IT
user Norris needs to fuck off it’s Oscar’s turn
user I wonder who the “old friend” is🤔🤔
-> user YN YLN? I’m still not over that mystery
-> user that would be the plot twist of a century
user my entire body is vibrating like I just drank four gallons of coffee
user THIS IS STILL MY BOY
🔒 yourusername
yourusername ABU DHABI ARE YOU READY?
view all comments…
yourfriend1 HE WILL NOT KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH HIMSELF WHEN HE SEES YOU
yourfriend2 wow😳
yourbestfriend forget that wanna be athlete and come home to your wife (me)
yourfriend3 your nervous f1 rambling made me invested as well, I’m rooting for the blonde with an attitude problem
-> yourusername max verstappen?
-> yourfriend3 that one, yes
yourfriend4 HOW ARE YOU FEELING ABT TODAYS RACE?
-> yourusername I’m fucking shaking bro, Verstappen idk you like that but please find the closest barrier and take that Norris guy with you
oscarpiastri
oscarpiastri lots achieved. lots learnt. coming back stronger next year
view all comments…
mclarenf1 we are so proud of you oscar🧡
user no one is in doubt that you’ll win the title one day
user not even Norris bottled this hard
user I don’t get why people are so harsh on him all of the sudden, have we all forgotten that he lead the wdc for half a season in his 3rd year in f1??
user op the man you are
user AURA
user oh 2025 you were so promising
yourusername still not sure if I understood it all, but I know that I’m incredibly impressed:)
-> oscarpiastri I’m glad you could make it🙂
-> user OMG IT WAS YN YLN
-> user he’s so awkward with emojis💀💀
-> user GIRL PLEASE OPEN YOUR INSTA I NEED TO BE PARASOCIAL
🔒 yourusername
yourusername nothing to sayyyy🧚♀️
view all comments...
yourfriend1 do we have to act normal now bc he can see the posts?
yourbestfriend you smart little finch, I recognise a thirst trap when I see one😛😛
-> yourusername BE QUIET
yourfriend2 RIP unhinged instagram posts, you will be missed😞
-> yourusername you guys are so dramatic
oscarpiastri I'm not sure if I want to look at the other posts
-> yourusername don't, just don't do it
yourfriend3 one man in your life and you have an entire rebrand smh 🤦♀️
yourfriend4 you? speechless? what have you done to my girl, oscar piastri🤨
yourfriend5 WHAT IS A MAN DOING HERE?
-> yourusername BE NICE
yourbestfriend my girl is gonna be a famous wag🥲
yourfriend6 he can take great pictures at least
f1gossip
f1gossip Oscar Piastri was sighted in Melbourne, Australia with a mysterious woman on his arm. Who do we think she is?
view all comments…
user NO😫
user oscar piastri daring rumours in the first weeks of 2026 what is going on
-> user I started to doubt his abilities
user cant even see her properly but i already know shes so pretty
user wait I think I’ve seen her before?? At the Abu Dhabi GP
yourbestfriend OMG MY GIRL IS ON A GOSSIP PAGE @.yourusername LOOK MY GIRL GOT PAPARAZZIED
-> yourusername GIRL DON'T PUT ME ON BLAST LIKE THAT
user i’m not ready for everyone to become parasocial about him all of the sudden
user not him wearing the fugly ass burgundy shirt on a DATE
-> user we don’t even know if it’s a date, could just be a friend
user did anyone see that comment from @.yourbestfriend?? they tagged a user named YN YLN….. coincidence???
-> user did I miss something?? who is that?
-> user there is a video of the mcl admin saying I’m so hungry, I could eat YN YLN and everyone and their mother has been trying to find out who she is and what correlation oscar has to her since then
-> user yeah and her account is private, so there’s absolutely NO WAY for us to find out anything about her
81_updates
81_updates Oscar Piastri, Mark Webber and friends on Melbourne Beach. Some fans even stated that Oscar was with a girl and they seemed to be very close🤔
view all comments...
user HOLD ME BACK
user I hate to say this, but I think oscar really does have a girlfriend now
user congratulations to whoever get’s to have that every night
user lmao the imprint on his chest looks like a 4
user god that girl is lucky
user I think it’s safe to say it’s YN
user oscar jack piastri I was unfamiliar with your game
🔒 yourusername
yourusername after being forced to participate in all of Oscar’s hobbies, I think it’s only fair if I force him to paint with me, right?
view all comments...
yourfriend1 turn that frown upside down😛
yourfriend2 you guys make me sick
-> yourusername jealousy doesn’t suit you babe💋
yourfriend2 and yes, that’s absolutely fair
yourfriend3 be honest, who won the race?
-> yourusername I love how much faith you have in me, but be fr who is winning the race? A girl who has known about f1 for 3 months or an actual f1 driver??
-> yourfriend3 he didn’t let you win? break up with him
-> oscarpiastri she told me not to let her win🤷 said it would be satisfying for her ego if she beat me on raw talent
-> yourfriend3 oh my sweet angel😞 THAT MEANS LET HER WIN
yourbestfriend no photo credit for the picture smh🙁
-> yourusername sorry babe, credit to you for pic 6, and to osc for literally every other one
oscarpiastri I don’t think you want to see the monster I create when I touch a pencil
-> yourusername as if I was graceful playing paddle
-> oscarpiastri you’d look beautiful while digging in dirt
-> yourusername HKDBHAYPQA
-> oscarpiastri are you ok?
-> yourusername just fine:)) my cat walked over my keyboard:))))
-> yourfriend4 you don’t…..have a cat?
-> yourusername SHHH
oscarpiastri and I did not force you
oscarpiastri
oscarpiastri 🔋☀️
view all comments...
user when hes good with words😍😍
user I’m so obsessed with his gf and I don’t know anything about her
-> user I think that’s part of the appeal
user KARTING OSCAR
user that looks suspiciously like a date🧐
user I can’t wait for them to feel more comfortable and reveal a little more about their relationship
-> user I’m so excited for her to attend more races next year
user I don’t think they will ever confirm anything you guys, this is all we’re gonna get THEY ARE JUST SO PRIVATE
user HES SO CUTE
user our boy has a girlfriend… he’s actually done it
after your estranged grandmother leaves you her apartment in monaco, you’re ready for a fresh start. too bad the man next door seems determined to make your life a living hell.
﹙ ⓘ ﹚ warnings: non f1!au ( oscar is an engineer ), angst, slow burn romance, elements of humor. grumpy x sunshine / opposites attract, emotionally unavailable love interest that disguises pining as irritation. 8.0k words
✶ author’s note 𑣲 oh my gawddd i luv you all so much !!! the feedback i've gotten from f1blr after posting my first fic ( linked here ) is the sweetest thing everrrr ... you're all so kind i genuinely want to cry just thinking about it !!!! i don't have enough words to express my gratitude as a beginning ff writer ... anyways , this is my next offer , i was inspired to write this story because my neighbors are always soooo loud , and i sure wish that one of them was a socially awkward but handsome man that was in luv with me ( unfortunately , they are not , ugh ) . anyways , i hope you like it , the grumpy x sunshine trope is one of my faves to read about : )
THE FIRST THING YOU LEARNED ABOUT MONACO WAS THAT THE WALLS WERE THIN ENOUGH TO HEAR YOUR NEIGHBOR SWEARING AT HIS ESPRESSO MACHINE AT SIX-THIRTY EVERY MORNING.
Not loudly, either. That was the unsettling part.
Most people yelled when they were angry, but not your neighbor. He sounded calmly, professionally furious, like a man filing a formal complaint against God himself.
“You useless piece of —”
A metallic clank. After a moment, very distinctly: “I swear to Christ.”
You stared up at the wood tiled ceiling of your grandmother’s apartment, still tangled in unfamiliar sheets, sunlight spilling through the gauzy curtains in watery gold. For one peaceful second after waking up, you forgot where you were.
And then it punched you in the gut. You were in Monaco, following the surprise inheritance…and the funeral. You still couldn’t believe the fact that you’d uprooted your entire life — or whatever meager semblance of a life you had — on what could generously be described as an emotional breakdown and a legally binding whim.
Then the espresso machine hissed again, like a snake waiting to strike.
“Oh, come on.”
You blinked slowly. Your neighbor’s accent was distinctly Australian, so unlike the prim and prudish French accents that were common in Monaco.
That difference, somehow, made it worse.
Rolling onto your back, you checked your phone. 6:34 A.M. Why the fuck was your neighbor cursing at his coffee machine at such an ungodly hour of the day?
You considered several possibilities.
One: your neighbor was the victim of a murderous kitchen appliance.
Two: he was deeply unstable.
Three: Monaco apartment walls were apparently constructed from decorative tissue paper.
The machine gave one final tortured sputter before a cupboard slammed hard enough to rattle a framed painting in your bedroom.
You bolted upright, heart pounding. “Jesus,” you muttered.
On the other side of the wall, the man sighed. Not a normal sigh, either. A long-suffering, exhausted sound. The sigh of someone moments away from throwing a very expensive appliance directly into the Mediterranean.
Against your better judgment, you laughed at the thought. Immediately there was silence, and you froze.
The silence somehow felt… pointed. Like he’d heard you. Which was very possible, considering you could hear every phonon of movement that he made.
Then came three sharp knocks against the shared wall. You stared at the blank space, contemplating what to do — either respond and interact with your Negative Nancy of a neighbor at an hour where half the population was fast asleep, or just go to bed yourself and pray he didn’t send that espresso machine flying through the wall. Before you could choose, though, another three knocks were rapped. Your eyebrows lifted slowly in pure astonishment. “No way.”
Three more knocks in quick succession.
You climbed out of bed, still wearing oversized sleep shorts and one of your oldest university hoodies that definitely had a hole in the armpit, and crossed the apartment barefoot. The hardwood floor was cold beneath your feet as you pressed your palm lightly against the wall.
“…Hello?”
Nothing for just a second.
“Your laugh is loud.”
You gasped. Actually gasped. “Oh my God,” you whispered to yourself, horrified.
The voice came again, muffled through plaster. Dry. Flat. Annoyingly attractive. “And your footsteps.”
You narrowed your eyes at the wall. “You’re the one verbally abusing an espresso machine before sunrise.”
“It’s not my fault.” He said it as easily as though he were stating the freezing point of water.
You stared for a beat longer before a disbelieving laugh escaped you again.
Instantly, your neighbor shot back: “See? That.”
“Oh, you cannot possibly be serious.”
“You’ll find,” the voice replied coolly, “that I usually am.”
The audacity. The sheer, unbearable audacity of this man. Whoever he was, he had a massive ego and a chip on his shoulder, and you wouldn’t stoop so low as to engage in these petty squabbles.
You looked around your grandmother’s apartment as though searching for hidden cameras. Yesterday, you’d landed in Monaco carrying two suitcases, grief wrapped tight around your ribs, expecting reinvention and glamour and maybe a little healing by the sea.
Instead, you’d inherited a passive-aggressive wall enemy before unpacking your shampoo.
“Incredible,” you muttered. No response. You waited another second before asking, “…Did your coffee at least work?”
Begrudgingly, your neighbor answered, “No.”
You bit your lip to stop smiling. Which was unfortunate, really.
Because you had the distinct feeling your neighbor would hate that.
A month prior, you’d been standing in uncomfortable black stiletto heels beside a coffin wondering whether grief was supposed to feel more dramatic than this.
Rain tapped softly against the church windows. Someone in the second row was crying. Your aunt was pretending to dab away tears.
And you? Well. You mostly felt tired. You hadn’t seen your grandmother in almost four years.
That was the part nobody said out loud. Not during the service, at least.
Instead, people spoke about her elegance, her intelligence, her impossible standards. They talked about the way she carried herself through rooms like royalty and the way she never repeated an outfit twice in the seventies and how she once insulted a French ambassador so severely he refused to attend dinner parties she hosted afterward.
You believed every word of it.
Your grandmother had been difficult in the way expensive perfumes were difficult: sharp, overpowering, impossible to ignore. Loving her had always felt like the equivalent of losing an argument.
“You should stand straighter,” she used to tell you as a child, gently tapping your spine with two fingers.
“You should call more,” she’d say later, over increasingly strained phone calls, where long stretches of silence became more and more frequent. “You should want more from your life than this.”
This, apparently, meant everything. Your studio apartment in New York City. Your degree in art history. Your relationships, of which you had none. Your job as an intern at the Met.
You never seemed to reach the moving target of her approval, and eventually, you stopped trying to.
So one missed Christmas became two, a birthday phone call never went through.
And now she was dead.
The priest said something solemn. Your cousin sniffed loudly. You stared at white lilies until they blurred at the edges.
You thought grief would feel heavier, but instead it felt unfinished. This couldn’t be it; it just couldn’t. And yet it was.
After the burial, your family gathered beneath gray awnings outside the cemetery while rain misted over black umbrellas and expensive coats.
Your aunt Marianne caught your elbow before you could escape.
“There you are,” she said tightly, words clipped. “The lawyer is asking for everyone to meet Monday regarding the estate.”
You blinked, taken aback. “There’s an estate meeting?”
“She owned property in three countries,” Marianne replied, as though you were thick-headed. “Of course there’s an estate meeting.”
Right. Normal grandmothers left behind photo albums and recipe cards, but yours was anything but normal.
You almost didn’t go when Monday arrived, heavy and humid. You spent most of the morning sitting in your old Kia outside the law office debating whether you could fake your own death instead.
Unfortunately, curiosity won.
The lawyer’s office smelled like polished wood and old paper. Everyone sat around a long table wearing expressions ranging from grieving to openly competitive. Your cousins looked like they were putting on their best imitation of a shark, eyes bloodthirsty and slitted as they waited to hear what the lawyer had to say. You took the chair closest to the exit. Just in case.
The lawyer adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “Thank you all for coming. We’ll begin with the personal allocations.”
The meeting dragged on.
Jewelry, investments. Art collections. Properties in two different continents, places you’d never been to and could only dream of going to. A stake in a film company.
Your grandmother apparently possessed the financial portfolio of a minor Bond villain.
You stopped listening after twenty minutes. Until —
“And to her granddaughter —”
You looked up automatically, heart suddenly thrashing in your chest like it were a rabbit trying to free itself from a trap.
The lawyer smiled politely. “The apartment located in Monaco.”
Your brain completely shut down.
“…Sorry,” you said after a second. “What?”
Across the table, your aunt’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly.
“The residence in Monaco,” the lawyer repeated calmly. “Per your grandmother’s instructions, ownership transfers fully to you.”
You laughed. Not because it was funny, but because there was genuinely no other possible response. “I think there’s been a mistake.”
“There hasn’t.”
“No, I —” You looked around the room helplessly. “I haven’t spoken to her in years.”
The lawyer’s face softened slightly. “She amended the will six months ago.”
Six months ago.
“She also left a letter,” he added.
A cream envelope appeared in front of you moments later, your name written across the front in your grandmother’s elegant handwriting.
Suddenly, you couldn’t breathe properly. You stared at it for several seconds before opening it apprehensively.
Darling,
If you are reading this, then I am dead, which is unfortunate timing because Monaco is beautiful in spring.
You swallowed hard, tears pricking in your vision, yet you charged on.
You were always too sentimental for your own good. Too soft-hearted. I suspect the world has punished you for this already. But softness is not weakness, no matter what I may have taught you otherwise.
The apartment is yours because you are the only one who will live in it properly. Do not waste your life waiting for permission to become someone else.
And for God’s sake, answer your phone more often.
— Grand-mère
By the time you finished reading, your vision had gone embarrassingly blurry. You stared down at the paper, feeling completely out of your depth. Even her final act of affection still somehow sounded like criticism.
“Are you alright?” the lawyer asked gently.
You folded the letter carefully before answering.
“No,” you admitted. After a beat, you added: “But maybe I could be.”
By the time you arrived in Monaco, you were operating almost entirely on caffeine, blind optimism, and the kind of emotional dissociation that only occurred after making several catastrophic life decisions in rapid succession.
The train station spilled sunlight and noise and expensive luggage onto the streets in dizzying waves. Everything gleamed. The sea in the distance looked unreal, too blue to belong to an actual country, and every person you passed seemed aggressively well-dressed. Women in silk trousers walked tiny dogs that probably had trust funds. Men in linen shirts leaned against polished cars worth more than your student loans.
Meanwhile, you were dragging two overstuffed suitcases with one broken wheel through the streets while sweat collected at the base of your spine.
A glamorous entrance like no other, truly.
The apartment building itself sat tucked along a quieter street several blocks from the marina, elegant in that understated European way that made American luxury suddenly feel embarrassingly loud. Cream-colored stone climbed four stories high, ivy curling around wrought iron balconies. The windows were tall and narrow, their shutters painted faded green from years of Mediterranean sun.
You stood across the street for a long moment staring up at it.
Your grandmother had lived here.
The realization landed strangely every time it returned. You could still barely connect the woman who corrected your French grammar over Christmas dinners with this place that looked like it belonged in a film.
For a second, fear crawled unpleasantly into your throat. What if you didn’t belong here either?
Then one of your suitcases tipped sideways and nearly launched itself into traffic. “OK,” you muttered, yanking it upright. “Fantastic start.”
Inside, the building smelled faintly of lemon polish and old books. Cool air wrapped around your overheated skin as you stepped into the lobby, immediately grateful.
Until you saw the staircase. You stared upward. No elevator. Presumably, your grandmother’s final wish was for you to die dramatically hauling your earthly possessions up four flights of stairs.
The apartment keys dug into your palm while you mentally calculated how many trips this would take. Too many.
By the second trip, your arms were shaking. By the third, you were actively considering abandoning half your belongings on the staircase and reinventing yourself as the kind of woman who owned exactly two shirts and no cookware. The final box, a massive one filled almost entirely with books because apparently you’d inherited your grandmother’s inability to travel lightly, was balanced precariously against your chest as you stumbled up the last flight.
You couldn’t see, vision blacking out with sweat and sheer fatigue.
“One more step,” you whispered to yourself breathlessly. “One more —”
The box slipped out of your slick grasp. You made a strangled sound, knees buckling as the entire thing tilted sideways. And — a hand caught the edge of it, steadying it effortlessly.
You looked up. Oh.
Oh, that was unfortunate.
The man standing above you on the landing was tall in a way that felt deeply inconvenient at the moment, broad shoulders blocking part of the afternoon light streaming through the stairwell window. Dark brown hair curled slightly at the ends like he’d run a hand through it too many times, and his expression?
His expression was profoundly unimpressed.
Not annoyed, exactly, as that would have implied emotional investment. No, he looked at you the way someone might look at an unusually loud pigeon.
You straightened slightly, breathless and sweaty and immediately defensive. “Thanks,” you said, as politely as you could manage.
His eyes flicked once over the massive box in your arms, over your wobbling posture, and back to your face. “You know,” he said evenly, accent unmistakably Australian, “most people make more than six trips.”
You blinked at him. The nerve. “I have made more than six trips.”
“Hm.”
“Hm?” you repeated incredulously, too winded to even think about the ridiculousness of that one word.
He released the box slowly, clearly unconcerned whether it crushed you or not. “That explains why you look like that.”
You stared.
He stared back. Completely serious.
The worst part was that he wasn’t even mean about it. There was no cruelty in his voice, no mocking grin. Just blunt observation delivered with the emotional warmth of a spreadsheet.
You adjusted the box against your chest with increasing offense. “Wow. You’re really committed to being unhelpful, huh?”
His gaze drifted toward the staircase below, where another one of your bags had fallen over dramatically. “You seem to have it handled.”
“I very clearly do not.” You waited for him to help.
He did not help.
Instead, he slid one hand into the pocket of his dark trousers and tilted his head slightly, studying you with mild curiosity. Like he was trying to determine whether your situation was genuinely concerning or simply entertaining. You suspected it was the second one.
You narrowed your eyes in suspicion. “You’re enjoying this.”
“Not at all,” he responded.
“You hesitated.”
“I was thinking.”
You cocked your head to the side, studying him. “About?”
“How someone survives adulthood while carrying a box like that.”
You let out a disbelieving laugh. He blinked once at the sound, almost caught off guard by it.
Up close, he looked around your age. Mid-to-late twenties, maybe. Tired eyes. Sharp jawline. One of those faces that would probably look devastating if he ever smiled…which, judging by current evidence, had perhaps never occurred.
He wore a black button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing strong forearms dusted faintly with grease or graphite. Engineer, maybe. Or mechanic. Something precise and frustratingly competent. Definitely not a job that involved being surrounded by people, for sure.
“Do you always stand around watching women suffer for fun,” you asked, shifting the box again, “or am I special?”
His gaze dropped briefly to the way you were struggling to hold it. “You’re loud,” he answered.
You frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”
“You’ve been swearing in the stairwell for twenty minutes.”
Heat crawled immediately into your face. “Oh my God.”
“One box said fragile before you dropped it.”
“It slipped!”
“Hm.” There it was again. That stupid little hum.
You already hated him. Which would’ve been easier if he weren’t annoyingly attractive in that severe, exhausted sort of way.
“Do you live here?” you asked.
“Yes.”
“Great. Then you’re my first Monaco enemy.”
Something shifted in his expression. Not quite amusement, but close enough to count. “You just moved in?” he questioned, lips quirking upward insufferably.
“Yes.”
His eyes flicked toward the door beside yours. The apartment next door.
The realization hit you instantly. Looks like this intolerable, unaccommodating jerk was going to be a staple of your new life in Monaco. How wonderful. And you didn’t even know his name — which was for the better, since you did not want to be on friendly terms with this jackass.
He glanced down at the box still threatening to crush your internal organs. “You’re holding that wrong.”
“Oh, now you want to help?”
“No,” he said calmly. “I’m criticizing your technique.”
You made a noise of outrage. And to your absolute horror, the corner of his mouth twitched. Just slightly.
Not a smile.
But dangerously close.
Five days into living in Monaco, you came to two important conclusions.
First: the city was absurdly beautiful in a way that became almost irritating after a while. Every street looked curated, a perfect home feed on Pinterest. Every café seemed to exist solely to make tourists romanticize their lives. Even the air smelled expensive, saltwater and sunscreen and citrus drifting together beneath the afternoon heat.
Second: your neighbor was either avoiding you deliberately or naturally moved through life like a suspicious alley cat.
You’d heard him through the walls plenty.
Cabinets opening at precise times. Low music occasionally humming through the apartment. Classical sometimes, instrumental piano other times, once an aggressively miserable jazz playlist that lasted nearly four hours. You’d also discovered he worked insane hours, judging by the fact you’d heard his front door close sometime after midnight twice already.
But actually seeing him was rare.
It was beginning to annoy you on principle.
Especially because every interaction so far had ended with him looking faintly exasperated by your existence while you developed an increasingly inconvenient curiosity about his.
So on Thursday afternoon, after unpacking exactly half your kitchen and collapsing over a box labeled miscellaneous wires, you decided you deserved a break.
Monaco unfolded lazily beneath the sun as you wandered downhill toward the older part of the city. Laundry fluttered from narrow balconies overhead. Scooters buzzed past. Somewhere nearby, church bells rang softly through the heat.
You stopped in little shops mostly to escape the temperature. A tiny bakery where the woman behind the counter called you darling after you butchered your French pronunciation. A stationery store filled with fountain pens you absolutely could not afford.
Then finally… the bookstore.
It sat tucked between a wine shop and a florist, nearly hidden beneath climbing ivy. The sign overhead was faded slightly with age, the windows crowded with stacked novels and handwritten recommendation cards.
You paused outside immediately. Unlike most places in Monaco, it didn’t feel polished. It felt lived-in.
Inside, the air smelled like paper and dust and old wood soaked warm by sunlight. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling in crooked little aisles, books stacked sideways where they no longer fit properly. Soft jazz played somewhere overhead. You exhaled slowly.
OK.
This might be the first place in Monaco that didn’t make you feel wildly underdressed. You wandered aimlessly at first, fingertips brushing over spines. French novels. Travel memoirs. Architecture books bigger than your torso.
A sleepy orange cat blinked at you from atop a stack near the register.
“This is perfect,” you whispered.
The cat yawned.
You drifted toward the back corner before stopping abruptly, fear clenching your chest nonsensically.
Your stupid neighbor — Oscar — stood near one of the shelves with a book open in one hand, entirely absorbed. Dark gray T-shirt this time. Black trousers. Glasses perched low on his nose.
Glasses.
You stared for a second too long. They somehow made him look even more severe, like he was someone who corrected grammar in emails for fun.
Unfortunately, they also made him hotter, which felt deeply unfair considering his personality.
You should probably leave him alone. Instead, you walked directly toward him.
“Are you stalking me,” you asked pleasantly, “or is this just fate?”
Oscar looked up slowly. His expression changed the exact same way it always did when he saw you: a tiny flicker of recognition immediately followed by visible mental exhaustion. “You live next door to me.”
“That doesn’t answer the question.”
“No,” he agreed calmly. “It doesn’t.”
His eyes returned to the book.
You stared at him. He focused on the page, as though you no longer existed to him.
“Wow,” you muttered. “You really commit to the whole emotionally unavailable thing.”
“I’m reading.”
“In public. Dangerous choice.”
A pause. Without looking up, he countered: “You’re loud in bookstores too?”
You scoffed. “That was almost a joke.”
“Well, it wasn’t supposed to be.”
You moved beside him anyway, tilting your head to read the title in his hands. Advanced Structural Systems Engineering.
You blinked. “Holy shit.”
“What?” he said, exasperatedly.
“You actually read these voluntarily. And here I was, thinking that nobody could ever find building infrastructure fun.”
Oscar finally looked at you properly again, gaze steady and unreadable behind his glasses. “It’s relevant to my work.”
“Oh God, that’s worse. Why would you choose that of all careers?”
“You ask too many questions,” Oscar muttered, but he lowered the book and affixed his eyes on you again.
“And you answer too few,” you retorted.
“That usually discourages people.”
“Well, disappointingly for you, I’m deeply irritating.” You flashed him a wide smile.
He scowled, lines marring his face. “I noticed.”
The thing was, he never sounded cruel. Dry, yes. Constantly unimpressed, absolutely. But there was something strange underneath it all, something restrained rather than genuinely cold. Maybe speaking too much physically pained him, but listening didn’t.
Because he did listen. You were beginning to notice that.
Even now, his attention stayed fixed on you with unsettling steadiness despite his minimal responses. Most people waited impatiently for their turn to speak. Oscar seemed content letting silence stretch between your words.
“So,” you said, pulling a random novel from the shelf and thumbing through it. “Engineer.”
“Yes.”
“What kind?”
“Mechanical.”
You blew out a low breath. “That sounds important.”
“It’s mostly spreadsheets and suffering,” he remarked, tilting his head to the side.
You laughed. Again, there it was, flitting on Oscar’s face — that almost-expression. Close enough to a smile that you caught yourself wanting to earn another one. You leaned lightly against the shelf. “You know, when I first met you, I thought you were incredibly rude.”
“That implies you changed your mind.”
“Oh, no,” you said quickly. “You absolutely are.”
Oscar’s eyebrows raised.
“But,” you continued with a hint of a smile on your face, “I think maybe you’re secretly less horrible than you pretend to be.”
There’s a moment of silence as he thinks of what to say. “That sounds like a disappointing realization for you.”
You laugh again, bright and loud. Everything Oscar claims he hates.
The bookstore owner shuffled past pushing a cart of books, eyeing the two of you curiously before disappearing again. Oscar glanced toward the architecture section nearby.“You inherited the apartment?”
The sudden change in conversation surprised you slightly. Maybe because it was the first personal thing he’d asked. “Yeah,” you answered more softly. “My grandmother’s.”
“She lived there a long time.”
“You knew her?”
“A little.”
You watched him carefully. “Did she terrorize you too?”
To your shock, his mouth actually twitched upward. Small. Brief, but definitely real. “She corrected my pronunciation once.”
“Oh my God.” You snorted. “That means she liked you.”
“I don’t think that’s true,” he objected.
“No, seriously. She only bothered correcting people she found interesting enough to fix.”
Oscar looked down at the book in his hands again, thoughtful now. The light from the windows caught against the frames of his glasses, softening the sharpness of his face. For the first time since meeting him, he looked less like an irritation and more like he was… lonely, maybe.
You wondered how long he’d lived next door. The thought sat strangely heavy in your chest. “You know,” you joked, “you can smile. I checked. It won’t kill you.”
Oscar looked at you for a long moment, and then reached past you toward a shelf overhead, entirely ignoring the comment. Unfortunately, his arm brushed yours lightly in the process.
Your brain short-circuited instantly. He pulled a book free.
“You’d like this one,” he said, handing it to you.
You looked down automatically. A Moveable Feast. Your brows lifted slightly. “You’re recommending me books now?”
“It’s Hemingway.”
“That doesn’t answer the question either.”
Oscar met your gaze evenly. “No,” he said again, quieter this time. “It doesn’t.”
Something shifted after the bookstore, but not as dramatic as one might expect.
Oscar did not suddenly become warm or talkative or capable of expressing emotions like a normal human being. He still looked vaguely inconvenienced every time you appeared unexpectedly within his line of sight. He still answered most questions with the fewest words possible. He still treated social interaction like a mildly unpleasant administrative task.
But the edges softened, tiny things at first. The next morning, the espresso machine was quieter. Not fixed, exactly — you still heard a muffled curse around six-thirty — but quieter in the deliberate way that suggested Oscar had used a modicum of effort to not be as loud.
Which was a ridiculous thing to think.
You stood in your kitchen holding a spoonful of yogurt and stared at the shared wall suspiciously. “Was that for me?”
Faintly, Oscar’s disgruntled response. “No.”
You grinned into your breakfast.
Later that afternoon, you found a folded piece of paper slid beneath your apartment door. Not a note, but a list. Three cafés written in precise handwriting. Good coffee, not tourist traps. Stop going to the one on the corner. Their espresso tastes burnt.
You laughed so suddenly you nearly scared yourself. Even though there was no signature, you knew exactly who the list was written by. Like there was anyone else in the building passive-aggressive enough to leave anonymous coffee criticism at your doorstep.
You went to all three cafés. And despite your reservations, he was right.
After that, Monaco started feeling smaller in strange ways. You’d spot Oscar unexpectedly throughout the week like some bizarre recurring character only you seemed able to unlock.
At the market buying exactly six oranges and nothing else. Walking home late at night with rolled-up blueprints tucked beneath one arm. Standing outside the florist beside your building while an elderly woman enthusiastically spoke French at him while he listened with the exhausted patience of a hostage negotiator. And every time you interacted with him, he stopped a little longer when talking to you.
Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you to. You were observant in that sort of way. “You’re becoming significantly less terrifying,” you informed him one evening when you crossed paths on the staircase.
Oscar glanced at you from beneath tired eyes. “That sounds unlikely.”
“You gave me coffee recommendations.”
“You were drinking bad espresso. I could smell it.”
You harrumph. “OK, but you carried my groceries upstairs yesterday.”
“You dropped a tomato,” he rebutted.
“It burst dramatically.”
“It exploded.”
You smiled brightly. “And yet you helped me anyway.”
He adjusted his grip on the folder tucked under his arm. “That’s since you were blocking the staircase.”
“See, that’s the thing,” you said, pointing at him accusatorially. “You always pretend you’re helping people accidentally.”
Oscar looked almost wary now, like he disliked being perceived too closely. “Do you analyze strangers often?”
“Only interesting ones.”
That earned you silence. Not the dismissive kind you were familiar with, but the thoughtful one. You were beginning to understand the difference, slowly but surely.
A handful of days later, rain swept over Monaco in silver sheets so heavy the streets below your apartment blurred completely. Thunder rolled somewhere over the sea while warm wind rattled the shutters. You’d spent the evening curled beneath a blanket reading the Hemingway novel Oscar recommended.
Which was annoying, because it was good. Quiet and aching and observant in ways that slipped beneath your skin without permission.
You were halfway through rereading and admiring a paragraph for the third time when someone knocked on your door. Three sharp taps.
Your stomach flipped immediately, and you opened the door to find Oscar standing there holding two mugs of coffee.
You blinked at him. Rain darkened the shoulders of his dark ebony sweater slightly, curls damp from the weather. He looked unfairly good in low lighting, all sharp lines softened by the glow spilling from your apartment.
“The power’s out in my kitchen,” you said.
Oscar glanced past you toward the darkened appliances.
“I know.”
“You know?”
“The whole building lost partial electricity twenty minutes ago.”
“Oh.” You looked at the coffee, then back at him. “So to commiserate the loss of my appliances, you brought me pity beverages?”
“You looked miserable earlier.”
Your eyebrows shot up. “You noticed I looked miserable?”
“You sigh loudly when frustrated.”
“I do not.”
Oscar smirked. “You do.”
Offended, you crossed your arms. Oscar held one mug out slightly.
“It’s temporary,” he said. “The outage.”
You took the coffee carefully, fingers brushing his for half a second.
Warm. Dangerously so. “Thanks,” you murmured.
“You finished the book?” The question caught you off guard, and you took a second to reorient yourself.
“Almost.”
Oscar nodded once towards the general direction of his apartment. “I have more. If you want.”
Your brain buffered as you understood what he was suggesting. “You’re inviting me over?”
A flicker of hesitation crossed his face then, so brief you almost missed it. Like he was already reconsidering the decision in real time. “It’s raining,” he said finally. “And your apartment currently smells like burnt toast.”
Heat rushed immediately into your face. “That happened one time.”
“Not true. You set off the fire alarm twice.”
“The second one was unrelated,” you argued.
Oscar’s expression remained perfectly neutral. “You can come over,” he said. “Or continue destroying your kitchen independently.”
You stared at him for another second, but you couldn’t help it. A slow smile grew on your face. “Wow. Oscar Piastri voluntarily initiating social interaction. Historic moment.”
“I can leave,” he pointed out.
“No, absolutely not.”
His apartment looked exactly how you imagined it would. Clean to the point of suspicion. Dim warm lighting. Bookshelves arranged with alarming precision. One massive desk crowded with sketches, mechanical parts, and monitors filled with things you absolutely did not understand.
The place felt lived in quietly, as though someone who spent most of his life inside his own head but had tried, carefully, to make solitude comfortable.
Music played softly somewhere in the background. Piano again.
“You own candles,” you said immediately, spotting one lit near the bookshelf.
Oscar shut the door behind you. “That’s your first observation?”
“You don’t seem like a candle person,” you informed him.
“What does a candle person look like?” Oscar scoffed.
“Happier.”
To your delight, you caught it again. That tiny near-smile. “You can sit down, you know.”
You wandered instead, deciding to uncover some fragments about the mystery that was Oscar’s life. “You alphabetized your books,” you accused him as you inspected his perfectly organized shelves. The ones in your apartment looked nothing like this.
“No.”
You paused, looking closer.
“Don’t tell me it’s chronologically? By publication date?”
“Yes,” he confirmed, a soft blush spreading on his cheeks.
“That’s somehow worse.”
“You reorganized yours by color yesterday.”
You turned sharply. “How do you know that?”
Oscar froze for approximately one second too long. “You left your curtains open,” he answered finally.
“Oh my God.” You pointed at him accusingly. “You do watch me.”
“I live next door.”
“That is not helping your case.”
He looked genuinely unimpressed by your delight over this revelation, but there was something looser about him tonight. Less guarded around the edges. You settled onto the couch eventually, curling one leg beneath yourself while Oscar sat in the armchair opposite, coffee resting untouched in his hands. “You liked Hemingway?” he asked after a while.
You looked down at the book beside you.
“Yeah,” you admitted quietly. “It feels… lonely.” Oscar’s gaze lifted toward yours. “Not sad,” you continued thoughtfully. “Just… like someone trying very hard not to say what they actually feel.”
Silence settled between you. Heavy suddenly. And for the first time since meeting him, Oscar didn’t immediately look away first. “You do that too, you know,” you said softly before you could stop yourself. His expression stilled. “With the whole pretending-not-to-care thing.”
The rain filled the quiet for a moment. Then Oscar leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you with that same unsettling steadiness he always seemed to reserve only for you. “You’ve known me for a week.”
“Mm. And?”
“And you think you understand me already?”
“No,” you clarified honestly. “I just think you want people to underestimate how much you notice.”
Something flickered across his face then. Recognition, changing the air between you two. The room didn’t suddenly become charged with cinematic tension. Nobody leaned closer. Nobody confessed anything dramatic beneath the rain and candlelight.
Oscar simply looked at you for a fraction too long. And for a man who treated eye contact like a limited resource, it felt strangely intimate.
The piano music hummed softly through the apartment while thunder rolled somewhere over the sea. Outside the windows, Monaco glittered silver and gold beneath the storm, headlights smearing against rain-slick streets below.
Inside, Oscar remained very still in his chair across from you. “You say things like that often?” he asked eventually.
“What, annoyingly perceptive things?”
“Yes.”
You smiled slightly. “Only when I’m trying to bother someone.”
“And is it working?”
“You invited me into your apartment voluntarily. I think I’m making incredible progress.”
That earned you the smallest exhale through his nose. Not quite laughter — or a smile — but God, you were becoming disturbingly addicted to making Oscar Piastri happy.
His fingers tapped once against the side of his coffee mug before he asked, quieter this time, “What made you say it?”
“The underestimating thing?”
A nod. You considered him carefully. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “You notice everything.”
Oscar’s brows pulled together faintly.
“You remembered which café I kept going to. You knew I reorganized my books. You notice when I’m frustrated… through a wall.” You gestured lightly around the apartment. “Half your personality is pretending not to care while secretly paying attention to literally everything.”
“That sounds exhausting.”
“It sounds lonely.”
The words slipped out before you could soften them. Immediately, silence settled again. You watched his expression shutter slightly. He wasn’t angry, or offended, just instinctively guarded. You’d stepped accidentally too close to something private. Your stomach twisted. “Sorry,” you said quickly. “That was probably—”
“No,” Oscar interrupted. His voice was calm. “It’s fine.” Which, you were beginning to learn, usually meant absolutely not fine at all.
You shifted slightly on the couch. “You don’t have to answer personal questions, by the way.”
“I know.”
“You just look at me like I’ve committed a federal crime every time I ask one.”
“That’s because you ask invasive ones.”
“You invited me over to discuss literature. This is what happens.”
“I regret it already.”
“No, you don’t,” you corrected him.
Oscar glanced at you then, and there it was again. That impossible almost-smile threatening at the corner of his mouth before disappearing. “I usually don’t invite people over,” he admitted after a moment.
Something about the quiet honesty of it made your chest ache unexpectedly. “You don’t seem like you usually invite people anywhere.”
“You’d be right about that.”
“Do you have friends?”
A pause. “Yes.”
“You hesitated,” you said, pouting.
“I was deciding if you counted as one.”
Your heart did one deeply humiliating thing, but you recovered with visible effort. “Wow. That was almost nice.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
After that night, things changed in ways so subtle you almost convinced yourself you imagined them. Except you didn’t.
Oscar started existing around you differently.
You’d hear your front door open in the mornings only to find coffee sitting outside sometimes — not every day, just occasionally. No note, no explanation. Just a paper cup from one of the cafés he’d recommended.
The first time it happened, you knocked on his door immediately. When he opened it, he looked annoyingly unsurprised to see you. “Did you leave this outside my apartment?”
Oscar leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “Probably.”
“Probably?”
“You drank the terrible coffee near the marina again yesterday.”
“You can’t punish me into having better taste,” you reminded him.”
He shrugged. “I can try.”
You stared at him, looked down at the coffee, and back up again. “Wait. This is kind of sweet.”
His expression changed instantly, like the word itself physically alarmed him. “No, it isn’t.”
“It absolutely is.”
He fumbled for what to say next. “You looked tired.”
“So your solution was caffeine and emotional repression?”
“That solves most things.”
“Jesus Christ.” But you smiled the entire walk back into your apartment.
Another evening, you came home balancing groceries against your hip only to find Oscar sitting on the floor outside his apartment door with a screwdriver clenched between his teeth.
You stopped short. He glanced up briefly from where he was taking apart the lock mechanism. “…Did you break into your own apartment?”
“No.”
“You look like you did.”
“The lock jammed,” he corrected you.
You crouched down nearby immediately despite the groceries cutting painfully into your fingers. “How long have you been out here?”
“Twenty minutes.”
“And you didn’t call someone?” you inquired, choking out a laugh.
“I can fix it.”
“You say that with the confidence of a man currently sitting in a hallway.”
Oscar removed the screwdriver from his mouth with visible patience. “Go inside.”
“No.”
“You don’t even know what I’m doing.”
“I know moral support is important,” you added, beaming.
He flicked his gaze up to you, brown eyes crinkling with frustration. “I don’t need moral support.”
“That’s objectively false.”
He sighed quietly. You sat cross-legged on the floor anyway.
The hallway was warm from the lingering heat outside, golden evening light filtering through the stairwell windows. Somewhere downstairs, someone played music softly while dishes clinked faintly through open windows. Oscar worked in silence for another minute before speaking suddenly. “You really don’t get discouraged easily.”
You tilted your head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Most people stop talking when I clearly want them to.”
“Oh.” You smiled brightly. “That’s because I think you secretly enjoy it.”
“I don’t.”
“You invited me over.”
“That was one time,” he refuted.
“You bought me coffee.”
Oscar tossed his head back. “You looked exhausted.”
“You repaired my window latch yesterday.”
“It was hanging off.”
You inhaled, annoyed. “You notice every time I come home late.”
“That’s because you stomp up the stairs like a soldier returning from war.”
You grinned triumphantly, finally having gotten what you wanted. “See?”
Oscar looked deeply dissatisfied with the direction of this conversation. Before you could say anything, the lock clicked open. He blinked once. “Hm.”
“That’s your reaction?” you asked incredulously. “Not even a little celebration?”
“It’s a lock.”
“You have the emotional range of a Victorian widower. God.”
Oscar looked up at you from where he still sat on the floor. And finally — he laughed. Small and startled, like the sound escaped accidentally. But real.
You froze instantly. That was significantly worse than the almost-smiles. Because now you knew what he sounded like when he genuinely laughed, and unfortunately it was warm and low and unfairly nice.
Oscar seemed to realize what he’d done a second later because his expression shifted immediately back toward guarded neutrality. Too late.
Your eyes widened slowly. “You can laugh.”
“That was barely a laugh.”
“But it was one.”
“No.”
You nudged his shoulder. “You literally laughed at my joke.”
“I exhaled.”
“You’re embarrassed,” you chortled.
“I’m opening my door now.” He stood up smoothly, towering over you again as he pushed the apartment door open. “Goodnight,” he said flatly.
You got to your feet far slower, still grinning like an idiot. “Goodnight, Oscar.”
He paused just before stepping inside, glancing back toward you standing in the hallway. “You can borrow the other Hemingway book I have when you finish,” he said. And then he disappeared into his apartment.
You stood there for another few seconds holding your groceries, heart beating strangely hard beneath your ribs. Somewhere between the bookstore and the coffee and the quiet conversations in the rain, your grumpy neighbor had stopped looking at you like an inconvenience.
By the fifth week of you living in Monaco, Oscar started lingering. That was how you knew things were getting dangerous.
Not because he became openly affectionate — heavens no. Oscar still spoke like every additional sentence cost him money. He still answered the door looking mildly inconvenienced by human interaction. He still acted personally betrayed whenever you made him laugh unexpectedly.
But now he stayed. In the hallway after brief conversations should’ve ended. At your apartment door after returning borrowed books. Beside you at the little market near the marina while you spent fifteen minutes dramatically debating between peaches and nectarines.
“You can’t actually taste the difference,” he informed you.
“That is an insane thing to say.”
“You’re choosing based entirely on vibes.”
“You say that like it’s wrong,” you protested.
Oscar looked at the fruit. “The peaches are objectively better.”
“You have strong opinions about fruit,” you grinned, “I’m surprised.”
“I have correct opinions about produce.” There it was again, that warmth hiding underneath the dryness.
It showed up more often now. In the way he automatically walked on the outside edge of sidewalks without seeming to realize it. In the way he started bringing an extra coffee downstairs if he saw your lights on early in the morning. In the way his apartment door remained cracked open occasionally while he worked, a silent invitation that you’d somehow learned how to read.
Sometimes you sat there for hours doing nothing together. You’d curl up on his couch reading while Oscar worked at his desk nearby, sleeves rolled up, glasses slipping lower down his nose while blueprints and mechanical sketches crowded his screens.
You’d always thought connection had to be loud to matter. Big conversations, grand confessions, immediate understanding.
Oscar was quiet in a way that made tiny things feel enormous. One night, you looked up from your book to find him watching you absentmindedly from across the room. “What?” you asked.
Oscar blinked once, like you’d caught him doing something embarrassing. “Nothing.”
“You’re staring at me.”
“You’re reading intensely.”
You frowned. “How does someone read intensely?”
“You keep making faces.”
“That’s because I’m emotionally invested.”
“You gasped twenty seconds ago,” he concurred.
“It was warranted!”
His mouth twitched faintly. Your chest did something deeply pathetic. The thing was, you couldn’t pinpoint exactly when you started falling for him.
Maybe it was the bookstore. Maybe it was the rainstorm. Maybe it was every tiny moment afterward: the coffee, the conversations, the way he always noticed things about you nobody else did. Or maybe, it was moments like these. The terrifying gentleness hiding underneath all that restraint. Oscar never reached for attention, instead for specifics.
The exact pastry you liked from the bakery downstairs, the fact you hated overhead lighting at night, the way you reread paragraphs when you were anxious.
He noticed everything.
And once he cared about something, you got the feeling he cared permanently. Which was horrifying, really. Especially since you were beginning to suspect the same thing about yourself.
It happened on a Thursday evening.
Warm wind drifted through the open balcony doors while the city glowed beneath the sunset. You sat cross-legged on Oscar’s kitchen counter eating strawberries directly from the carton while he made coffee with the concentration of a surgeon.
“You know,” you said thoughtfully, “for someone who claimed I was too loud, you spend a shocking amount of time with me.”
Oscar slid a cup toward you without looking up. “You’re still loud.”
“And yet here you are.”
“Hm.”
You smiled into your coffee. Outside, Monaco buzzed softly with evening life. Scooters somewhere below. Distant laughter from the street. The sea beyond the buildings turning molten beneath the setting sun.
Oscar leaned back lightly against the counter across from you, arms folded. “You like France?” he asked suddenly.
You looked up, surprised by the question. “I think so.”
“Think?”
“I’ve never… really been.” You glanced toward the balcony. “I mean, unless you’re counting Monaco as being a part of France. But I’m not sure if you are or not. Anyways, my grandmother would have loved the thought of me moving here… at least that’s what I hope.”
Oscar watched you, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “She was difficult.”
“She was terrifying.”
“She liked you,” he murmured. The certainty in his voice made you look away from him unexpectedly, refocusing down at your coffee.
“I don’t know about that.”
Oscar was quiet for a moment. “She talked about you.”
Your head lifted immediately. “What?”
He looked almost reluctant now, like he already regretted speaking. “She mentioned you sometimes,” he admitted. “Mostly after you stopped visiting her in Newport.”
Something inside you twisted painfully. “Oh.”
“She kept photos.”
Your throat tightened further.
Oscar’s gaze stayed fixed somewhere near your shoulder instead of your eyes now, voice calm and even in the way it always became when talking about emotional things too directly. “She worried about you.”
For a second, neither of you spoke. The air between you felt fragile suddenly. “I thought she was disappointed in me,” you admitted quietly.
Oscar looked at you then. Really looked at you. Something about his expression made your pulse stumble. “I don’t think,” he said carefully, “you disappoint people as much as you think you do.”
The words landed harder than they should have. Oscar never said things he didn’t mean, either because he noticed too much, or because somewhere along the way, his opinion had started mattering to you in ways that felt terrifyingly irreversible.
The dying sunlight caught against the edges of his hair and the curve of his jaw. You suddenly became hyperaware of how close he stood. How easy it would be to step forward.
Neither of you moved.
Oscar cleared his throat softly and looked away first.
“There’s a vineyard in Nice,” he said.
“That’s… random.”
“I know.” He laughed, then played it off as a cough before you could point it out.
“You hate random.”
“I tolerate some exceptions.”
Your lips curved slightly. “Do you now?”
Oscar rubbed a hand once across the back of his neck, and to your absolute shock, he looked — nervous? “They do outdoor dinners sometimes,” he continued, gaze fixed very firmly on the coffee machine instead of you. “It’s quieter this time of year.”
Slowly, your smile faded into something softer. “Oscar.”
“They have good wine,” he added, clearly making things worse for himself now. “And olives. You like olives.”
Your heart practically melted onto the kitchen floor. “You noticed I like olives?”
His jaw tightened faintly like he regretted existing. “You order them constantly.”
“And this is…” You tilted your head slightly. “What exactly?”
Finally, Oscar looked at you again. Steady, certain, but terrified regardless. “A date,” he said simply.
The word settled warmly between you. You smiled before you could stop yourself. Gentle enough that something in Oscar’s expression immediately unraveled at the sight of it.
“I’d love to go,” you said.
For a moment, he just looked at you, like he couldn’t quite believe you answered that easily. And then he smiled. Not the tiny restrained flickers you’d spent weeks chasing.
A real one.
Small and crooked and devastating enough to knock the breath directly from your lungs.
Suddenly, with the sea glowing outside the windows, you understood something all at once: You hadn’t moved to Monaco to start over.
SUMMARY : After being the joke of the family for the last few years because you always came home alone, you finally snapped and lied that you would bring a boyfriend to your cousin's wedding. Now, you just have to find the boyfriend.
PAIRING: lando norris x reader
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You were tired of being the family joke. Every Christmas, every birthday, every Sunday lunch, the question came like clockwork:
"So… where’s your boyfriend?"
There was even a running bet. Your mum, dad, aunts, and uncles had all put money on who would bring someone home first: you or your three-year-old niece. Every single vote was on the toddler.
When your cousin announced her wedding and the teasing reached a new level, you couldn’t take it anymore. In a moment of frustration, you blurted out that you had met someone. A handsome British guy. That you’d been seeing each other for a few months and you would bring him to the wedding in three weeks.
They stared at you in stunned silence… then laughed. “Stop imagining men, love,” your aunt said, patting your shoulder like you were a child.
That only made you double down. You insisted he was real . You promised he would come. And somehow, against all odds, they believed you.
Now you had three weeks to find a real, handsome, British man willing to pretend to be your boyfriend for an entire weekend.
You tried everything.
You drafted a ridiculous post you almost uploaded somewhere. You looked up actors for hire and nearly cried at the prices. You asked around at work, but almost everyone was married or taken.
You even stopped strangers on the street one desperate afternoon, only to realise halfway through the conversation how insane it sounded.
Days slipped by. The wedding got closer.
With only a few days left, you met your best friend at her apartment, looking like you hadn’t slept in a week.
She pulled out a notebook with a determined expression.
“Okay. Let’s be systematic. Handsome British man. Height?”
You sighed, rubbing your temples. “I don’t know… taller than me is fine. I don’t care.”
“Eye colour?”
“Whatever. It doesn’t matter. This is my fake boyfriend, not my future husband.”
She scribbled notes, humming to herself. Then she looked up, eyes sparkling.
“I’ve got our guy.”
You raised an eyebrow. “Please don’t tell me this is Tinder on paper.”
“Lando Norris.”
“No. Absolutely not.”
“Yes,” she said firmly. “You saved his ass five years ago. He owes you a favour. And I heard he’s back home right now.”
“That was forever ago. He won’t even remember me. He’s a world champion now.”
“Exactly. A favour is a favour. No matter how many championships he wins.”
You argued for nearly an hour. You overthought it for another hour after she left. But in the end, lying in bed staring at the ceiling, you typed the message with shaking fingers.
You : Hi Lando, it’s Y/N. I don’t know if you still remember me, but I really need that favour you promised me years ago. Could we meet up and talk?
You didn’t expect a reply anytime soon.
But he answered in under ten minutes.
You met at the old café you used to visit together years ago. It was quieter now, with only a few customers scattered around. He looked the same, but older. More confident.
The first few minutes were painfully awkward. Small talk about the weather, how long it had been, what you both did these days. Then you took a deep breath and told him everything.
You explained the family teasing. The lie. The wedding. The fact that you had painted him as this perfect British boyfriend.
When you finished, you stared at your coffee, cheeks burning.
“I know this is completely insane. You don’t have to say yes. I just… I didn’t know what else to do.”
Lando was quiet for a long moment. Then he let out a soft laugh, shaking his head.
“I was expecting something way worse when you said ‘favour.’ Like hiding a body or something. This? Pretending to be your boyfriend for a weekend? Yeah. I can do that.”
Relief flooded through you so strongly you almost cried. The next few days became a whirlwind of planning.
You built your story carefully: you had known each other years ago, reconnected a few months back when you ran into each other by chance, went on a date, and things had slowly turned romantic. It wasn’t entirely a lie, which made it easier to sell.
But your family was suspicious by nature. They would want proof.
So you spent an entire afternoon taking photos. You changed outfits, hairstyles, makeup, locations : park, your apartment, even a quick walk by the river. You made sure the pictures looked like they’d been taken over weeks, not hours.
At one point, after the tenth outfit change, you collapsed onto your couch.
“Lando, go buy flowers,” you said.
He was sprawled across your living room floor, looking exhausted. “Why?”
“Because you’re supposed to be a romantic boyfriend who spoils me. We need one last photo. Big bouquet. Make it convincing.”
He groaned but went anyway. When he came back with the biggest, most ridiculous bouquet you had ever seen, you couldn’t help but laugh. You added an empty gift box for good measure and took more pictures.
The hardest part came later that evening.
You fidgeted with your phone, avoiding his eyes.
“We… should probably practice kissing too. My family notices everything. If it looks awkward in front of them, they’ll know something’s wrong.”
Lando rubbed the back of his neck, but nodded slowly. “Yeah… you’re right.”
The first kiss was hesitant and stiff. You both pulled away, laughing awkwardly. The second was better. By the fifth or sixth, something shifted. The kisses grew slower, deeper, more natural. When you finally stepped back to check the photo you’d taken, your heart was beating way too fast.
Lando cleared his throat. “Your family… they don’t actually work for the FBI, right?”
You smiled weakly. “Sometimes I wonder.”
***
The flight and the car ride home were exactly as terrifying as you expected.
Your dad picked you both up from the airport and spent the entire drive asking Lando questions: about his job, his family, his intentions. Lando handled it well, but you could see the overwhelm in his eyes.
The next two days were a marathon. Every relative wanted to meet him. Every meal turned into an interrogation. Your aunt was the worst.
At dinner on the second night, after Lando had excused himself to rest, she leaned in.
“He’s lovely, really. But let’s be honest… he’s so out of your league it almost hurts. A famous, handsome, rich athlete… and you’re just you.”
You forced a smile and stayed quiet. You didn’t want drama before the wedding.
The wedding itself was beautiful. Soft blue tones everywhere, just like you’d told Lando. He wore the new suit perfectly. He held your hand, kissed your temple, danced with you like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Somewhere between the fake affection and the real laughter, the lines blurred. You caught yourself forgetting it was pretend more than once. And you were pretty sure he did too.
Then came the bouquet toss. You stood near the back, not even trying to catch it… and it landed straight in your arms.
Your cousin ran over, beaming. “The next wedding we’ll be celebrating is yours!” she said, looking between you and Lando.
You smiled tightly and nodded. Lando just gave you a small, amused look.
The next morning, as you packed to leave, your mum pulled you aside while your dad and Lando loaded the bags into the car.
“I’ll admit it,” she said softly, “I thought you might have made him up just to shut us up. But seeing you two together… I’m so happy for you, sweetheart. He looks at you like he really loves you. You deserve this.”
The guilt twisted in your chest.
On the plane ride home, you were quiet. When you reached your apartment, Lando carried your bags all the way upstairs, even though you told him he didn’t have to.
At your door, you turned to him with a tired smile.
“Thank you. Seriously. You can stop pretending now. No one’s watching anymore.”
He nodded, but didn’t move right away. For a few seconds he just looked at you, something unreadable in his eyes.
it's a cruel twist of fate as you find out you're forced onto the same charity campaign as your childhood enemy, oscar piastri.
﹙ ⓘ ﹚ warnings: angst, slow burn romance, elements of humor. he falls first and harder, oblivious!reader. miscommunication trope. enemies to lovers. 9.0k words
✶ author’s note 𑣲 ֹfirst fic … and i'm a little nervous putting it out there considering i've never posted on tumblr b4 !! but i had so much fun writing this concept that i knew i couldn't just leave it sitting in my drafts foreverrrr. i'm excited to share this story, and hopefully you enjoy reading it. here's to manymanymany more oscar fics in the future, he's such a fun person to write for !!!
THIS HAS TO BE SOME FORM OF DIVINE PUNISHMENT.
There’s just no alternative explanation, because reuniting with Oscar Piastri again — after all these years — is far too cruel of a coincidence.
The brightness of your laptop screen glares back at you mockingly, and you’re tempted to slam it shut like a petulant child. Unfortunately, squinting hard enough hasn’t rearranged the words into anything else, and it’s not like breaking your expensive computer is going to erase the email, no matter how much you wish it would.
The Apex Foundation is thrilled to announce the launch of our newest youth motorsport outreach campaign, featuring ESPN+ commentator Y/N L/N and McLaren driver Oscar Piastri.
It’s not the first half of the letter that bothers you, it’s the last portion.
“No,” you say aloud to nobody in particular.
Your roommate Olivia, who’s in the process of making herself a matcha latte, glances up briefly before deciding whatever turmoil you’re experiencing is not her problem.
You keep reading further, hoping that maybe Oscar will be there temporarily. It’s a stupid thing to think, but you’ve always been foolish when it comes to him.
Over the next three months, the campaign will include media appearances, charity karting events, interviews, and stops across both Europe and Australia.
Oh God. You feel like you might be sick, all over the glossy marble counter.
When you signed up for this, the idea of spending a quarter of your year jetsetting around the world sounded perfect. The best way to tick off a few boxes on your list of places you wanted to visit without having to deal with major expenses and taking time off of work. But now, realizing you’ll be in close proximity with your sworn enemy… that turns this dream into more of a nightmare.
You drop your head with a dull thunk. This is karmic retribution, it has to be. Maybe you cut someone off in traffic. Maybe you laughed at a child crying once. Or, maybe God just hates you specifically, for no other reason but for entertainment.
Nobody had warned you that there was even the slightest chance of this being a joint tour with another athlete. You wouldn’t have dared to apply if that was the case, but it didn’t matter now. The universe had found its way to put you back into orbit with the boy who spent your entire childhood making your life miserable. With that infuriatingly calm face and knife-sharp, perfectly precise insults that couldn’t exactly be classified as bullying.
Oscar was much too clever for outright bullying. That smug bastard preferred psychological warfare, and you’d bet anything that you’d be on the receiving end of his torture for the foreseeable future.
You’d wanted to strangle him from age eleven onwards, but unfortunately your parents had been best friends and that was out of the question. It had always confused you how someone as nice as Nicole Piastri could have given birth to pesky Oscar, a question that persisted the longer you were around him.
Which was quite often, seeing as you’d both grown up around karting paddocks. Every weekend for years had involved sunburns, petrol fumes, and Oscar’s silent judgement. Yet another staple of your childhood that you tried to repress. You’d always love and value your humble beginning, but you loathed how close you’d been to Oscar, especially considering how your parents would still bring him up in conversations despite not seeing him face-to-face for almost a decade.
By thirteen, your rivalry had become legendary amongst the adults.
By fifteen, people were taking bets over which one of you would snap first: quiet Oscar, or you, feisty little Y/N L/N?
But then, by seventeen, Oscar left for Europe, and you were finally free of his aggravating presence. In fact, you had celebrated by throwing a party so dramatic your mother still brought it up occasionally.
“Honestly, it was a little concerning how happy you were.”
And yes, you were happy.
Now, your joy was spoiled, because the bane of your existence was back in your life.
You lift your head from the counter, wishing you could teleport to another dimension where you could escape this situation. Before you can spiral too deeply, however, your phone buzzes with Unknown Number.
Strange — you don’t get many calls at this time of day. Or ever, really. You mostly communicate through a barrage of emails or text messages. You consider ignoring it, but curiosity peaks in you, so you decide to answer.
“...Hello?”
There’s muffled static, a pause, and: “Hi.”
You nearly choke. Of course you’d recognize that voice instantly, regardless of how many years it’s been since you last heard it. Low, gravelly but still dryly unamused and disinterested.
Oscar Fucking Piastri.
“You have got to be kidding me,” you mutter under your breath.
“That bad, huh?”
“You called me. Why?” You decide to cut right to the point. You’re not a typically blunt person, yet it looks like you’ll get used to it very quickly. Spending more time on the line with Oscar is not something you want to do.
“Yes, that’s generally how phones work.”
There it is. The same irritating comments you remember.
You sit up straighter out of pure, defensive instinct. “What. Do. You. Want?”
Another pause, eating up more seconds of your precious time. Oscar sounds almost hesitant, though, when he says, “Temporary ceasefire?”
You bark out a sharp laugh in shock. “A ceasefire implies we’re at war.”
“Are we not?”
“We were not.”
“Oh, but if I remember correctly, we absolutely were. You threw a Capri Sun at my head in 2014 after I cracked one joke about your messy handwriting. That’s assault.”
You snort. “Well, you deserved it.”
There’s more rustling on his end of the line, faint voices in the background. It’s probably McLaren employees, working like busy bees to have everything perfectly in order for Oscar’s next race. You can almost see it in front of you: that dumb composed expression he always wears in interviews to make it seem as though everything’s under control.
Yes, you’ve seen him. Obviously. Everyone loves him, the quiet rookie becoming a Formula One star and almost clinching a World Championship by his third season. He’s an internet darling — all the girls love his lack of humor and how he remains ice-cold under pressure.
The world thinks Oscar Piastri is unreadable, a robot made to pump out wins and purple sectors.
You know better.
You know he drums his fingers when he’s annoyed. You know he goes still when he’s nervous. You know his left eye narrows slightly when he’s trying not to smile.
Then again, you also know that he once told twelve-year-old you that your homemade brownies, baked out of love, tasted “like burnt tires.”
Which is unforgivable.
“So,” Oscar says casually. “Can we try to be adults about this?”
Your head jerks. “Nope.”
“Right.”
“I’m glad we’re on the same page, then.” You wait to hear his next remark, if it’s as biting as the past.
Oscar sighs softly. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t ask for this either.”
An irrational part of you bristles. “Oh, wow. Thank you. That makes me feel so much better.”
“That’s not —”
Anger pricks at you. God, how is it so easy for Oscar to rile you up? “You know what? Actually, don’t worry about it. We’ll smile for the cameras, pretend we don’t hate each other’s guts, and save the children. Do our duty, whatever. Then we can go back to our lives before any of this shit happened.”
“Hate is a strong word.”
You grit your teeth. It’s taking all your effort to not hang up the phone, but you know Oscar will just redial over and over again until you pick up. “You used to call me Little Miss Perfect.”
“In my defense, you would throw a tantrum every time something didn’t align with your schedule. Even if it was off by half a second.”
You shake your head. “Not all of us can rely on a murder of employees to keep us on track.”
You hear it then, very quietly: a laugh. Not the polite little exhale he does in interviews. A real one. Brief, and warm, and startled out of him.
Your stomach does somersaults traitorously. Absolutely not. Nope. You refuse.
Because Oscar Piastri is still Oscar Piastri. Annoying, arrogant, insufferably composed.
And definitely still your enemy.
A fortnight later, you walk into the campaign launch in Monaco and immediately realize two things.
One: the room is full of cameras. Everywhere you look, there’s some form of flashing light. Is this a media event or life under Big Brother?
And two: Oscar Piastri has gotten unfairly attractive.
It’s actually quite offensive.
He’s standing near the platform wearing a dark navy suit, talking to one of the organizers, expression calm and attentive (like always). Oscar’s taller than you remember, with broader shoulders and cleaner edges. All the gawkiness of his youth has been filled out now, toned muscles shaped by the physical demand of Formula 1.
Most annoying is how pretty he is. Like some sort of genetically engineered prince designed specifically to irritate you with his bland attractiveness.
As if sensing your stare, he looks up. Your eyes meet across the room, and there it is — that strange little pause, the world hiccuping for half a second.
Oscar’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, not smug or mocking, just surprised. His gaze flicks over you once, quick and quiet, and something unreadable settles behind his eyes. There’s that mask being put back into place.
You decide to avoid that general area for a while, and keep Oscar always in your peripheral vision. You’d prefer not to interact with Oscar until it was one-hundred percent necessary, with no other way out.
Sadly, this wish doesn’t stay fulfilled for long. A photographer for the campaign launch brings you two together, and Oscar continues to look at you strangely. Too intently, like he’s trying to solve a problem — but you’re not a Rubix cube, and you hate the weight of his attention. It makes your skin feel warm in a way you deeply distrust.
“Perfect timing!” she says brightly. “Can we get a few shots together?”
You and Oscar share a look of mutual suffering. At least that hasn’t changed.
The photographer, as naive as a summer child, beams. “Closer together, please.”
You step exactly one centimeter nearer. Oscar glances down at the measurable distance between you and almost smiles. “I don’t bite, you know,” he murmurs.
“You definitely do.”
For the first time, his composure cracks fully. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, a devastating quirk that makes you swallow roughly.
The worst part is that nobody else notices it, the way Oscar Piastri looks at you after that. None of the photographers, or the event coordinators fussing over schedules, or the PR team hovering nearby with tablets and caffeine addictions.
To everyone else, Oscar Piastri still looks normal — the same old calm, reserved self he’s known to be.
But you can analyze the tiny differences, how his smile is usually controlled. Neat around the edges, carefully measured for cameras and optics. His posture is usually effortless in a detached sort of way.
Right now, though? He looks focused, entirely on you.
“OK, beautiful,” the photographer compliments. “If we could get a little closer, that would be great. The proportions look a little off when you’re this far apart.”
You instantly fold your arms. “Sorry, no. It’s non-negotiable.”
Oscar exhales through his nose like he’s suppressing laughter. “Come on, Y/N, professionalism is important,” he remarks solemnly.
“Oh, shut up.”
“Language. We’re working with children.”
You roll your eyes. “We are currently working with a woman holding a Nikon. The children are nowhere to be found.”
The photographer in question snorts. “You two are supposed to look like you actually enjoy each other’s company.”
“That would require extensive visual effects that I fear is greatly out of budget,” you mutter.
Oscar hears you anyway, because unfortunately he’s always heard everything you say. You remember that from childhood too. You could mumble a curse under your breath from twenty yards away and somehow he’d still reply with, “You’re not allowed to say that.”
You used to think he did it to annoy you. Now there’s something softer underneath his teasing.
And that is significantly more alarming,
“Just one nice photo,” the photographer begs.
Oscar glances at you, and before you can react, his hand settles lightly against the small of your back, bringing you closer to him. You freeze. It’s not a dramatic touch at all. Under most circumstances, you wouldn’t consider it a touch, but your entire nervous system short-circuits instantly.
Oscar’s never touched you gently before. Scratch that — he’s barely touched you at all.
Your childhood consisted mostly of competitive shoving, stealing snacks from each other’s coolers, and one memorable incident where he accidentally elbowed you into a stack of tires and didn’t talk to you for three days afterward. It was blissful.
This is different. Intentional.
His fingers flex once against your back, almost hesitant. You can feel the warmth from his palm emanating through the fabric of your dress. When you tilt your head up to look at him, it’s a huge mistake.
He’s already looking at you. Not at the cameras or bustling crowd, but at you. Like other people don’t exist.
Something twists in your chest, and you decide on the spot that you hate it.
The photographer, on the other hand, lights up. “Yes! Hold that —”
Flash. Flash. Another flash.
Oscar leans down slightly so only you can hear him. “You’re tense. Don’t lock your knees or you’ll faint. I wouldn’t want to have to catch you.”
“Well, you’re touching me.”
“Yes,” he says amusedly. “I noticed.”
Your face grows hot instantly, red flags of heat flaring on your cheeks. He notices too… Of course he does. A tiny smile appears at the corner of his mouth.
You want to push him into the Mediterranean.
The problem becomes obvious over the next two weeks. Oscar Piastri is flirting with you. Subtly, relentlessly, and so absurdly dry that you almost don’t catch it half of the time. You think you’re going insane. This is impossible.
It’s Oscar Piastri, your mortal enemy.
The boy who once told you that your presence in the garage was bad luck for him.
The teenager who corrected your grammar during arguments.
The person who spent six consecutive karting weekends pretending not to care that another racer liked you, whilst becoming so unpleasantly competitive he nearly got banned from the paddock.
You hadn’t realized why at the time. You just thought he was an insufferable arse, which is partly true.
Still. This cannot be considered flirting.
There’s just no way.
You’re in Barcelona when the campaign team decides to film a “casual challenge video” together. Which is PR-language for forcing attractive people into manufactured proximity until the internet goes clinically insane.
You’re seated beside Oscar on a plush leather couch while a producer explains the game.
“Since you two are – or were – familiar, we wanted to see how much you remembered about each other. So, you each answer questions about one another. Whoever gets the most right wins.”
“Oh, good,” you respond flatly. “Psychological torture.”
Oscar, weirdly enough, looks pleased.
The producer gives you a wide grin. “First question. What’s Oscar’s coffee order?”
You forget to act nonchalant, instantly answering, “Black, with no sugar.”
Both Oscar and the producer blink. “That was fast.”
You shrug one shoulder, heart pounding in your chest. “He’s been ordering the same thing since he was thirteen years old. I’m assuming he wouldn’t have changed it up in the years we haven’t stayed in touch, because he’s emotionally incapable of spontaneity.”
Oscar turns towards you slowly. “You remember my coffee order from when I was thirteen?”
“I absorb information against my will. Don’t read too much into it,” you bite out.
“Hmm.”
The producer tries not to laugh. “OK,” she says. “Oscar, what’s her favorite movie?”
Oscar does the right thing by taking a moment to think. “Pride and Prejudice. The 2005 version specifically, even though she claims the miniseries is technically superior.”
Dead silence. You stare at him, open-mouthed. “What?” Oscar looks confused by your confusion, so you stutter, “How… how do you know that?”
“You made me watch both versions during a rain delay in Bathurst.”
Your eyes widen. “That was fifteen years ago, Oscar.”
“It’s quite memorable when you cried during the hand flex scene,” he points out.
You shoot daggers at him. “I was twelve!”
“You also cried at —”
“OK, next question!” the producer cuts in.
The crew is openly invested now. Traitors, all of them.
Question after question gets worse. Oscar knows your favorite foods, your worst habit, your tells when you’re lying.
You know all of this for him too, but yours feels normal. Him knowing this about you feels too specific, too invasive.
“What’s her comfort show?”
“Derry Girls,” he answers.
“What’s his biggest irrational fear?”
You smother a laugh. “Escalators.”
He huffs out an annoyed breath. “It was one time.”
“Not my fault you screamed bloody murder,” you retort.
“I was seven years old, for heaven’s sake.”
The producer, and several other members, are wheezing. You’re starting to feign enjoyment, too, until the fatal question.
“What’s one thing you admire about each other?”
The two of you answer at the same time. “Nothing.”
At the same exact second Oscar says: “She cares too much.”
You both freeze, and the room hushes, the sound of laughter choked out by the stark contrast in your reactions. You look at him in shock. Oscar, meanwhile, looks like he regrets having functioning vocal cords. “What?” you inquire.
His ears are pink. “I misunderstood the tone of the game.”
“No, no,” the producer pushes eagerly. “Continue.”
Oscar visibly wants to crawl into a hole and die. Interesting. Very, very interesting. To his credit, he clears his throat, and manages to squeak out, “You care about people. Even when they annoy you.”
Your heart skips a beat unexpectedly. He states it so simply, an obvious fact that he’s always known about you. You tear your eyes away from him. The second you break eye contact, the crew collectively notices the tension, thick and uncomfortable.
And once people notice tension, they become vultures.
It gets worse after the video releases. Apparently the Internet has made the verdict that your dynamic with Oscar is “rom-com coded.” You discovered this against your will at two in the morning in the hotel room in Milan, and you still haven’t recovered emotionally.
“Oh my God,” you whisper in horror.
Your publicist, Mia, is lying face-down across the other bed. “What now?”
“The comments. They think we’re secretly in love.”
She lifts her head slightly. “Are you?”
“No.”
Too fast.
Mia narrows her eyes, scenting the maelstrom of emotions swirling inside of you like a bloodhound. “Oh, that’s ugly.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” You toss your head back in frustration.
“That was the fastest no I’ve ever heard in my life.”
“Because it’s ridiculous.”
“Sure…” she trails off, a ghost of a smile on her lips.
“It is,” you insist, cheeks flushing.
“Mmm. If you say so.”
You throw a pillow, which she catches without effort. Then your phone buzzes on the vanity table. Oscar. You stare at the notification suspiciously.
Mia readjusts herself to face you. “Open it, Y/N.”
“No.”
“Stop being such a coward.”
You open it, teeth snagging at your lower lip in nervousness.
Oscar:
The internet appears to think we’re dating.
You:
Well the internet also thought the earth was ending in 2012 so
Oscar:
You’re avoiding the point.
You:
There is no point
Oscar:Right
You:
How TF do you sound sarcastic through texts?
Oscar:
Natural talent.
There’s a moment of inactivity that makes you consider putting your phone down. Then another message appears.
Oscar:
For what it’s worth, I don’t mind the rumors.
Your heart stumbles once. Hard.
Mia is fully leaning across the bed now, fully invested in the drama unfolding next to her. “What did he say? Tell me!”
You lock the phone before she takes a peek over your shoulder. “Nothing.”
Her eyes widen. “Oh…” She points violently at you, nearly taking your eye out. “You’re doomed.”
You tilt your head. “I am not doomed.” You refuse to be doomed.
There’s nothing to overthink. Just Oscar Piastri acting weirdly lately, that’s all. Being annoyingly attentive, suspiciously thoughtful, occasionally devastating. Which is totally normal enemy behavior, probably.
You spend the next week trying very hard not to notice him. A difficult task that would be made much easier if he stopped doing things like showing up beside you with your favorite drink before interviews. Or instinctively adjusting his pace to match yours when you walk through airports. Or looking at you like that.
God.
The looking is becoming a serious issue.
Because Oscar has always looked at people carefully — analytical and observant in that unnerving way of his — but this is dangerously different.
Like every time he sees you, he’s still surprised you’re real. And unfortunately, you keep catching it.
Such as right now.
You’re backstage in London before a charity gala, sitting in front of a mirror while your makeup artist fixes your hair. The room is full of noise: stylists moving around, assistants carrying garment bags, distant music filtering from the ballroom outside. You’re half listening to your stylist explain something about “visual balance” when the door unlocks behind you.
Your eyes meet Oscar’s in the mirror.
And he halts in his steps.
The stylist keeps talking, but Oscar doesn’t hear a word of what she’s saying. You can tell because his entire expression goes blank for half a second. Not cold blank, but stunned blank.
His gaze drags over you slowly before he catches himself. Then he looks vaguely frustrated about the fact that he caught himself catching himself.
Your eyes turn to slits. “What?”
Oscar gives him a tiny shake, to reorient himself. “What?” he echoes.
“You just made a face.”
“I… don’t do faces.”
“Well, I know what I saw.”
A vein ticks in his jaw. “I didn’t.” The stylist glances between you both with poorly concealed fascination, and Oscar finally adds, “You clean up nicely.”
Now it’s your turn to be astounded. “Was that a compliment?”
“Not at all.” Oscar ignores the stylist, who’s now trying to shoo him out of the room. He’s still gazing at you in the mirror. And the thing is… you should be used to attention by now. You work in media, where cameras follow you constantly, and people look at you all the time. But Oscar feels entirely different, too vulnerable and honest. It makes your pulse feel stupid.
You swivel around in your chair to face him directly. “You’ve been acting strange lately.”
One of his eyebrow lifts. “Lately?”
“Don’t start.”
“I’m not starting anything,” he protests. His mouth twitches. There’s that almost-smile again, the one that feels weirdly private. Yet his eyes flick downward briefly, to your hands. You follow his gaze automatically, heat curling in your body.
“Oh, you noticed.” You try to make it sound casual and off-handed, but it comes off as fake even to your own ears.
The stylist had put silver rings on your fingers to match the outfit. Oscar nods once. “You stopped wearing rings when you were sixteen. When one slipped between the gears of somebody’s kart.”
Your throat bobs. That’s not a normal thing to remember. Especially not after a decade apart. “Why do you know that?” A persistent question, but never answered.
His expression shifts. “I just… do.”
The stylist claps her hands suddenly. “OK, you two are either secretly married or one argument away from making out. And I honestly can’t tell which!”
You choke violently and Oscar burns a hole through the floor with the intensity of his glower.
The gala itself is worse, since apparently whoever organized seating arrangements has a sick sense of humor. You’re placed directly beside Oscar for the entire evening. Close enough that your knees brush under the table, close enough that you can smell his cologne, close enough to notice every tiny expression he makes.
It’s unbearable.
Particularly fueled by the fact that he’s in one of those tailored black suits that should honestly qualify as psychological warfare.
You’re halfway through dessert when the host announces some ridiculous fundraising game involving “celebrity pairs.”
You immediately know this will ruin your life. “Absolutely not,” you whisper viciously to Oscar, in case he was thinking about volunteering.
The host beams from the stage. “Each pair will answer relationship-style questions about one another!”
The room erupts.
You close your eyes briefly.
When you dare to open them again, Oscar is attempting — and failing – not to look at you with amusement.
“I could fake my own death,” you muse.
“You’re not organized enough for that,” he answers back quickly.
“I hate you.”
“No, you don’t.” The words leave his mouth easily, and your chest tightens unexpectedly. Before you can respond, microphones appear at your table.
The host grins. “Alright! Let’s start easy. Who apologized first after your worst fight?”
You laugh. “We’ve literally never apologized to each other.”
Oscar says at the same time: “She never apologizes.”
You whip your head toward him so fast you’re surprised your neck didn’t snap. “Excuse me?”
“It’s true, you don’t.”
You growl, “It’s not like you do!”
“I’m aware.”
The audience laughs, and you have to curl your fists to keep from punching him in front of everyone.
“Next question,” the host says amiably, “Who gets jealous more easily?”
“Neither of us,” you answer. You’re the only one to speak.
Oscar’s staring at the tablecloth, and the host lights up like it’s Christmas Day. “Oscar?”
He meets the host’s eyes, face carefully neutral. “I think the question is poorly phrased.”
Your jaw practically unhinges and shatters on the floor. The audience loses their minds. “Oh, this is unbelievable,” you grumble to yourself.
Oscar avoids your eyes entirely now, which somehow makes the situation ten thousand times worse.
The host vibrates with excitement. “Interesting answer! Next question — when did you realize you cared about each other?”
You laugh again, because the only other thing you could consider doing is combusting.
Oscar does not.
You falter.
The host… hell, everybody… notices the change in Oscar, and it’s only exacerbated when he says, “I don’t know.”
You feel dizzy. Somebody must have raised the temperature randomly. The host moves on after that, but the damage is done. For the rest of the night, you can feel the weight of Oscar thinking.
You know him well enough to recognize it; how his silences mean different things.
This one? It feels dangerous.
You corner him after the gala ends, mostly because your brain refuses to let things go, and partly because you’re beginning to feel insane.
“Oscar.”
He pauses near the hallway exit, turning towards you slowly.
The ballroom noise is distant and muffled behind closed doors. It’s just the two of you in the quiet corridor.
“You’re acting weird,” you say again.
“You’ve mentioned that.”
You cock your head to the side, evaluating him. “I’m serious.”
“So am I.”
You cross your arms defensively. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
His brown eyes soften. That’s the terrifying part — he’s no longer cold, or detached, just plain tired. Holding an invisible burden, modern-day Atlas carrying the world. “You really don’t see it?”
Your stomach drops. “What?”
His jaw tightens slightly. For one awful second, he looks genuinely hurt.
Footsteps echo down the hallway nearby, and whatever was about to happen disappears instantly. Oscar steps back, expression shuttering closed again. “There’s nothing,” he says evenly.
And now you’re pissed. Because you know that was a lie. “You literally just —”
“Goodnight.”
“Oscar —”
But he’s already walking away.
You do not think about the hallway conversation. You especially do not think about the way Oscar Piastri looked at you before he shut down completely and walked away. And you definitely do not spend the next three days replaying his wounded voice in your head.
You really don’t see it?
See what? What are you supposed to be seeing?
Because every possibility your brain comes up with feels absurd. Oscar doesn’t like you — even suggesting that seems mad. This is Oscar, the same Oscar who spent most of your childhood correcting your math homework without permission. The Oscar who once told a boy at the kart track that your favorite flowers were tulips because “roses are too obvious for her,” then acted confused when you stared at him for ten full seconds afterward.
Actually.
Wait.
You stop mid-step in the hotel hallway. “Oh no.”
Pieces begin clicking together in horrifying succession. The tulips thing. The coffee orders. The way he remembers everything about you. The jealousy question. The I don’t mind the rumors. The looking.
Oh, God.
No.
No no no.
That’s impossible.
Your phone hums in your hand before you can spiral any further.
Mia:
Lobby in ten. Don’t be dramatic today.
You:
I’m having a crisis
Mia:
Hot or ugly?
You:
Unsure
Mia:
Then it’s hot.
You hate her.
Today’s event is a charity karting day outside of Budapest. Which feels particularly cruel considering kart tracks are the reason why Oscar exists in your life at all.
The second you arrive, memories start ambushing you.
The smell of rubber. The sharp whine of engines. Kids racing around in oversized helmets.
And there, leaning against a barrier with sunglasses on, looking unfairly good in a black team polo —
Oscar.
Your stomach betrays you instantly.
He sees you approaching almost immediately, his entire face changing in that tiny, subtle way it always does around you. Softening at the edges before he reverts himself. You hate that you notice now.
It’s worse to think that maybe it’s always been there.
“You’re late,” he critiques you.
You glance at your watch. “I’m four minutes late.”
“That’s still late.”
You pout. “You’re insufferable.”
“So you’ve said.” His gaze narrows. “You look tired.”
Your heart does something embarrassing, because his voice changes when he says it. Lower, gentler, concerned. And suddenly you remember every tiny moment from childhood that could have meant something else.
Oscar handing you his hoodie when you were cold without saying a word.
Oscar getting into an argument with another driver because they made you cry.
Oscar sitting beside your hospital bed for six hours after you broke your wrist at fifteen, pretending he was only there because your parents made him stay.
“Oh my God,” you say aloud accidentally.
Oscar blinks. “Concerning response.”
You stare at him, and he stares back, completely unaware of the psychological warfare currently unfolding in your brain. Surely he doesn’t know that you know.
Except —
No, wait. Maybe he thinks you already figured it out.
Which means he thinks you’ve been knowingly rejecting him this entire time.
Your soul briefly leaves your body.
“You… OK?” Oscar asks slowly.
“No,” you breathe.
“Comforting.”
You point at him. “You.”
He looks mildly alarmed. “Me?”
“Yes. You.”
“Strong argument. Want to expand your vocabulary a bit and enlighten me on what’s going on?”
“You’re —” You break off. In love with me? Nope. Can’t say that. Your brain shuts down completely. “You’re tall.” You finish weakly.
Oscar stares at you in silence. “I was aware.”
You want to die.
Things get catastrophically worse during lunch, if that’s even possible. Apparently the universe has decided humiliation builds character.
You’re sitting under one of the paddock tents with several organizers and drivers when one of the younger drivers grins at Oscar. “So,” she says casually, “how long have you two been together?”
You inhale water directly into your lungs.
Across from you, Oscar goes very still.
The table erupts instantly. “No, no,” one organizer says. “They just fight like an old married couple.”
“Which is honestly worse,” another pipes up.
You cough violently, face mottling with embarrassment. “We are not together.”
The volunteer looks unconvinced. “Really? Are you sure?”
“Yes!” you exclaim.
She turns to Oscar for confirmation, and he opens his mouth. For one horrible heartbeat, you genuinely don’t know what he’s going to say. Finally, he blurts out: “No.”
And something weirdly disappointing twists in your chest, which is insane. You immediately become angry about it.
The conversation moves on eventually, but you can feel Oscar beside you growing quieter. More withdrawn.
You risk a glance toward him.
He’s staring down at his untouched drink, jaw tight.
And suddenly it hits you all at once. He thinks you’d never want him back. That’s what this distance is. The hesitance… it all makes sense.
Oscar Piastri — emotionally repressed, terrifyingly intelligent, chronically composed Oscar — has been trying to like you quietly enough that you wouldn’t notice.
Because, odds are, he thought you hated him.
Thankfully you’re seated, or your knees would have buckled and given way beneath you.
Which feels deeply unfair considering he’s the one emotionally compromising you.
The breaking point comes later that afternoon. There’s a small grandstand overlooking the track where the guests can watch the kids race. You slip away there during a break, needing air before your thoughts kill you outright.
The seats are mostly empty, and you’re halfway through contemplating faking your own death when footsteps sound behind you.
It’s Oscar, obviously.
He sits beside you without speaking. Not too close. The space feels like a chasm, and all you want to do is reach out and stitch the hole between you up, even though that’s the last thing your younger self would have done.
The silence stretches, comfortable in the way only silence with him has ever been. You used to hate that too, how easy it was to sit beside him doing nothing. Even your quiet understood each other.
“You’ve been avoiding me today,” he says finally.
You keep your eyes trained on the track, small dots whizzing past. “Have not.”
“You called me tall like it was a threat.”
“In my defense, you are alarmingly tall,” you shoot back.
A tiny huff of laughter escapes him. Then it’s quiet again, wind brushing through the stands and engines roaring below. Oscar taps his fingers once against his knee, his nervous tic rising to the surface.
“You know, you’re actually very hard to read.”
He glances sideways at you. “That’s… objectively untrue. For you, I mean. Not for others.”
“It’s not.”
Oscar’s nose twitches in confusion. “You’ve known me since childhood.”
“Exactly, and you’re still impossible.”
He looks down briefly, and says, so quietly you almost miss it: “Not around you.”
Your breath catches. The fact that he’s not looking at you when he confesses makes it more honest, somehow. “Oh,” you whisper.
After what feels like an eternity, he turns towards you. There’s no more distance left in his expression, no careful detachment. Just exhaustion, want, and something terrifyingly sincere. “You really didn’t know,” he murmurs softly.
It’s not even a question, yet you can’t speak for a second.
Suddenly, every version of Oscar in your memories looks different.
Every sharp comment that was actually attention. Every argument that lasted too long because neither one of you wanted to stop talking. Every lingering glance. Every moment he stayed.
“Oh my God,” you sputter.
Oscar’s eyelashes flutter briefly, as though this is physically painful for him. “I cannot believe I’ve spent months flirting with someone this oblivious.”
You gasp in offense automatically. “Months?”
“Years, actually,” he amends.
You suck in a breath in astonishment. “Years?”
“You thought I kept memorizing things about you recreationally?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.
“I thought you were annoying!” you protest.
He smirks. “I was annoying, but that’s not the whole truth and you know it.”
“You were emotionally terrorizing me,” you scoff.
Oscar lilts one shoulder, finally edging closer to where you were perched. “I liked you.”
“That’s a clinically insane way to show affection!”
Oscar laughs properly, right then and there. Bright and helpless and completely unlike the controlled smiles he gives everyone else.
And the absolute worst part —
Is that you think it might be your favorite sound in the world.
You stare at Oscar Piastri like he’s personally offended you; which, to be fair, he has. “Years?” you repeat weakly.
Oscar leans back against the grandstand seat beside you, one hand dragging down his face.
“I’m realizing now that I may have overestimated your observational skills.”
“I thought you hated me!”
“I brought you coffee every morning for two weeks in Melbourne.”
“I thought you were being polite,” you bemoan loudly. “God, you remember everything.”
He works his jaw for a moment. “Yes. Because I’m in love with you.”
Silence. Actual, complete, crushing silence.
Even the sounds from the track below feel distant suddenly. Your brain — whatever shards of it were left rattling around in your skull — fully stops functioning.
“You look alarmed.”
“You just said the L-word!”
“Yes,” he thinks aloud. “Unfortunately, I did.”
You shake your head roughly to clear your thoughts. “Why is that unfortunate?”
“Ideally, I would have preferred a slightly smoother reveal than you accusing me of being tall.”
You make an outraged noise, and he laughs again. Like he can’t quite believe this conversation is real either.
That idea nearly destroys you. Oscar Piastri has always seemed so composed and impossible to shake, but right now? He looks nervous.
His fingers tap once against his knee again before stopping abruptly when he notices you looking.
“You’re fidgeting,” you say faintly.
“That’s your takeaway?” He smirks.
“You never fidget.”
Oscar drops his hand from his knee, ears going pink. “I do around you.”
This is horrible, you moan internally. This is the worst thing that has ever happened to you. Every single interaction from the past few months is replaying in horrifyingly clear retrospect.
The staring, the jealousy, the almost-confessions, the way his hand lingered on your back during photos, the way he looked disappointed earlier at lunch.
“Oh my God.”
Oscar winces.
“You thought I was rejecting you.”
Neutrally, Oscar replies, “I assumed you weren’t interested.”
You flinch a little hearing that. Seeing it from his side has made everything so… devastating. Oscar trying, probably for the first time in his emotionally constipated life, and you responding by calling him irritating seventy-eight times.
“You idiot,” you tease.
He scowls. “Interesting criticism considering you’re the one who didn’t notice.”
“I noticed things,” you argue.
“Like my height.”
You nudge his shoulder. “You’re making that sound unreasonable.”
“It is unreasonable.”
You glare at him, and he looks suspiciously fond about it.
God, that look.
Now that you understand what it means, it’s unbearable. It’s everywhere, in the way he watches you talk, in the way his shoulders relax around you. It’s even in the tiny unconscious smile he gets whenever you say something sarcastic.
How could you have missed this?
“How long?” you ask quietly.
Oscar’s expression evolves instantly, more fragile. It scares you more than the confession itself. “A while.”
“Oscar,” you push.
He exhales slowly, eyes on the track instead of at you. “Probably since we were teenagers.”
Your heart feels like somebody pulled the trigger. “What?”
“You were fifteen.” He starts off awkwardly, but he presses on, saying, “You broke your wrist doing cartwheels or some other gymnastic trick.”
The memory flashes in your mind. Slick pavement, the awful crack of impact. Your tears blending in with the rain.
And Oscar — Oscar sitting with you in the hospital afterward for hours. Silent, irritated, but hovering. You thought he was there because your parents made him stay. “I remember,” you say softly, almost reverently.
He nods, just once. “You fell asleep eventually. Still had tears on your face. You looked…” he fumbles for the right word. “Small.” Something in your chest caves inward. “And I remember thinking that I’d kill someone if anyone tried to hurt you. Even though, technically, it was your own fault you broke your wrist.” You can hear the blood rushing through your ears as Oscar continues. “Which was really inconvenient because I was sixteen and emotionally repressed.”
“You’re still emotionally repressed.”
“Fair enough.”
You’re staring at him now, really admiring him. Traces of the boy he used to be: picking fights with boys who flirted with you, ending up beside you during group dinners, knowing your favorite things without asking. Oscar remembering. Always, always, always remembering.
“You liked me this whole time?”
His expression is so open that it almost hurts to see. “Yes.”
The word lands heavily between you. Like it’s always been true. You look away first because your chest feels too tight suddenly. “That’s actually insane.”
“I’m aware, Y/N.”
“You could’ve just told me.”
He shakes his head. “The last time I bothered you, you threw a juice pouch at my head.”
You rub your temples. “That’s because you were being annoying!”
“I was seventeen and trying to flirt.”
You whip toward him in horror. “That was flirting?”
“In my defense, I had no social skills.”
You cough out a strangled laugh. The wonders of teenage boys never failed to surprise you. Without thinking, you put your head on his shoulder, letting it rest there.
The atmosphere changes instantly.
Oh.
Oh no.
You feel delirious with how close he is. Close enough you can see the tiny scar near his jaw from karting. You notice how his breathing changes slightly as you shift closer.
“Oscar,” you say quietly.
His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second, then moves back to rest on your eyes. Your entire body is electric. “Yeah?” he answers softly.
There’s no more sarcasm, barbed teasing. Just him. Waiting.
You don’t know what to do with this version of Oscar. The honest one, looking at you like you’re something precious.
“You make me insane.”
Something flits across his face. “Mutual problem, actually,” he theorizes jokingly.
“You’re awful at communication.”
He rolls his eyes. “So are you.”
“You were in love with me for years and said nothing.”
“You called me emotionally manipulative in 2019,” he recounts with laughter in his eyes.
You huff. “That’s because you were emotionally manipulative in 2019.”
“I bought you soup when you were sick.”
“You insulted my movie taste,” you remind him.
He scratches a spot on the back of his neck. “The movies were bad.”
“They won awards!”
“Yeah, and they were still bad.”
You laugh before you can stop it, and Oscar looks wrecked. Hearing you laugh must be his favorite thing on earth, and your smile falters slightly when that epiphany hits you.
“Hey.”
“What?”
“You don’t have to say anything back, you know that, right?”
Your chest aches. He means it, even now, after all this. He’s still not trying to pressure you, staying forever careful with you. It becomes so clear to you why none of this ever felt like hatred. Even at your worst with each other, Oscar was never cruel to you.
Oscar was sharp, competitive, irritating, impossible. Yes. But never cruel.
He always looked at you like you mattered. You were just too stubborn to see it.
“You know what the worst part is?” you reckon.
Oscar studies you carefully. “What is it?”
“I think everyone else figured this out before I did.” You snort.
His mouth quirks again. “Mia threatened to lock me in a room until I confessed.”
Your eyes widen. “Confessed?”
“She’s very aggressive, I will say.”
You groan and hide your face in your hands. “I’m never speaking to anyone again.”
His hand reaches out to touch yours, fingers interlocking. “You’ll recover.”
“No, I won’t,” you say. “This is humiliating.”
“I can think of worse things.”
You withdraw your hand from his, lifting your head to look at him. Oscar’s giving you his typical impossible stare, as though he’s trying not to say too much all at once. “You know, this is kind of your fault.”
“My fault.”
“Yes,” you insist. “If you had told me how you felt, instead of spending years acting like a weird person…”
Oscar jolts back, deeply offended. “Pardon?”
“You pined silently.”
“I did not pine silently.”
You purse your lips. “You remembered my favorite flowers for ten years.”
“Well, that’s not evidence.”
You level him with an appraising glance. “You got jealous over a guy I dated when we were sixteen and nearly crashed a kart into a barrier.”
“In fairness, he was annoying.”
You scoff.
“He wore fedoras, Y/N.”
You burst into helpless laughter, and this time Oscar fully smiles. “You’re pretty,” you say accidentally.
Oscar blinks.
Horror floods your body all at once. “Nope, forget I said that.”
Oscar’s cheeks turn pink, just like the tips of his ears. “You think I’m pretty?”
“You heard nothing.”
“Mmm, I’m pretty sure I heard everything.”
“You’re impossible,” you groan.
“And yet.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, a millisecond that you still notice.
Your thoughts disintegrate. Up here, it feels strangely quiet. Private. Like the whole world is narrowed down to this one moment. Oscar shifts slightly closer, not enough to trap you but enough that you can feel the warmth of him beside you.
And softly, so softly you almost don’t survive it, he says: “Can I kiss you?”
Your brain completely bluescreens. Of course he asks, careful even now. You stare at him for a long second, at the boy who spent years loving you quietly, driving you insane your entire life and somehow became home anyway.
You grab the front of his shirt and kiss him before he can overthink himself into another emotional crisis.
Oscar makes a startled sound against your mouth. For exactly one second. Then his hands are suddenly on your waist like he can’t help it. It’s romantic, it’s perfect, and your brain is short-circuiting from the fact that Oscar Piastri kisses like he’s been wanting to do it for years.
Which apparently, he has.
“Oh,” he breathes against your lip afterward.
You’re still holding onto his shirt. His forehead rests briefly against yours. For the first time in your entire life, Oscar looks completely undone.
“You OK?”
He laughs shakily. “You have absolutely no idea what you do to me.”
You want to melt.
“I can’t believe you called me pretty before you kissed me.”
Your face burns instantly. “Don’t make this worse.”
“I think I deserve to hear it again, actually.”
“You’re unbelievable,” you snicker.
“And you’re in love with me.”
You open your mouth. Close it. Oscar’s grin grows slowly. “Oh my God,” you harrumph. “It’s not that big of a deal.”
“Sure it isn’t.”
The problem with kissing Oscar Piastri exactly once is that apparently your body develops an immediate dependency on it, which feels medically concerning. Because the second you pull back, your first coherent thought is:
Again.
Oscar seems to be having a similar issue. He’s still looking at you like the concept of oxygen has become secondary. One of his hands remains carefully at your waist, like he’s not entirely convinced you’re real enough to let go of yet.
The other is gripping the bench beside you hard enough that his knuckles are pale.
Interesting.
“You’re staring,” you murmur.
“I’m processing,” he deflects.
“That sounds dangerous.”
“You kissed me.”
You raise an eyebrow. “You asked.”
“I honestly didn’t think you would agree.”
You blink at him, taken aback. “You literally confessed your love.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “But historically you’ve also threatened me with sports drinks.”
“That happened one time. Stop beating the dead horse. It’s getting old.”
“It happened hard.”
You laugh helplessly, and immediately Oscar’s expression softens again in that terrible, fond way. It hits you suddenly — violently, overwhelmingly — that this boy has probably spent years collecting little moments from you like treasures.
Every laugh, every insult, every accidental touch.
“You’re being weird again,” you whisper.
Oscar doesn’t even try denying it this time. “Probably.”
“What are you thinking about?”
His gaze flicks over your face slowly. “You.”
You think you might actually burst into flames. “That’s not a normal answer.”
“I’m not feeling especially normal right now.”
Which — wow.
Hearing Oscar admit emotional instability is genuinely more shocking than the confession itself.
You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “How long have you been wanting to do that?”
“The kissing or the confessing?”
Your stomach churns. “Both.”
Oscar leans back slightly, considering. “The confessing? A few months.”
“And the kissing?”
He looks at you for one silent second too long. “Honestly?”
You point at him. “Don’t say honestly like you’re about to ruin my life.”
“That ship sailed ten minutes ago.”
“Oscar.”
His ears go pink again.
“I think,” he chooses his next words carefully, “probably Monaco.”
“The first campaign event?”
“You were wearing that black dress. With the sequins,” he hums.
“That was months ago!”
“Yes.”
“You’ve just been existing like this ever since?”
He looks mildly embarrassed now, which is so rare it nearly kills you on sight. “You kept standing very close to me.”
“You were the one touching my back in photos!”
“I was trying to be normal.”
“You failed.”
“That has become apparent.”
You stare at him, and another horrifying realization strikes. “Oh no.” Oscar looks wary already, before you can say anything else. “The gala.”
“What about it?”
“When they asked who gets jealous more easily —” Oscar inches away and you gasp dramatically. “You were jealous.”
“No.”
“You literally hesitated!” You burst out laughing again.
And there it is. That unbearably soft expression he gets when you’re happy. It nearly knocks the breath out of you. You understand now. All those years you thought Oscar was cold —
He wasn’t detached, he was careful. Careful with his feelings. Careful with yours. Careful not to want too much.
“You know,” you ponder aloud slowly, “I think we might actually be stupid.”
Oscar nods immediately. “That’s statistically supported.”
“You spent years in love with me.”
“Yes.”
“I spent years thinking you hated me.”
“That part’s particularly concerning,” he interrupted.
“And everyone else apparently knew.”
“Mia called me pathetic in Milan.”
You rear backwards in shock. “She said what?”
“In fairness, she wasn’t entirely wrong.”
“No, she absolutely was.” You shake your head defensively.
Oscar’s eyebrows lift slightly. “You’re already siding with me?”
“Don’t get used to it,” you huff.
“Too late.”
You shove his shoulder again automatically. This time, though, he catches your wrist gently before you can pull away. The movement is instinctive. Easy. Your breath catches a little when his thumb brushes against your pulse. God, nothing about this man escapes you now that you’re looking properly.
The tiny tension in his jaw. The way he keeps unconsciously moving closer. The fact that he looks happier than you’ve ever seen him. Warm all the way through.
And suddenly you realize something else too. You’ve never seen him like this with anyone. Not friends, not interviewers, not even Lando Norris.
Nobody gets this version of Oscar. Just you.
The realization settles somewhere deep in your chest.
“Oscar,” you say his name like a vow.
“Yeah?”
You hesitate. Which is rare for you. But this feels important enough to say correctly. “I don’t think I hated you either.”
Something flickers across his face. Small. But powerful enough that your chest tightens instantly. “No?” he asks quietly.
“No.” You smile, a stupid lovesick idiot. “I think I was just emotionally constipated too.”
He laughs, completely gone for you.
You think you could spend the rest of your life trying to make him sound like that again. “You know what really annoys me?” you continue.
“Hmm?”
“You’re probably going to become unbearable now.”
“I’m already unbearable,” he objects.
“True.”
“But, I’ll simply be unbearable and loved.”
You sigh loudly. “Oh, you’re never shutting up about this.”
“Absolutely not.”
“You’re going to weaponize the fact that I kissed you first, aren’t you?”
He smiles. “You grabbed my shirt.”
“I was having a crisis.”
“You called me pretty,” Oscar reminds you, as though you need reminding of that mortifying moment.
“Please stop bringing that up.”
Footsteps echo faintly from below the grandstand, distant voices calling for drivers and staff. Reality is creeping back in. Eventually you’ll have to go downstairs. Eventually people will see this.
Mia will probably scream. The internet will become unusable. Your parents may actually pass away from vindication.
But right now it’s just the two of you sitting in the fading afternoon sunlight above a kart track that somehow started all of this years ago.
Oscar’s still holding your wrist gently, like he forgot to let go and doesn’t want to.
“You know,” he muses after a moment, quieter now, “I used to think you were the scariest person I’d ever met.”
You think he’s joking. “Me?”
“You threw things when angry.”
“You deserved those things.”
“Probably.” His thumb brushes your wrist again absentmindedly. “But mostly I think I was scared because I wanted you too much.”
Your heart stumbles painfully. Oscar says things so simply, so bluntly sometimes. Honesty does cost him less now that it’s finally out in the open.
“And now?” you ask softly.
His gaze lifts to yours. Warm. Certain. Entirely yours. “Now,” he says, “I think it might’ve been worth it.”
The universe feels like it has quietly tilted onto a new axis while you weren’t paying attention. You look at the boy who spent years loving you in silence. The boy you spent years misunderstanding with terrifying dedication. The boy who turned every fight into affection and every sharp edge into something strangely safe.
And suddenly it all makes sense. The tension. The gravity. The feeling that no matter how far apart you drifted, some invisible thread always pulled you back together.
Maybe this wasn’t divine punishment after all.
Maybe it was the universe getting tired of waiting for two idiots to finally figure it out.
you could do it on your own (while you're looking at me).
adult zuko x reader nsfw | smut | minors dni. | wc: 1.1k
summary: after a long day trapped in meetings, zuko returns to his chambers only to find you already halfway undone by thoughts of him.
content: fire lord adult!zuko x fire lady reader, explicit sexual content [masturbation, watching/mutual pleasure, bit of dirty talk], steam/firebending imagery, pet names (“love”), established relationship.
note: this is what happens when i try writting a blurb, a short one-shot comes out - loosely inspired by ´sports car´ by tate mcrae, and s/o to fandom_fire on tiktok for the "lord" hc.
𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹♡
It began with a memory.
You found yourself thinking about the way Zuko had looked that morning: the early sunlight tracing the edges his scar, the sharp line of his jaw as he fastened his belt, the lingering heat in his gaze before duty finally dragged him from your chambers. Even half-dressed and distracted by royal obligations, he had looked at you as though leaving you behind was a personal offense.
Then your thoughts drifted further back, to several nights before, when he had pulled you into the shadows of an empty corridor because, in his own strained words, he “couldn’t wait anymore.” One hand had braced against the wall beside your head while the other covered your mouth to swallow your cries, his desperation unraveling through every thrust until your knees had nearly given out beneath you.
Hours had passed since he’d disappeared into meetings. Dinner had come and gone without him, leaving the palace unbearably quiet. And alone in the privacy of your bedchambers, wrapped in silk and memory, your hand couldn't help but slip beneath your robe.
Your fingers found the slick heat between your thighs. Slowly, greedily, you began to touch yourself, chasing the ghost of his mouth, his hands, the weight of him. The memory alone made your breath falter.
You were so lost in it that you barely heard the heavy doors creak open.
Your head snapped up.
Zuko stood in the doorway, hair slightly disheveled as though he’d spent the evening dragging frustrated hands through it. His robes hung loose at the collar, and his amber eyes (usually controlled and unreadable in court) darkened the moment they landed on you. Your legs pressed together on reflex.
“Zuko, I—”
He crossed the room without a word.
The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he climbed onto the bed and moved toward you until he knelt at your side. His fingers brushed a loose strand of hair away from your face with gentleness before trailing lower, covering the hand you had instinctively hidden between your thighs.
His mouth curved faintly.
“Don’t stop on my account,” he murmured. “Let me see what you do when you think about me.”
Heat flooded your face. Even so, you let him pull your hand away. Your fingers glistened with your own arousal, and his gaze lingered on them for only a moment before he brought them to his lips.
The sight of his tongue sliding across your skin made your stomach tighten.
His eyes fluttered shut briefly, a quiet shudder passing through him, and when he looked back at you, his expression had gone molten.
“Keep touching yourself,” he said under his breath. “I want you looking at me.”
You sank back against the pillows, your robe falling open completely as you obeyed. Silk pooled uselessly around your waist, leaving you bare, thighs parted just enough for him to see the evidence of your arousal between them.
He did not touch you. Instead, he reached down and freed his cock from his trousers, wrapping his fist around the shaft with a low exhale. It was thick and flushed, the head dark and wet. He began to stroke himself slowly, his gaze fixed on your body.
You watched the muscles of his stomach tighten, his lips part and his eyes glaze with lust which was more than enough for your fingers to resume their work, circling your clit with torturous slowness, matching his pace. A curl of steam escaped his lips. The sight of it sent a shiver through you.
"Zu—"
“Keep going,” he said, the words leaving his mouth in a breath warm enough to send another thin ribbon of heat through the air between you.
Your robes had long since ceased to be clothing. They were forgotten fabric, silk tangled around your elbows, bunched beneath your shoulders, clinging to the damp curve of your ribs like a second skin soaked through with sweat. The firelight around you caught the glisten on your collarbone, on your stomach, on the insides of your thighs. The heat from his mouth and his breathing turned the air thick and wet.
Your hair was everywhere, against the pillows, strands plastered to your temples, a few stuck to the corner of your lips. You hadn’t bothered to push them away. You couldn’t. Your hands were fisted in the sheets, knuckles white, your body growing steadily more restless beneath the weight of his attention.
“Faster,” he groaned softly, and his hand moved quicker on his cock. “Don’t even dare to slow down.”
You increased your rhythm, wet sounds filling the space between your ragged breaths. His strokes grew more urgent, and so did yours, each of you chasing the same release. Your waist was pressed flat to the mattress, your hips tilted up just slightly, enough to offer yourself fully. Your thighs were open wide, the muscles shaking, knees bent and falling apart. Your feet were planted on the bed, heels digging into the rumpled linen, toes curled as you arched into each stroke of your fingers.
"That's it," he rasped, his voice strained. "Don't look away. I want to see you, you look so ruined and beautiful, touching yourself in front of me."
Your thighs trembled harder, falling open as pleasure dragged through you in waves. Every movement of your fingers sent another pulse of heat through your body, tightening low in your belly until it almost hurt.
His hips began to thrust into his own fist, his composure cracking, his forehead beaded with sweat.
"Zuko… I'm so close," you whimpered, your fingers working desperately.
"Then come for me," he commanded, his strokes becoming erratic, matching the wild rhythm of your own. "Now."
Your body obeyed, convulsing as the orgasm broke over you, your cry dissolving into his name like a prayer. Your hips jerked against your hand as waves of pleasure rolled through you. Through blurred vision, you saw Zuko break with you.
A strained groan left him as his head tipped back, his hand pumping desperately before he spilled across your stomach in hot streaks. He shuddered through the release, heat ghosting from his mouth with every uneven breath.
His eyes never leaving yours, he lowered himself to his knees at the edge of the bed, hooked his arms under your thighs, and pulled you toward his mouth. The first stroke of his tongue through your soaked folds made your back curve against the mattress beneath you.
“Oh, lord…” you moaned softly.
“Yes, love?” he said smugly, the heat of his breath surrounding your aching thighs in slow waves. “If you started without me, it’s only fair that I finish it.”
Your fingers tangled in his hair as his tongue returned deeper and devastating. He began to feast on you, his grunts and the wet sounds of his devotion filling the room. He devoured you like a man starved, lapping at your folds, sucking your clit between his lips, pushing his tongue inside you until your thighs were shaking around his shoulders all over again.
𐙚₊˚⊹♡ ⋆𐙚₊˚⊹
note: i hope you liked itt! lmk if we like this format too or not at all. i didn't feel like writing a full shot or fic, so i tried a blurb out and this happened, curse or blessing? xx
The heavy doors to your royal chambers slammed open. Zuko stumbled in, face flushed, golden eyes wild with feverish need. Sweat already glistened on his scarred chest.
"My wife.." he rasped, voice wrecked as he locked the door and pulled you into a crushing kiss. "They spiked the wine with something. I'm so fucking hard it hurts. I need you—please, I can't take it."
"Zu.." You barely had time to answer before he was tearing at your robes. His thick cock sprang free, dark red and throbbing painfully leaking pre steadily.
He pushed you onto the bed, spreading your thighs wide. "Please baby, don’t deny me this pleasure."
"O-okay." you whispered to Zuko, giving him permission to take whatever he wanted.
"Thank you." he whispers needly, for a few minutes he worked you open with his fingers, scissoring and curling them deep while sucking marks into your neck and breasts.
"Zuko—ahh—please.." you moaned, hips rolling. He barely started yet you already felt so overwhelmed. "I need more."
"Such a sweet girl, begging so sweetly." he groans, finally replaced his fingers with his cock, he pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch, groaning deeply at your tight heat.
"Gods....you feel so good," he breathed, bottoming out. He stayed buried for a moment, savoring it, then started fucking you with long, deep strokes—rolling his hips deliberately so you felt every ridge and vein dragging against your walls.
He kept that steady, devastating rhythm for what felt like forever, grinding against your clit with every thrust, kissing you messily and whispering how much he loved you. Your first orgasm came quickier than expected, judging the fact he'd been teasing you just moments ago, you were already on the brink. You cried out, clenching around him as your pussy gushed.
Zuko whimpered loudly and fucked you through it, hips never stopping. Only after your orgasm faded did he bury himself deep and cum for the first time, flooding your insides with thick ropes of hot seed.
But he didn't soften—fuck was it an aphrodisiac?
Zuko pulled out briefly, flipped you onto your stomach and slid back in from behind without warning He fucked you with slow, powerful thrusts, gripping your hips and pulling you back onto his cock again and again.
"Fuck—you're so full of my cum already," he panted, voice strained. "But I need more."
He kept going, pace gradually picking up until the wet slap of skin on skin echoed loudly. You came a second time, moaning into the sheets. Zuko followed right after, pressing deep as he pumped his second heavy load into your already cum-stuffed pussy.
Zuko whimpered, his voice cracking as he stayed buried inside you. He rolled you onto your back again and folded you into a tight mating press, knees pushed to your chest. "Fuck, I can't stop—it won't go down. I need to keep fucking you."
"Ah—Zu..too much—" you whined, tears of overwhelming pleasure streaming down your face as he used you.
He started thrusting again—desperate strokes that made your belly bulge slightly with every push. Seeing your belly bulging turned him on even further. His eyes darkened as he watched you, something suddenly primal awakening in him.
"You want me to put a baby in you?" he asked suddenly, eyes feral. "You want your husband to breed you full tonight?"
"Z-Zuko.." you moaned, still trying to form words.
But he was losing control. His thrusts grew faster, more erratic, while his voice turned whiny and needy. "Answer me," he begged, voice trembling as he pounded into your cum drenched pussy.
"You want me to knock you up? Want me to fill you until your womb can't take anymore?"
Your mind was already beginning to melt from the relentless deep fucking, his words turned you on way more, your pussy dripping around him. "Y-yes—ahhn—breed me baby..please."
That was all it took. Zuko let out a broken whine and started railing you harder, hips snapping with pure animal need.
"Yes—yes, I'm gonna put a baby in you," he panted, voice whiny and desperate. "Gonna fill this pretty pussy over and over until you're swollen with my child. You're gonna look so fucking good carrying my heir."
He kept fucking you fucked you in deep, punishing strokes mixed with grinding that rubbed your clit perfectly. Your third orgasm built slowly, then slammed into you. Your eyes rolled back, mouth falling open as you completely lost the ability to speak properly.
"F-fuuu—hah—Zuuu. too deep—!" you babbled incoherently, drooling as your pussy spasmed and squirted around his cock.
Zuko groaned at the feeling, tears of overwhelming pleasure in his eyes. "Fuck—you're squeezing me so tight. I-I can't—"
He slammed in to the hilt and came hard, pumping even more cum into your overflowing cunt. He kept fucking you through both your orgasms with sloppy, desperate thrusts.
"Need more—'nt stop," he whined pathetically, pressing his forehead to yours.
"Your pussy feels too good. I'm sorry baby.. "
He kept you folded and railed you for another long stretch, the wet squelching sounds absolutely obscene as his cum was fucked deeper into you with every thrust. Your fourth orgasm left you a twitching, babbling wreck.
"Guh—'m cumming again, nngh—daddy please!"
The word 'daddy' broke him. Zuko whimpered like he was in pain, hips stuttering as he came again, flooding you so full that cum squirted out around his cock with every thrust.
"Fuck—call me that again," he begged, still pounding into you. "You're gonna make me a daddy aren't you baby?"
You could barely respond, reduced to broken moans. "Mmm..yes, oh god please."
He switched positions again, pulling you on top but immediately fucking up into you frantically, gripping your hips and bouncing you on his cock while whimpering.
"Look at you, all fucked dumb on my cock," he panted, voice cracking with need. "Such a good wife taking all of me..let me breed you one more time, cum with me."
Your orgasm hit you like lightning for the millionth time. You screamed broken, wordless moans as your body convulsed. Zuko followed with a loud, desperate whine, pumping another thick load deep into your womb.
His thrusts finally slowed but still deep and grinding inside you—never stopping.
By the time the aphrodisiac finally began to fade, you were a cum soaked, blissed out mess, mind blank except for soft, incoherent whimpers.
Zuko finally softened and collapsed beside you, pulling you into his arms and kissing your sweaty forehead with trembling lips.
"Sorry baby..you're so good to me." he whispered hoarsely, still gently grinding his softening cock against your messy pussy. "Thank you for letting me breed you like that, my love."
you sighed. the weight of zukos arms around your body and his torso nearly crushing you from behind didn't let you move even an inch from his bed. sunlight poured in through the latticed windows in his chambers. you could already tell it was well past the time a respectable fire lord would start the day and commit to his imperial duties. unfortunately, the fire lord in question couldn't seem to care less.
squirming in his hold, you managed to turn just enough to face him. his eyes were stubbornly shut, dark locks of hair messily falling over his forehead and sprawling across the pillows. you flicked his nose gently after you were able to wrestle your arm out of his embrace. he frowned, clinging to you tighter, making you smile helplessly.
"we cannot stay here forever, you know," you murmured softly, now stroking his cheek with your thumb. he subconsciously leaned towards your touch, chasing your warmth.
"yes, we can." his tone was low, stubborn. you huffed out a laugh. the sound made him finally open his eyes. the love in his gaze was sometimes overwhelming. you flushed under the scrutiny, turning shy like the two of you were still newlyweds.
zuko suddenly shifted, propping himself up by his elbows and trapping you underneath. the change made you startle as you stared up at him with wide eyes and barely concealed amusement. he frowned at you childishly. giggling at his expression, you cupped his face.
"cruel woman," he accused, his voice still gruff from sleep. "you command me to leave this bed and yet you tempt me so," he buried his nose in your neck, nuzzling your skin. "how do you expect me to leave when you act like this?"
"i do not know what you mean, husband," you feigned innocence. as he looked back up at you, you kissed his lips, soft as a feather and grinned, your gaze fond. he stared blankly, then cursed, his head falling on to your chest.
"look at what you've done to me. i must punish you for daring to weaken the fire lord so shamelessly."
your arms immediately came up to wrap around him, heart swelling with affection. your fingers carded through his hair, scratching lightly at his scalp. taking it as encouragement, he cuddled even closer, as if he wanted your bodies to become one. just before the two of you could go back to sleep, however, a series of knocks fell on the wooden doors, making zuko immediately groan.
"go," you kissed his hair, breathing in its scent of jasmine and sandalwood. he lifted his head just to stare petulantly, making you laugh. "and when you're done by sunset, i'll be waiting for you right here."
"swear it," he reluctantly got up just enough to look at you properly. capturing your wrist, he pressed his lips to your arm, travelling from the hollow of your elbow till your palm. "you'll be the only thing i think of even as i leave these chambers."
you smiled contentedly and nodded. "i swear."
✧.* a/n: don't ask me why they talk like that, they just do ✧.*
firelord!zuko , who practices conversations with you in his head for hours beforehand, only to completely forget what he wanted to say the second you smile at him.
firelord!zuko , who once asked Iroh for advice on how to confess because “normal people probably don’t accidentally sound angry when they’re nervous.”
firelord!zuko , who is fiercely protective over you, stepping in front of you on instinct whenever he senses danger, his first thought always being how to keep you safe.
firelord!zuko , who gets jealous embarrassingly fast, jaw tightening whenever someone flirts with you, even though you always reassure him he’s the only person you want.
firelord!zuko , who reaches for your hand constantly — during meetings (when chamberlain is boring the pair of you), while walking through the palace grounds, even under the dinner table — because grounding himself in you calms the raging storm in his mind, as with being the firelord obvi comes with a lot of responsibility.
firelord!zuko , who melts the second you hug him after a difficult day, burying his face into your shoulder and holding you like the rest of the world finally stopped moving. muttering sweet-nothings into the nape of your neck, to then covering your neck in a cluster of innocent soft kisses.
firelord!zuko , who goes completely quiet when you kiss his scar for the first time, staring at you like he can’t understand how someone could look at that part of him so gently.
firelord!zuko , who secretly waits for your nightly kisses across his scar and cheeks before bed, pretending he doesn’t notice when it’s become his favorite part of the day, waiting idely for your to finish up getting ready as he waits for you in the comfort of the duvet.
firelord!zuko , who acts stiff and formal in public but turns unbearably clingy in private, always needing some kind of touch — your hand in his hair, your legs across his lap, your fingers hooked in his sleeve, knees grazing one another, etc.
firelord!zuko , who watches you laughing with Iroh from across the room and feels something warm settle in his chest because the two people he loves most get along so naturally.
firelord!zuko , who struggles badly with stress and lingering paranoia, especially after assassination attempts, and can only properly sleep when you’re tucked safely against his chest.
firelord!zuko , who quietly teaches you basic self-defense moves himself because the thought of you getting hurt while being with him keeps him awake at night. (even if your a trained fighter/bender cant help himself)
firelord!zuko , who loves calling you “my lady” , "dearest" , in the softest, most reverent tone imaginable, like the title means something sacred when it belongs to you.
firelord!zuko , who plans elegant palace dinners for you but honestly prefers sitting beside you in comfortable silence while he works, occasionally looking up just to make sure you’re still there, and gets an immensely fuzzy feeling when you're already looking at him.
firelord!zuko , who comes back from meetings or trips with random little gifts for you — polished stones, strange trinkets, flowers he thought you’d like — because everything reminds him of you.
firelord!zuko , who secretly loves when you wear Fire Nation colors, trying so hard not to stare while internally thinking you look breathtaking dressed beside him in red and gold.
firelord!zuko , who relaxes almost instantly when you do his hair for him, eyes half-lidded as your fingers move through it, trusting you enough to let every guard down for a little while.
a/n ; there is no leak in ba sing se. ALSO omfg its been ages since ive written smth
