taglist: @sunmoonnie @laptimelewis -> let me know if you want to be tagged in the comments
author's note: thank you guys for voting in this poll. this fanfic was inspired by this headcanon by @irkkii go check them out! 💞
-> 𝑚𝑎𝑠𝑡𝑒𝑟𝑙𝑖𝑠𝑡
it all started when you decided to book an appointment at his studio one day and both of you decided to click there.
which also includes exchanging instagrams so that you guys can DM eachother.
as weeks went by, you began to get more closer to lewis by getting to know more about him and you were allowed to come by to his studio anytime you wanted !
after a long shift, he would go to your apartment to stay there for the night before he has to leave later on during the day.
whilst he's busy with another client, you sit by to see what he's doing – which kind of distracts you to be honest ......
but lately, lewis has been acting strangely towards you.
he's more flirtier, showers you with compliments every minute, leaves a boquet of flowers by your front door and glances at you every chance he gets without you noticing (oh you have sis.)
and he has started to like your latest posts!
one day, you pull up to his studio for a booked appointment, having to wear a vest and shorts below your knees, since it was a hot day.
lewis was by his desk – being too busy scrolling through his socials to even notice your presence. well not really.
as soon as you got closer to the counter, lewis was already smirking.
"ah [name], so you're back again?" he says, not even looking up at you.
you scoffed. "lew you knew damn well that i was coming today..."
"oh shit yeah, totally forgot."
hes lying.
lewis then gets up from his desk to set up his station.
"so you looking for anything particular today?" lewis asked.
"well not really... just do your magic." you chuckle as you sit down on the bench while he gets everything ready.
lewis hummed to your answer and smirks again.
you on the other hand was casually staring at the tattoos on the board at the front of the shop till one that says 'angel' captivated your eye.
"wait! can you do this one?" you asked, causing him to look over.
"the 'angel' one yeah?"
"yeah that one please on my wrist. with a heat beside it"
he then chuckled softly, and started preparing for the session.
"just let me know if it hurts – stay still okay?" he says as he brushes against your skin with his fingers before getting the stencil out from one of the draws for positioning.
as he was working, you could feel his hand softly placed on your thigh to make sure you stayed still whilst he applies the ink onto your wrist, but this made you blush.
he then looks up at you. "are you okay?"
"yeah i'm fine."
"you sure?"
"mhm!"
lewis hummed, not beliving your final answer since the main thing he's worried about was hurting you.
"okay... just let me know if you feel any pain." he says, carrying on with his work.
a few minutes later after completing the final touches, lewis stretches a bit whilst you stare at your brand new covered tattoo which was positioned on your wrist, staring at it in awe.
"thank you so much lew!!"
"no worries, anything for you, angel." he smirks, making you heat up again.
hiii I know im a bitt late but for the way it goes, can you do a chapter where they have to take one of the babies have to get their vacations as a baby (those 6 week ones yk) and baby crying and George's reaction, like those videos of the dads reactions on tiktok 😭
Hi anon! Don't worry, there's no such thing as a 'late' ask or comment! And especially not with twig which is a universe that only thrives off audience ideas and interaction 🥰 Thank you for sending in this idea! I absolutely love it :')
The doctor’s office was quiet that morning. Sitting in the exam room and awaiting the appointment, you and George sat side by side in the plastic chairs, six-week-old Lawrence resting contentedly in his stroller. He was awake and peering around the room with those big blue eyes, little mouth moving as if in awe, limbs wiggling here and there as he was still growing used to his muscles.
You were resting your arms on the side of the stroller, folded one over the other with your chin on top, peering down at your son like he was your favourite thing to admire. When you reached a hand in and pressed your index finger against his palm, his tiny fingers wrapped around your one out of reflex.
“Laurie,” you sing-songed softly, giving his hand a little shake, “all set for the doctor? Gonna show her how big you’ve gotten, hm?”
George leaned in closer beside you and shared in your smile down to your baby son as he cooed, “Yeah, you’re a growing boy, aren't you?”
Lawrence’s legs kicked in his stroller and the two of you swooned. Everything he did was so wonderful to you. The joys of new parenthood.
The doctor came into the room only a few moments later, closing the door behind her and sharing pleasantries with you and George. She also greeted Lawrence, of course, and the baby only stared up at her in confusion.
You shared any updates with her on his growth and progression over the last few weeks and even touched on how you, yourself, were feeling postpartum now that the six week mark had come about. Lawrence was a quiet, patient boy in his stroller.
Soon, it was time for the proper check up. You lifted him up out of his cozy spot and had to strip him down to his diaper which he was not particularly keen on, offering a bit of a fuss that was easily soothed.
He was weighed and measured and checked on with fine attention. Soon, he was back in your arms as you returned to your chair beside George.
The doctor sat at her laptop and typed as she spoke, “He was 3.9 kilos when we saw him last. Now he’s 6.1. That’s excellent weight gain.”
“Is that in the ideal range?” George asked.
“Absolutely. He is a very healthy boy. I have no concerns.”
You and George exchanged relieved expressions. Being first time parents meant it was all too easy to fret about anything and everything. The reassurance was nice.
The last step in the appointment was the routine vaccines. The doctor began getting those prepped as she explained, “He may be fussy and have a slight fever after but it’s nothing to worry about.”
You nodded in understanding, already three steps ahead and worried about how your little boy would handle his vaccines. The first ones had been in the hospital when he was born and he was already crying and flustered when they poked him; needles were a breeze compared to being squeezed out of the birth canal.
George must have sensed your unrest as he offered quietly and held out his hands from beside you, “I’ll hold him.”
You passed Lawrence over to him without complaint and right away he was cradled in his arms.
“There’s my buggy boy,” George cooed with a smile, snuggling the diapered baby close and leaned down to kiss his forehead. Lawrence made a sweet little sound at the affection.
The doctor guided George on how to position the baby on his lap to prepare for the injections. Lawrence was held back against George’s chest, almost as if he were sitting on his lap, with George’s large hand secure around his middle to hold him in place. He was positioned carefully by his father under the professional eye of the doctor.
“Perfect,” she said gently, “And use your other hand to hold his legs still.”
It felt strange to restrain his baby in such a way but George followed the instruction before whispering down to Lawrence who had started to squirm in confusion, “You’re okay, bug. Daddy’s got you. You’re safe.”
As the doctor carefully wiped Lawrence’s little thigh with an antiseptic pad, you scooted in closer to pet a comforting hand on your baby’s head. Your heart was racing and you weren’t quite sure why. You knew very well that vaccines were important to protect him against illness, but maybe it was the realization that you couldn’t explain to him or prepare him for what was going to happen. You leaned in to kiss his little head.
The doctor then gave his thigh a little squish before quickly pressing the tiny needle into it. There was a pause of just a second before Lawrence’s little body seemed to crumple against George’s grasp and then he let out a loud wail. The doctor stepped back to quickly prepare the second vaccine, all too used to the displease of her little patients.
You and George, on the other hand, were not used to witnessing the pain of your baby at your own ‘fault’. George gently rocked side to side to try and soothe him with little shushes, stroking his thumb across his bare tummy.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart,” George, head hung, whispered to him, barely heard through his wailing, “I know. I know.”
You reached over to stroke Lawrence’s hair, soothing in a shaky voice of your own, “Such a brave boy. Just one more and then it’ll be all done.”
The doctor moved quickly, knowing better than to drag this on unnecessarily. Even as Lawrence cried on, George held him securely and she gave the baby’s opposite thigh a squish and then another quick poke of a needle. George flinched as Lawrence’s tiny body tried to squirm under his hold.
Lawrence just screamed, already upset from the first one and now made exponentially worse by the prick of the second. He was absolutely wailing.
“All done,” the doctor said quickly, giving the go-ahead for full, proper comfort.
George immediately scooped up the baby and cradled him closer against his chest, his two large hands still somewhat fitting around his entire little body. Lawrence just cries into George’s shirt, loud, screaming cries that just make your heart ache.
And when George turned to look at you, you could see that his eyes were shimmering with tears of his own, stemmed from the inability to protect your child from pain at that moment. You just share in a brief look of unspoken ache before turning your attention back to your baby.
George rubbed his back and leaned down to kiss his head, holding him close against his chest in what feels like a futile attempt to calm him. You fetched the pacifier from the stroller and offered it out to the crying baby and, reluctantly, Lawrence accepted it. Quiet fell through the small examination room, cut through only by his tiny whimpers and George’s quiet sniffle.
“Good boy,” you praised your tiny son warmly, petting his head again as his ear was pressed right over George’s heart, his big blue eyes blinking at you behind heavy tears. And his pacifier bobbed and bumped against his tiny nose as he soothed himself with little suckles. You stroked the back of your finger over his flushed chubby cheek and felt your heart melt.
Once the doctor finished up your appointment and Lawrence was re-dressed and everything was scheduled for your followup, George still refused to let go of the baby. In fact, he carried him to the car, leaving you to push the empty stroller alongside him. Not that you’d complain. It was a wonderful blessing to be married to someone who took their role as father so incredibly seriously. And someone who your child found comfort in.
George buckled him into his carseat while you loaded the stroller in the trunk. But then you found yourselves both leaning into the backseat, through the same open door, fussing and fawning over your flustered baby. Lawrence just blinked up at you both, still suckling away at his pacifier, cozy under his favourite little monogrammed blanket with one of his plush toys in his arms.
For the nth time, you adjusted his blanket around him and George gave him another kiss to the forehead. You probably looked like psychotic helicopter parents but you didn’t care.
Only a minute into the drive home and Lawrence had fallen asleep. George kept glancing in the rearview mirror to check on him as he drove, while you were almost entirely turned in the passenger seat to keep your eye on him. But he stayed perfectly asleep like a sweet little angel, exhausted from the stressful morning and the side effects of his first vaccines.
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The Boy Next Door Was Never Just The Boy Next Door IV
pairing : oscar piastri x reader
fandom : f1
synopsis : two best friends growing up together, always a little closer than just friends, even when life pulls them apart. and somehow, no matter where they go or who they become, they always end up tied back to each other like they were never really meant to let go in the first place.
a/n : pt iv out finally!! enjoy divas, love u all very much!!
pt i. pt ii. pt iii
suggested listening : messy by olivia dean.
for a few moments, nobody does anything. the world keeps moving around you. mechanics walk past carrying equipment. journalists drift through the paddock.
somewhere, an engine fires to life.
life continues.
but between you and oscar, time seems to have become reluctant. like it doesn't quite want to move forward yet.
you are still surrounded by his family. nicole has one hand wrapped around yours. one of his sisters is halfway through telling you a story about their first time in the paddock.
your mother is smiling softly at oscar.
yet all of it feels strangely distant. muted. like you're hearing it from underwater.
because every nerve ending in your body is aware of one thing.
him.
and then, finally, oscar starts walking towards you.
the movement is small. simple. just a few steps.
but your heart reacts like he's crossed an ocean.
your stomach drops. immediately. violently.
"oh god." you whisper it before you can stop yourself.
nicole hears. of course she does. the smile she gives you is entirely too knowing. you choose to ignore it. oscar keeps coming closer.
and suddenly all the details become impossible to ignore.
the slight stubble along his incredibly sharp jaw.
the mclaren polo.
the way he's taller than you remember.
broader too. years of training and racing and growing into himself. how he looks built in a way that could wreck you in ways you really shouldn't be thinking about a friend in.
but then he looks at you again, really looks at you.
and there they are.
his eyes. the exact same eyes.
the same brown eyes that looked up at you from toy car tracks and treehouses. the same eyes that watched you read terrible poetry. the same eyes that softened whenever you cried.
the same eyes that always seemed to find you in a crowd.
and god, that does something awful to you.
because suddenly you're not twenty-something anymore.
you're fifteen.
you're ten.
you're five.
you're every version of yourself that ever loved him.
all at once.
the realization hits with enough force that you almost hate it. because after everything, after years, after the distance, after the silences, a part of you still associates those eyes with safety.
with home. with every version of love you learned before you even understood what love was. you hate that your heart still knows him this easily. you hate that it doesn't hesitate.
because your head has spent years building walls, careful ones. necessary ones.
your heart apparently missed the memo.
oscar stops in front of you. not too close, but not far enough.
for a second neither of you speak.
his expression softens. almost painfully.
and suddenly he looks less like a formula one driver and more like the boy who used to climb through your bedroom window when he wanted company. the boy who carried your school bag when you sprained your wrist. the boy who listened to every song you ever wrote.
the boy who left. the man who is trying to return.
your throat tightens.
"hi." the word comes out quieter than intended.
oscar lets out a breath, almost like he'd been holding it since he first saw you.
"hi, trouble."
oh.
oh, that's cruel.
because no one calls you that anymore. nobody.
not like him. not with years of history tucked inside two syllables. you actually feel your chest ache.
and judging by the way his expression flickers after saying it, he feels it too. for a moment neither of you know what to do.
because there should be something bigger.
something profound.
a speech, an explanation. instead it's just this. two people staring at each other. trying to bridge years with eye contact alone.
oscar's gaze drifts over your face. not in a romantic way. not even intentionally. more like someone trying to confirm a memory is real.
and his chest tightens, because you're still you.
older.
more composed. more guarded.
but still you.
the girl who used to bake cookies for his entire family every Christmas.
the girl who wrote poems in the margins of her notebooks.
the girl whose laugh he could identify from three rooms away.
the girl he has spent years missing.
the girl he has spent years trying not to miss.
neither strategy worked.
his heart feels strangely unsteady. because standing here now, close enough to reach out and touch your arm, he realizes something he probably should have admitted a long time ago.
success never filled the space you left.
not any of it.
the missing simply learned how to hide better. until now.
until you walked into his paddock and ruined years of carefully maintained emotional denial in under thirty seconds.
your arms fold loosely across your chest. not defensive, but not welcoming either.
something in between.
and oscar notices. of course he notices.
the distance. the caution.
the hurt that still lingers beneath the surface.
a shadow crosses his face.
brief.
but there. because he put it there. and the worst part is he knows it.
yet despite everything—
despite the history, despite the mistakes, despite all the years in between— looking at you still feels like coming home after being gone too long.
and judging by the way your eyes haven't left his—
you know exactly what that feels like too.
for a moment, neither of you speak.
neither of you move.
the paddock buzzes around you, a whole world in motion. but all either of you can think is the same impossible thing:
there you are.
then reality catches up, because there are people watching. there is noise again. there is movement.
and most importantly—
there are the people he hasn’t greeted yet.
oscar exhales softly through his nose, like he’s physically forcing himself back into his body. then he turns.
“hi,” he says first to nicole. and the way she looks at him—
warm, knowing, emotional in that restrained way she always has— nearly undoes him immediately.
“hello, sweetheart,” she says softly.
and suddenly he feels twelve years old again in her kitchen, being handed food and told to sit down and eat properly.
he leans in to hug her. and it’s familiar in a way that almost hurts. he pulls back before it becomes too emotional.
because he can’t afford that right now.
next is your mum. “hi, mrs l/n” he says automatically. then immediately regrets how formal it sounds. she laughs softly.
“oh, none of that.” and pulls him into a hug anyway. god, he thinks faintly.
this is too normal. this shouldn’t feel this normal.
because that’s the problem. everone is acting like it’s always been this way. like you stepping into his paddock after years of silence is just… continuation. not collision.
then he finally turns slightly—
and sees you still standing there.
not speaking. not moving.
still holding yourself carefully like you’re not sure how much of yourself is allowed to exist here yet.
his chest tightens again. immediately.
like it never stopped. she hasn’t moved closer.
that’s the first thing he notices.
not distance in metres.
distance in posture.
in caution.
in the way your eyes are watching everything but giving away almost nothing. and it hits him then, sharply: he did that.
not just the silence.
not just the time.
the hesitation in you now.
he forces himself to look away before that thought grows teeth.
because there are still people around, still obligations.
still reality pressing in from every side.
so he does what he has to do. he walks through introductions.
lando appears beside him at some point, grinning in that way that suggests he has already made several conclusions and will be unbearable about them later.
zak says something about “nice to finally meet the famous Y/N” in a tone that makes oscar want to disappear into the garage floor. oscar responds automatically.
smiles where needed, nods where appropriate.
exists where required.
but underneath all of it—
his attention keeps slipping, always back, always to you.
every time he hears you laugh softly at something his sister says, something in his chest reacts like muscle memory. every time you shift your weight, he notices. every time you look away, he feels it.and it’s unbearable how natural it still is.
how his brain keeps placing you in the category of always there, even when logic insists otherwise. at one point, he hears his mum say your name.
and it does something stupidly physical to him.
like the sound of it belongs more in his life than anything else currently happening. he glances over again.
you’re speaking quietly with his sisters now. a little more relaxed than before. still careful.
still guarded. but there’s a flicker of something familiar in your expression. something that looks like you before everything became complicated, and he hates how much he notices that.
how much he wants it to stay.
you shouldn’t still feel like this, he thinks.
not after everything.
but then—
you glance up.
just briefly. not searching for him. just… coincidentally.
and your eyes meet his again.
and everything in him stops.
again.
because there it is, still. that same pull. that same recognition.
that same impossibly old instinct that says:
there you are.
and for a split second, he forgets where he is supposed to be in the story of his own life. because nothing about this feels like a reunion.
it feels like something that was never finished being written. just left open.
the paddock doesn’t slow down just because something personal is happening in it. if anything, it speeds up. people start moving with sharper purpose now—headsets on, clipboards out, drivers being pulled in different directions like the day has suddenly remembered what it’s supposed to be about.
oscar feels it immediately, that fracture.
between you being here and him having a job to do.
“we need you in garage,” someone calls.
“fp2 prep’s already started,” another voice adds.
zak is somewhere behind him, talking about timing windows.
lando bumps his shoulder as he passes.
“go be fast,” he says lightly, but there’s something knowing in it too.
oscar nods automatically, but his eyes don’t leave you. not fully. not even close. you’re still there. talking with his family. occasionally smiling. occasionally looking like you’re still adjusting to the fact that this is real and not some memory your brain misfiled.
and it hits him again, sharper this time:
i don’t have time.
not emotionally, not logically, not in the way this feels like it needs.
but he goes anyway, because he has to. fp2 comes and goes in a blur of helmets and radios and speed. everything he’s trained to do. everything that usually makes sense. but today it feels like his head is slightly out of sync with his body. like part of him is still standing in the paddock where you are.
even in the car, even at speed, there’s a thought that won’t fully leave:
she’s here.
she’s actually here.
it’s dangerous, really, this level of distraction.
he knows it, he tries to push it down.
he succeeds… mostly.
by the time FP2 ends, he’s back in the garage before he fully realises he’s out of the car. helmet off. air sharp in his lungs. noise everywhere again. quali prep starts immediately. everyone moving again.
faster now, tighter energy. more pressure. and yet—
he still feels like he hasn’t finished something.
his eyes flick once toward the hospitality area. hoping to catch a glimpse of you. existing in the same orbit but not in the same space.
he swallows. hard. and then he does something he doesn’t really plan.
it just… happens. he steps away from the group.
down a quieter corridor behind the garage. past stacked tyres and equipment cases and the hum of machinery that never really stops. he finds a corner where the noise dulls slightly.
pulls out his phone. a pause. long enough that he almost talks himself out of it. then he texts you.
hey
immediately deletes it. too casual.
can i see you for a second?
deletes. too vague.
he exhales through his nose. tries again.
are you free for like 2 minutes?
stops. stares at it.
then finally adds:
please
and sends it before he can overthink it again. for a few seconds, nothing. just distant garage noise. his heartbeat slightly louder than it should be.
then, the reply comes.
not long, not dramatic, just simple.
yeah
he exhales properly this time.
like something in his chest finally loosens by a millimetre.
meet me behind garage 3? he sends.
ok.
that’s it. but somehow it feels like everything. he puts the phone away.
stands there for a second longer than necessary. because this is the part he doesn’t know how to do. not driving. not racing. not pressure.
this. the in-between. the moment before everything either becomes clearer… or breaks slightly open.
and as he walks back toward the paddock edge, he realises something quietly unsettling:
fp2 was easy compared to this. quali will be easier too. but waiting to talk to you alone? that’s the only thing today that actually feels like risk.
and then he sees you. not surrounded this time. not buffered by his family or people or distance.
just… there.
waiting where he asked.
and something in him shifts so sharply it almost hurts. because this is the part of his day that racing can’t prepare him for.
just you.
for a second he just stands there, like if he moves too quickly, he’ll miss the fact that this is real. that you’re actually here. that you actually came. then he walks over.
fast. a little too fast.
like time is already chasing him.
“hey,” he says, slightly breathless.
and immediately—like he hates himself for it—he shakes his head.
“sorry. i—”
he exhales. runs a hand briefly through his hair.
“i don’t have much time.” it comes out softer than he intends.
not rushed. not cold. just honest. and there it is.
the weight of it. the paddock waiting behind him. quali looming like a countdown. everything pulling him back in ten different directions. except you.
you don’t move.
you just look at him.
careful.
quiet.
still carrying something in your eyes he can’t fully read yet. that alone makes his chest tighten.
“i shouldn’t even be here for this long,” he adds quickly. a half-laugh that doesn’t quite land.
“they’re already looking for me.” he stops, because none of this is what he actually came to say. his gaze flickers over your face.
and for a second—just a second—the noise of the paddock fades out again. like it always does when he looks at you properly.
“i’m sorry,” he says then. and this time it lands differently. he means it in a way that feels too big for the moment. too late for the years it’s attached to. “i’m sorry for… all of it.”
a beat.
he swallows.
“i should’ve—” he stops himself. because there are too many endings to that sentence. too many versions of what he should’ve done. instead, he steps half a fraction closer.
not fully.
not yet.
like he’s still afraid of what proximity will unlock.
“i need to talk to you,” he says. quieter now. focused.
like everything else has narrowed down to this. “i can’t— I can’t do this properly here.” he gestures vaguely at the paddock behind him.
people moving, noise building. life continuing.
then his eyes find yours again. and soften in a way that makes your stomach turn slightly.
“after quali,” he says. “please.”
the word lands heavier than it should. “can you come somewhere with me?” pause.
he exhales.
like he’s forcing himself to be brave in a way racing never taught him. “just… somewhere quiet. where we can actually talk.”
his voice drops slightly. almost pleading now.
not dramatic. just real. “i need to talk to you properly.”
another beat.his jaw tightens faintly.
“and i don’t want to do it like this,” he adds, gesturing again at the chaos around them.
“between sessions and people and—everything.” he stops.
because he’s aware of the irony. because this is still him. on a time crunch. still halfway between responsibility and something deeply personal he doesn’t know how to hold yet. and yet he stays there.
waiting.
eyes locked on you like the answer matters more than anything happening on track.
for a second, he looks almost younger. not in appearance. in uncertainty. in the way his entire composure is slightly cracked open by you standing in front of him again. and underneath it all—
the thing he doesn’t say out loud but is written all over him anyway:
please don’t disappear again before i figure this out.
time is pulling tight again.
but he doesn’t move yet. not until you answer.
you don’t answer immediately, not because you don’t hear him.
you hear every word.
every syllable lands too cleanly, too directly, like it bypasses all your usual defences and goes straight to the place you’ve been trying very carefully not to look at. it’s just—
him.
standing in front of you. out of breath from a world that doesn’t slow down. asking for you like you’re something he still knows how to find. and that’s the problem. that’s always been the problem.
your fingers curl slightly into your palm without you noticing.
a grounding habit. something to stop yourself from drifting too far into what this feels like. because what it feels like is dangerous in its simplicity. familiar. too familiar. you swallow.
once.
then again. “i…” you start.
and hate how unsteady it sounds. his eyes don’t leave yours.
not even for a second. like if he looks away, the moment will fracture. behind him, someone calls his name again.
sharply this time. more urgent. time tightening.
the paddock reclaiming him inch by inch. he hears it. you can tell he hears it.
his jaw shifts slightly, like he’s holding himself still through sheer force of will. “i know,” he says quietly, almost immediately, like he can read the pressure building behind your silence. “i know i don’t have time.” a breath. smaller now, more honest. “but i can’t… i can’t keep doing this in passing moments with people around us.”
his voice tightens slightly on the last word.
us.
like it still means something dangerous to say out loud. and that does it.
something in your chest cracks—not loudly, not dramatically, but enough that it changes the shape of your breathing.
because the truth is— you’ve been surviving in passing moments too.
for years. pieces of him in texts that stopped. in silence that stretched too long. in memories you never quite stopped replaying.
but this?
this is not a passing moment. this is him asking for something real again. you finally look down for half a second.
just to steady yourself. when you look back up, your expression has changed. not softened, not hardened. something more complicated than both. “you don’t get to just…” you start.
then stop. because your voice catches on the edge of everything you’ve been holding. you breathe in. slow. controlled.
“you don’t get to disappear for years and then ask me for time like it’s something we still have lying around.” it comes out quieter than it could have. that’s the only mercy in it. his face shifts immediately. not defensive. just hit.
like he’s been expecting it, but it still lands heavier than he can absorb cleanly.
“i know,” he says again. but softer this time. no argument in it. just acceptance.
a pause.
then— “i don’t expect you to forgive me in two minutes behind a garage.” a faint, almost broken exhale. “that’s not what this is.”
he takes a small step closer now.
careful.
like he’s afraid of overwhelming you. “i just need you to come with me after quali,” he repeats. “somewhere where I can actually explain this properly.” his voice lowers.
earnest in a way that feels almost disarming. “please.”
there it is again. that word. not pressure. not demand.
just him asking. and you hate how much that matters.
how much it still lands exactly where it always used to.
because underneath everything—the distance, the hurt, the years— there’s still something in you that reacts to him like he’s gravity. like he’s familiar. like he’s safe in a way your body remembers before your mind agrees.
you glance past him for a second. the paddock. the noise.
the life he has to return to in seconds. then back to him.
standing there like he’s holding himself still just for this answer.
and you realise something quietly devastating:
he didn’t come over expecting certainty.
he came over hoping you’d still choose him enough to pause everything else. even now.
even after everything. your breath shakes slightly when you let it out.
not fully steady. not fully broken either.
“…after quali,” you repeat softly.
more to yourself than him. testing the weight of it. his shoulders loosen just a fraction.
like he’s been holding his breath for that exact possibility. you look at him properly then. really look. at the urgency. the exhaustion.
the way he’s split between two worlds and somehow still standing in front of you anyway. and you nod. small. almost reluctant.
but real. “fine,” you say. a beat.
then, quieter: “after quali.”
for a second, he doesn’t move.
like he’s making sure he didn’t imagine it.
then something in his expression breaks open just slightly. relief. raw and immediate and unguarded.
“okay,” he says quickly. almost too quickly. like he’s afraid you’ll take it back. he nods once.
then again. already half-turning back toward the paddock, where the world is loudly demanding him again.
but before he goes, he looks at you one last time. longer this time. softer. like he’s trying to memorise the version of you standing here before everything shifts again. “i’ll find you,” he says quietly. not a promise. something heavier.
and then he’s gone. pulled back into noise and time and speed.
leaving you standing there with the echo of him still in the air between you. and the uncomfortable, undeniable awareness that nothing about this is small anymore.
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
the garage feels different when he’s out there. not quieter exactly—because it never is—but… stretched.
like every second has been pulled slightly longer than normal and everyone is just trying to pretend they don’t feel it. you’re standing just behind the main screens with his family clustered around you.
nicole has one hand resting lightly on your back again, absent-minded in the way she always is when she’s nervous. hattie is talking quietly about something completely unrelated, like she’s trying to keep the air normal. edie keeps glancing between the screens and your face like she’s tracking two races at once. mae is sitting on the edge of a counter, swinging her legs, pretending she isn’t invested in every corner of this.
and you? you are trying very hard to be a person who is not internally combusting. because this is absurd. truly. you’ve watched him race before. you’ve watched him win things before. you’ve seen him in helmets and screens and interviews and highlights and all of it.
but this feels different. because now there is context sitting in your chest like a weight you can’t quite put down. everything he said before quali still echoing softly at the edges of your mind.
after quali.
please.
so you focus on the screen. because that’s safer. cars line up. engines build. the garage shifts into that specific kind of silence that is never actually silent.
every engineer slightly too still, every eye slightly too sharp.
and then he goes out.
the moment his car leaves the pit lane, something in your stomach tightens involuntarily.
not fear. not quite excitement. something more like recognition of importance. lap after lap begins to unfold on the screen.
sector times flashing. colour changes. tiny gaps that somehow feel enormous. you don’t even realise you’re leaning forward until nicole gently squeezes your shoulder. “he’s okay,” she murmurs.
you nod.
even though your heartbeat is doing something entirely unprofessional.
there’s a moment in Q3 where everything feels like it pauses. like the world is holding its breath with you.
final lap.
you don’t notice you’ve stopped moving entirely. your hands are clasped together without you thinking.
eyes locked on the screen. everything else reduced to background noise.
and then—
the timing delta appears.
green.
green again.
purple.
the garage erupts slightly before it’s confirmed. someone lets out a sharp laugh. someone else says something disbelieving.
you don’t fully register it at first, because your brain is still catching up. still processing the numbers. still refusing to assume what they mean. then the final sector hits. and it settles.
P1.
for half a second, you just stare. like the word doesn’t fully translate. then the garage explodes.
properly this time.
cheers.
claps.
engineers reacting before even hearing confirmation. and something in you just… releases. not dramatically. not loudly.
just a sudden loosening in your chest like you didn’t realise how tightly you were holding everything. “oh my God,” you breathe out.
and then you’re clapping too. it’s not loud.
not like the others, not like the chaos around you. it’s slightly more controlled. alittle more careful.
like you’re still remembering how to exist in this space without breaking it, but you’re smiling. you can’t help it. because despite everything sitting between you and him—
despite the years and silence and the conversation waiting after—
this is still him.
still the boy you grew up with.
still the person you’ve always rooted for without needing permission. nicole is crying. obviously. hattie is laughing. mae has jumped off the counter. edie is already talking about how unbearable he’s going to be now.
and you just stand there, watching the screen, watching his name at the top.
feeling something warm and complicated and slightly terrifying bloom in your chest.
because even now, especially now— you can’t stop being proud of him.
not even for a second. not even with everything else unresolved.
and then the radio crackles. the moment he’s told.
the reaction. you don’t even need to hear it to imagine it. you just know. you know him. and for the first time all day, your breathing feels almost steady again. almost.
until nicole glances at you.
soft smile, careful eyes, and says quietly, “he’s going to come find you very fast now.” and just like that, your heart starts racing again.
the garage never really settles after a pole. it just changes shape.
noise becomes celebration instead of tension. headsets come off. people clap each other on the back like they’re trying to physically confirm what just happened is real. and in the middle of it all, oscar is still slightly detached.
not because he isn’t happy—he is, visibly, in that sharp exhale kind of relief—but because part of his brain is still somewhere else entirely. with you. he goes through the motions first.
media. engineer congratulations. a quick embrace with Zak that feels like a mix of pride and restrained disbelief. lando appears out of nowhere, grinning like he’s personally offended Oscar made it look that easy.
“mate,” lando laughs, shaking his head, “that was ridiculous.”
oscar just gives a breathy laugh in return, still slightly out of sync with himself. “yeah… yeah, I don’t really know what happened either.”
but even while he’s smiling, even while he’s answering questions and acknowledging people, his eyes keep drifting. always drifting.
back toward the garage entrance. back toward where he knows you are.
eventually, he gets free. not fully. never fully in a place like this. but enough. he doesn’t even properly register the walk back through the paddock. it’s all motion blur.
claps on shoulders. quick words. someone saying “well done, mate” as he passes. everything feels slightly unreal, like he’s moving through a moment that hasn’t fully decided how to exist yet.
and then he sees his family. it happens all at once.
nicole spots him first, already emotional, already moving. hattie and edie practically collide into him at the same time. mae jumps in a second later, laughing, talking over everyone.
“you were insane—”
“that last sector—”
“i told you he’d do it—”
he hugs them properly. one after another. longer than usual, because something in his chest is still too full and nowhere near settled. and then he sees you. and it’s like the entire paddock drops away again.
not dramatically. just… quietly.
like his focus narrows so completely that nothing else fits inside it anymore. you’re standing slightly to the side.
not hidden, not fully forward either. still that careful in-between space you’ve been holding all day. like you’re not entirely sure what version of you belongs in this moment yet.
his breath catches a little before he can stop it. because you’re smiling. small. seal. for him. he moves before he fully thinks about it.
“hey,” he says when he reaches you. and his voice is softer now, less adrenaline, more something else.
something unsteady.
you tilt your head up at him. and for a second neither of you speak.
just look again, like earlier never fully ended.
“congrats,” you say quietly. simple. careful. but there’s warmth in it that he feels immediately. his mouth quirks slightly. not quite a grin yet.
something more tired. more real. “thank you.” a beat.
then, softer:
“i—yeah. it was… stressful.”
a faint exhale that turns into something almost like a laugh. and then he doesn’t hesitate anymore. not this time. he steps forward and pulls you into a hug. it’s immediate.
not cautious.
not slow. just instinct.
like his body remembers before his mind finishes the sentence. and the moment it happens, something in both of you shifts. because he’s still warm from everything. sweaty from the car. smelling faintly like rubber and heat and adrenaline and the kind of exhaustion that only comes after pushing everything to the limit. and yet—
it doesn’t matter.
not even a little.
your arms go around him like they’ve always known how. like no time has passed at all. like your body didn’t need instructions. and there it is.
that collision again.
the spark. not loud. not explosive. just immediate. that quiet, undeniable electricity that sits underneath familiarity like it never left. but beneath it, something even stronger. comfort. deep. old. bone-deep.
the kind that doesn’t ask permission to exist. the kind that makes your shoulders drop without you meaning to.
the kind that feels like being sixteen again on a beach, or five in a treehouse, or anywhere he has ever existed close enough to matter.
for a second, neither of you let go. neither of you speak. just hold on.
like the body is trying to catch up to everything the years complicated.
and oscar closes his eyes for half a second. because this? this feeling—
is the one thing he didn’t know how much he missed until it was right back in his arms again.
and it terrifies him a little. how natural it still feels.
how right it still is. even now. even after everything.
when he finally loosens the hug slightly, he doesn’t step back fully.
just enough to see your face. still close. still you. still there.
and in that small space between you— everything else waits.
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
the drive back feels quieter than the paddock. not calm. just delayed.
like everyone is emotionally processing in different time zones and no one has synced back up yet. oscar sits in a separate car from you, but somehow that doesn’t stop him from feeling your presence in everything. the pole still humming in his chest.
the hug still lingering somewhere under his skin. and underneath all of it, you.
back again. properly again.
he keeps replaying it without meaning to. the way you looked at him before the hug. the way you said congrats like it still mattered deeply who he was becoming. the way your arms fit like no time had passed at all, and somehow too much time had.
it’s dangerous.
that’s the only word his brain can find for it. not because it feels bad. because it feels familiar in a way he hasn’t allowed himself to trust in years. by the time they reach the hotel, the team energy has softened into tired celebration.
dinner plans. drinks. decompression.
oscar barely hears any of it properly until his phone buzzes.
a message from you.
hey
just that.
his chest tightens instantly.
he stares at it for a second too long before replying.
hey
a pause. then—
are you at the hotel?
you reply almost immediately.
yeah
he exhales slowly through his nose, already aware of where this is going and slightly terrified of how much he wants it to.
can i see you?
he types.
deletes.
rewrites.
then finally:
can i meet you later? maybe bar or my room? just want to talk properly
he stares at it. then adds:
if you want hits send.
and immediately puts the phone down like it might accuse him of something. meanwhile— you are spiralling. not loudly. not dramatically. quietly. in your hotel room.
the kind of spiral where everything looks too still and your brain refuses to pick one thought and commit to it. you stand in front of your suitcase like it’s a philosophical problem.
bar?
room?
why did he say room?
why did he also say bar?
why does your heart feel like it has already chosen and is now refusing to inform your brain? you pull out one outfit.
put it back. another. put it back. “you are insane,” you tell yourself. “this is just a conversation.”
it is not just a conversation.
you both know it.
eventually, you stop pretending to be rational, and you pick the black dress. simple. sleek.
falling just right. not loud. but not innocent either. the kind of dress that doesn’t ask for attention but absolutely knows when it’s getting it. you look at yourself in the mirror.
pause. then exhale slowly.
“…this is fine,” you mutter. it is not fine. downstairs, oscar is in his room when he gets your reply.
ok. bar in 20?
he reads it, and then he sits very still. because suddenly the pole feels like a very distant achievement compared to whatever is about to happen in twenty minutes.
“yeah,” he replies. then adds:
see you there
and for a moment after he sends it, he just stares at his phone.
like it has quietly shifted the direction of his entire night. twenty minutes later, you both arrive at the bar from opposite ends of the same building. unaware of how carefully the world is about to narrow again. and how quickly “after quali” is about to become something neither of you can casually walk away from anymore.
the hotel bar is dim in that deliberate way—low lighting, soft gold reflections on glass, the kind of place that pretends it’s private even when it’s not. you spot him before he spots you.
or maybe you don’t.
maybe you both just… register each other at the same time again, like some pattern in the world keeps forcing alignment. oscar is already sitting when you arrive. half-turned in his chair.
phone forgotten on the table.
not talking to anyone. not looking at anything else.
just waiting.
and when you walk in, he actually stills.
properly. like his brain needs a second to catch up with what his eyes are telling him. because it’s not just that you’re there.
it’s you like this. not paddock-you. not memory-you.
this version. hair slightly done. face softer in the low light.
that black dress sitting on you like it was chosen with intention you’re pretending you don’t have. controlled. quiet. slightly dangerous in a way he doesn’t immediately know how to label. his throat moves before he says anything.
he is having thoughts no one should about a best friend. about the way their body curves in a way that makes him suddenly feel like a devotional man.
he stands automatically.
then remembers himself halfway up and sits again a second later like he forgot how gravity works. “hey,” he says when you reach the table. and it comes out quieter than intended. you sit across from him.
careful. measured. like the table between you is both necessary and not nearly enough. “hey,” you reply.
a pause. it stretches. not awkward. just heavy with everything that’s been sitting between you all day.
a waiter appears. too normal too interruptive.
you don’t look away from him when you order. “tequila something,” you say after a second of glancing at the menu.
then, more firmly: “whatever has tequila in it.”
oscar blinks. once. then lets out a short breath that might almost be a laugh “…okay.” he doesn’t comment.
but something in his expression shifts slightly. like he understands exactly why. when the drinks arrive, you wrap your fingers around the glass like it’s anchoring you. you don’t drink yet. just hold it.
oscar watches you for a second too long. then looks away. then back again.
like he’s trying to figure out which version of this conversation he is actually supposed to be having. “i didn’t think you’d come,” he admits finally. simple. honest. you take a small sip. the burn hits immediately.
good.
you need it.
“i almost didn’t,” you say. a beat. then, quieter:
“i almost did a lot of things.” that lands.
you see it in his face immediately. he nods once. slow. like he deserves that weight. "i've been thinking about this all day,” he says. then corrects himself softly:
“actually… longer than that.”
you let out a breath through your nose. not amused. not angry. something more complicated. “yeah?” you say.
careful. guarded. he looks at you then.
really looks. and it’s like everything else in him drops slightly.
the driver. the garage. the noise. the structure.
just… him.
“i didn’t handle it well,” he says. not dramatic. not rehearsed. just fact.
you laugh once and it isn’t cruel. but it isn’t kind either. “that’s one way of putting it.” he flinches slightly at the honesty. but doesn’t interrupt. you swirl the drink slowly. watch the ice move.
then look up at him again. “you went quiet,” you say.
flat. measured.
like you’ve rehearsed this sentence too many times in your head over the years. his jaw tightens. “i know.” a pause. then—
“i thought it would be easier,” he admits. voice lower now.
less certain “for both of us.”
that makes something in your chest twist sharply. you shake your head slightly.
“no,” you say immediately. not loud. just final.
“it wasn’t easier.” silence. the bar hums around you. glasses clinking, low conversations, music somewhere distant. but your table feels sealed off from it. oscar leans forward slightly. elbows near the table now. like he can’t keep the distance anymore. “i missed you,” he says.
simple again. but it hits harder than anything else so far.
you stare at him for a second. really stare.
and something in your expression cracks—not fully, not visibly—but enough that your voice softens despite yourself. “it didn’t feel like it,” you say quietly.
then, after a beat: “not for a long time.” that lands. you see it. properly.
he swallows. looks down for half a second. then back up. eyes sharper now. more emotional. less protected. “i know,” he says again.
and there’s something almost broken in it this time.
“i was… wrong for that.” you take a breath.
slow. controlled. but your hands tighten slightly around the glass anyway. "you had a girlfriend,” you say.
careful now. not accusatory. just real.
his expression shifts immediately.
regret.
immediate and unhidden.
“i know,” he repeats. then adds quickly:
“and that’s not—i didn’t mean—”
he stops.
re-centres himself. “i didn’t stop thinking about you because of her,” he says more clearly.
honest now in a way that feels slightly reckless. “i started dating her because i couldn’t stop thinking about you.”
the words hang there. heavy. unfiltered. you blink.
once.
slow.
like your brain is trying to decide what to do with that information.
oscar looks at you like he’s waiting for impact. not dodging it. just bracing.
and for the first time all evening, there is no script left. no rehearsed version of this. just two people sitting across from each other with too much history and not enough distance. you breathe in.
slow. tequila still burning slightly in your chest.
“that’s…” you start. stop. start again. “that’s not fair,” you say quietly. not angry. just overwhelmed.
he nods immediately “i know.” a pause, longer this time.
then, softer:
“i don’t know how to fix the years,” he admits. eyes locked on yours now. fully “but i didn’t want tonight to end without telling you that i never stopped—” he stops himself.
swallows. corrects gently. “i never stopped missing you.”
and this time, you don’t look away. not yet. because something in you is still trying to decide what survives after a sentence like that
oscar doesn’t look away from you. not even when he probably should. not even when it would make this easier. his fingers hover near his glass but don’t touch it.
like he’s forgotten what to do with his hands when he’s not driving or apologising.
you’re still holding your drink. still feeling the echo of his words sitting somewhere under your ribs.
i started dating her because i couldn’t stop thinking about you.
it loops. refuses to settle.
you open your mouth slightly. not sure what you’re going to say.
not sure there even is a safe version of anything anymore.
but before anything can form, a voice drops into the space like a badly timed lifeline “oh.”
both of you turn.
lando. standing there. hands in pockets.
expression halfway between curiosity and immediate, devastating comprehension.
he looks at oscar first. then you.then slowly, very slowly— the table.
“right,” he says. long pause.
“…this is happening. oscar closes his eyes for half a second like he’s been personally betrayed by the universe’s timing.
“lando—” “no, no, don’t ‘lando’ me,” lando interrupts immediately, holding up a hand. he looks between you again. and something in his face softens just slightly. not teasing anymore.
more… aware.
“okay” you blink. once. still slightly stuck in emotional limbo. lando exhales through his nose. then points vaguely at oscar.
then at you. then at the table like he’s connecting dots in real time.
“i leave you alone for, what, five minutes after quali and you’ve already emotionally time-travelled into something that looks like it’s been brewing since the stone age?” oscar makes a noise that is somewhere between a groan and surrender.
“it’s not—”
“it is,” Lando says instantly. then he glances at you again. a little softer now. “hi, by the way.”
you manage a small nod.
“hi.”
your voice feels slightly unreal in your own ears. there’s a beat.
the kind where Lando clearly realises he has walked into something delicate and extremely complicated and is now trying to decide whether to intervene or run. he chooses intervention. of course he does.
“right,” he says again.
then claps his hands once. too loud. too energetic. oscar actually flinches slightly.
“i need him for a second,” lando announces. oscar looks at him immediately. “what?”
“yeah,” lando says, already stepping in. “important race debrief stuff. urgent. very technical. extremely confidential.”
he does not sound convincing in any of those words. oscar narrows his eyes.
“lando—” “nope,” lando says, grabbing his sleeve and tugging lightly. “come on. now. garage corridor. adult things. away from… this.”
he gestures vaguely at the table.
at you. then immediately regrets it because his expression softens again like he’s just realised what “this” actually is. oscar hesitates.
just for a second. eyes flicking back to you.
like he doesn’t want to leave mid-breath of this moment.
you don’t speak. but your grip on the glass tightens slightly. not stopping him. not pulling him back either. just… there.
that seems to decide it for him. because he stands.
slowly. reluctantly.
“i’ll be back,” he says quietly. a promise this time. something closer to necessity. you nod once. small. controlled. but your eyes stay on him longer than you intend. and then he’s gone.
dragged away by Lando into the corridor like a hostage situation disguised as friendship. the second they’re out of earshot—
lando immediately lets go of his arm. spins to face him. “okay,” he says.
breathing slightly too fast. hands already gesturing aggressively.
“WHAT was that.” oscar just stares at him. “…what.” “don’t ‘what’ me,” lando says. “this is textbook ‘you are emotionally compromised beyond repair’ behaviour.”
oscar pinches the bridge of his nose. “i’m not—”
“you absolutely are,” lando cuts in. then lowers his voice slightly, more serious now but still very lando about it.
“mate. you looked at her like she was the only stable thing in the universe and you were actively being pulled out of orbit.”
oscar goes very still.
lando continues, unstoppable now.
“and she looks at you like she’s trying really hard not to fall apart in a very dignified way which is frankly offensive to everyone involved.”
oscar exhales slowly. “…it’s complicated.”
lando laughs. short. sisbelieving “yeah, no kidding.” a beat. then Lando leans in slightly. more earnest now. “listen,” he says. “i don’t know the full history. but i know enough to see you’ve been haunted by her name for, like, your entire adult life.” oscar doesn’t respond. because he can’t deny it. not anymore. lando points back toward the bar. “and she’s in there.” pause. then, softer:
“and she clearly still matters.”
oscar’s jaw tightens slightly. lando claps him on the shoulder once. too hard. too supportive. very him.
“so,” he says brightly.
“go fix whatever emotional disaster that is before i have to watch you both communicate through metaphors and eye contact for another hour and die of secondhand tension. while clearly she either wants to slap the shit out of you or fuck some sense into you”
oscar laughs in sheer shock. then he exhales. slow. controlled.
“i don’t know how,” he admits quietly. lando stares at him. then grins.
immediate. unhelpful. “mate,” he says. “you literally drive cars at 300km/h for a living.” a beat.
“…talking is not the hard part here.” oscar lets out a small breath that might almost be a laugh this time.
and for the first time since he saw you earlier—
something in his shoulders loosens just slightly. not fixed. not solved.
just less trapped. he looks back toward the bar. toward you. then nods once. to himself. “yeah,” he says quietly. “okay.” and starts walking back.
lando follows him for exactly three steps before deciding subtlety is no longer part of the strategy. “also,” he adds, far too casually for the emotional gravity of what he’s about to say, “if you don’t sort your situation out, I will personally intervene.”
oscar stops walking. slowly turns his head.
“…what?” lando smiles like he’s about to ruin his life on purpose.
“i said,” he repeats, enunciating each word with dangerous cheer, “if you continue to emotionally hover around that woman without doing anything about it, I will find her a competent man myself.”
a beat. oscar just stares at him. “…you will what?”
lando shrugs.
“yeah. i’ve got contacts. plenty of normal, well-adjusted men who know how to communicate and don’t look like they’re about to have an existential crisis every time she breathes.”
oscar blinks once. then twice.
something in his brain visibly short-circuits.
“…you can’t just say that.”
lando tilts his head. “i absolutely can say that. i am saying it.”
and then, because he clearly enjoys chaos as a lifestyle choice, he gestures vaguely back toward the bar.
“because, mate. she is—” he pauses, searching for the correct level of honesty, then gives up and lands on blunt, “—insanely beautiful. like, offensively. it’s distracting. i walked in and briefly forgot what sport i was employed by.”
oscar makes a strangled sound. not quite a laugh. not quite panic. somewhere in between. “lando—”
“no, listen,” Lando cuts in, suddenly more serious again, but still with that grin that means he is enjoying this far too much. “i’m not even joking now. you’ve got a very limited window where this is still ‘romantic tension’ and not ‘you being actively stupid.’”
oscar rubs a hand over his face. “this is not helpful.”
“it is extremely helpful,” lando insists. “i am basically your emotional engineer right now.” “I didn’t ask for an emotional engineer.” “you didn’t need to. I appointed myself.”
they walk a few more steps in silence.
“look,” lando says finally, dropping his voice slightly, like he’s actually going to behave for half a second, “i’ve seen you around people. i’ve seen you around her.”
oscar’s jaw tightens immediately at the word. lando notices. of course he does.
“and that,” he continues gently, “is not how you act around someone you’ve ‘just known since childhood.’ that’s how you act when your brain has been emotionally compromised since approximately age five.”
oscar exhales through his nose.
“…i hate you.”
“no you don’t,” Lando says cheerfully. “you need me.” they reach the corridor leading back toward the bar. the noise starts to return faintly. suddenly, the idea of lando “helping” in any capacity feels more terrifying than qualifying pressure ever did.
and somewhere ahead you’re still waiting. you’re still at the table. still there.
but your focus has drifted slightly inward, like you’re holding yourself together in small, invisible ways. your fingers move without thinking.
rings. turning them. sliding them.
a habit he knows like breath.
since you were twelve and nervous at your first school presentation and he’d sat beside you pretending not to notice while you spun them until your knuckles went pale.
something in his chest tightens immediately. because that’s what does it. not speeches. not qualifying. not even the conversation before.
that.
the small things. the proof that nothing about you has ever really left him. he stops at the table. you look up before he speaks.
and it hits him again. that split-second recalibration.
like his entire nervous system has to remember how to exist around you. “hey,” he says quietly.
your hands still. just for a moment. then rest lightly against the glass again.
“hey,” you reply. soft. careful. like both of you are still balancing on the edge of something too fragile to rush. he sits.
but not fully relaxed. not yet. elbows near the table.
hands slightly clenched before he forces them open again. there’s a pause. long enough that the noise of the bar fills it too loudly. too normally. then he exhales. slow. like he’s choosing honesty over every other instinct he has learned in racing.
“i talked to lando,” he says.
a beat. then adds, almost tired: "he’s… aggressively unhelpful.”
a faint, involuntary laugh escapes you at that. just a breath of it.
and something in his chest loosens at the sound. he watches you for a second. really watches. and then— it’s like something in him tips.
not dramatically. just… finally.
“i need to say something,” he says. quieter now.
no more hedging. no more circling. you blink once.
still. listening. he swallows. looks down briefly at his hands. then back up at you like he’s forcing himself to stay there. “i’ve been trying to figure out how to exist around you for most of my life,” he admits.
and the honesty in it is immediate and unfiltered, like it’s been waiting years for permission. your breath catches slightly. you don’t interrupt. you don’t move. he leans forward a fraction more.
voice lower now. more intense. not louder—closer.
like the rest of the room doesn’t deserve it. “when we were kids,” he continues, “it was easy. you were just… there. all the time. like it was normal.” pause. his mouth tightens slightly.
“like home isn’t something you have to think about.”
something shifts in your expression at that. subtle. but real. he notices. of course he does. “and then i left,” he says. simple.
heavy. “and i kept expecting it to feel less like i’d lost something.” a small shake of his head. almost disbelieving. “it didn’t.” silence sits between you. not empty.
full.
his fingers finally rest flat on the table.
grounding himself. “i dated someone else,” he says, quieter now, like it costs him to say it out loud here. “i tried to… move forward. do what made sense.” a breath.
then, more honest than anything before it: “and none of it ever felt like you.” your grip on your glass tightens slightly.
not breaking.
but reacting. he sees it.
softens a fraction. but doesn’t stop. can’t.
not now. “you’re the only person who ever made me feel like i wasn’t trying to be someone,” he says.
his voice cracks slightly on the edge of it—not dramatic, just real. “just… me. enough.”
a pause.
longer now. like he’s standing at the edge of something irreversible and still choosing to step forward.
“and i think,” he adds, quieter, almost like he’s afraid of the weight of the words, “i think i’ve been in love with you since i was too young to even understand what that meant.”
the words land. not gently.
not harshly either. just… completely. like they fill the space and don’t leave room for anything else to pretend anymore.
he finally leans back slightly. exhales.
like he’s been holding his breath for years and only just realised it. “i don’t expect you to say anything,” he adds quickly.
but his eyes stay on yours. still searching. still steady.
“i just… couldn’t keep pretending you were something i can put in the past.” a beat. then softer, almost painfully honest:
“you’ve never felt like that for me.” the air between you feels different now. thinner. stripped of everything unnecessary.
and in that space—
it’s not just confession. it’s recognition. of everything that was never accidental. never casual. never really gone. he doesn’t touch you.
doesn’t push. doesn’t move closer. just sits there. waiting.
completely, vulnerably still. as if the entire race weekend, the paddock, the noise, the years—
all of it—
has narrowed down to your next breath.
for a moment, you don’t speak. not because there’s nothing to say. because there’s too much. it all presses up at once—years folding into a single table, a single room, a single breath that suddenly feels too small for what he’s just said.h is words are still sitting there in the air between you. heavy.
unavoidable.
i think i’ve been in love with you since i was too young to even understand what that meant.
you look down. not away from him entirely. just down enough to gather yourself. your fingers find your rings again without thinking.
turn.
pause.
turn again.
a habit that suddenly feels like it’s trying to keep you anchored in a moment that doesn’t have solid ground anymore. he doesn’t interrupt you. he just waits. not impatient. just there.
like he’s finally learned how to be still in front of you without running from it. when you speak, your voice is quieter than you expect.
but steady enough to hold. “you’re acting like this is new,” you say softly. a faint, almost disbelieving breath leaves you. his brow furrows slightly. “…it is.” but there’s uncertainty in it now.
not confidence. not defence.
just honesty. you shake your head once.
small. like you’re almost smiling but not quite.
“no,” you say.
then you look up at him properly. and something in your expression softens in a way that undoes the tension instead of sharpening it.
“it’s not.” he stills. properly. and suddenly you’re not in the bar anymore. not really. not fully.
you’re somewhere green. warm. younger. the kind of summer that stretches too long and makes everything feel endless. your voice shifts slightly as you continue. not breaking the moment.
just… colouring it.
“do you remember,” you start, a small breath of laughter slipping in without permission, “when we were like… six?” his expression changes instantly. recognition flickering. you don’t wait.
it’s already there between you both anyway. “we were in the garden,” you say.
“and i don’t even know why, but i just decided you needed cheering up because you were annoyed that you lost at something stupid you were being very dramatic about.”
a tiny pause. your mouth twitches. “and i came over and just—”
you gesture faintly, like you can still see it. “kissed your cheek.”
something shifts in his face immediately.
slow. soft. like a memory opening a door he didn’t realise was still unlocked.
you watch it happen. and your voice gets a little lighter without you forcing it. “and you just went completely red,” you add.
a faint laugh slips out now. “like, fully malfunctioned. i thought i’d broken you.” his lips part slightly. “…i remember that.”
quiet. a little stunned. you nod once. “yeah.”
a pause. then you lean back slightly in your chair.
still watching him. still grounded in him.
“and then a few days later,” you continue, softer now, more amused, “you came up to me like it was a very serious request and asked if you could kiss me back.”
that does it. his expression cracks—just slightly. a breath of disbelief mixed with something dangerously tender.
“i remember doing that”
“yeah..” you confirm.
then your smile finally comes through properly this time. small. real. fond in a way that hurts more than it should.
“you said it was only fair,” you add. a beat. “like it was a rule.”
he lets out a sound that’s almost a laugh. but softer.
strained at the edges. like he’s remembering how simple everything used to be before it got complicated. for a second, neither of you speak. the bar hum fades back in. but it feels far away again. then you look at him properly. and your voice lowers.
not losing warmth. just gaining truth.
“we’ve always been like this,” you say. a pause.
your fingers still again on the rings. “just… without knowing what to call it.” his gaze doesn’t leave you. not even for a second.
and when he finally speaks, it’s quieter than before.
more certain in a different way. less fear. more recognition.
“i didn’t know how to say it when we were kids,” he admits. a faint exhale. “and i didn’t know how to say it after i left either.”
then, softer : “but it never went away.” the space between you tightens again.
not uncomfortable. just full. and this time, it’s not urgency that sits in it. not confusion. not panic. it’s clarity. slow. inevitable.
like something that has always been moving toward this exact point without either of you naming it. he doesn’t reach for you. still doesn’t.
just looks at you like he’s finally stopped running from the shape of what you’ve always been.
you’re still looking at him when you say it. still holding his gaze. but something in you has shifted. not colder. not harder. just… sharpened by everything that has been sitting unspoken for too long.
“i did feel it,” you say quietly. then, more carefully— “what you felt.”
his expression changes immediately. small. subtle. but you see it. you swallow.
your fingers stop moving on your rings for the first time all night.
like even your habits have realised this is not something they can soften. “but I didn’t deal with it the way you did,” you continue.
voice steady, but thinner now. “i didn’t walk away from it.” your chest rises slightly. “i didn’t shut you out.” the words land differently than anything before. not accusation. not drama. just truth that’s been waiting years for somewhere to exist.
his mouth opens slightly. like he wants to respond immediately. but nothing comes out fast enough. and that gap, that half-second of silence—is where everything breaks open. you stand up.
so abruptly it scrapes something inside the moment. chair shifting. glass untouched. the world not prepared for movement yet.
“i just…” you start. then stop. because your voice wavers for the first time. properly. you look down for a second. then back at him. and it’s there in your eyes now. not just hurt. but everything you never got to say when it was still forming.
“i stayed,” you say. quieter now. more dangerous in its calm “even when it hurt.” he’s fully still now. watching you like he’s realised too late what direction this is going. and then you turn. not fully dramatic. not performative. just decisive.
like your body knows it needs to leave before your voice does something irreversible. your heels hit the floor faster than they should.
each step a little sharper. alittle more automatic.
the kind of walking that isn’t really about distance anymore—it’s about escape velocity. the bar blurs slightly at the edges. lights stretching. moise fading in and out like you’re moving through water. behind you—
“bug, wait—” his voice. immediate, strained. but you don’t stop. not yet.
because stopping would mean turning. and turning would mean cracking. you push through the corridor entrance toward the hotel hallway.
breath tightening now. not dramatic. just fast. too fast. and that’s when you hear it properly. footsteps. faster than yours. closer. “darling— wait—” oscar.
closer now. panicked in a way you don’t often hear from him. not on track, not in interviews. only here, only like this. you don’t turn.
but your pace stumbles slightly anyway.
because your body recognises him even when your mind is trying to outrun it. he catches up at the corner.
not grabbing you.
not forcing. just appearing in your space like gravity has decided for him. “please don’t walk away like that,” he begs. breath uneven. eyes wide in a way that feels uncharacteristically raw. you finally stop. but you don’t turn fully yet. not quite. silence hits again.
heavy. different now. less conversational. more collision. and when you speak, it comes out quieter than before. but sharper.
“what did you expect me to do?” you ask. then—
“sit there and pretend it didn’t hurt when you disappeared?” he flinches. immediately. like the words physically reach him. “i didn’t mean to hurt you,” he says quickly. too quickly.
honest, but panicked. you finally turn then. and your eyes are wet now—not falling, but close. held back with effort. “but you did,” you say. soft. final.
not angry anymore. just exhausted honesty.
that lands harder than anything earlier, because there’s no fight in it. no edge to push back against. just truth sitting between you both with nowhere to go.
he takes a step closer. careful. like he’s approaching something fragile and already cracked. “i know,” he says again. but this time it’s quieter. broken in a different way. “i know i did.”
and then, barely above a whisper:
“i just didn’t know how to keep you and not lose myself in my want for you at the same time.” that shifts something in the air. not resolving it, not fixing it.
but exposing the real shape of the problem. you look at him for a long moment. there’s no confusion in your expression. only everything that has ever been true.
“you didn’t lose me,” you say softly. “you just stopped choosing me.”
silence again. but this one is different. because it feels like the ground underneath both of you has finally been named. and neither of you moves. not yet. because everything after this has to be chosen.
“do you know what it was like?” you ask. a sharp breath. “do you know what it was like when you left after that second goodbye?”
his expression flickers at that. because he does. but not like you do. and you don’t stop. not anymore “you almost kissed me,” you say, voice cracking just slightly now, like the memory is too vivid to hold cleanly.
“you were standing there and you just— you stopped.” your throat tightens.
“and i thought— i thought that meant something.” silence snaps in.
your voice wavers harder now. but you’re already too deep to pull back.
“and then you left anyway.” you shake your head slightly, like you still don’t understand it.
like it still doesn’t make sense no matter how many times you replay it.
“and before that—” your voice catches, then pushes through anyway, “you held me when i cried like i was something you couldn’t let go of.” his breath changes. you see it. he feels it.
you step slightly closer without meaning to. not aggressive. just overwhelmed. “you used to hold me so tight i could barely breathe,” you say, and now it’s quieter, but sharper in its honesty. “like i mattered more than anything else.”.
your eyes glass slightly, but you don’t look away. “and you climbed through my window, and lay down with me and held me me like it was the most natural thing in the world.” your voice breaks a little more now.
“like i was already yours.” that lands.
properly.
you see it in him. the way his posture shifts like something inside him is collapsing under the weight of it. “and then you left,” you say again.
but now it’s not just a statement. it’s the centre of everything.
“how do you do that?” you ask, and now your voice rises fully, emotion spilling through the edges. “how do you hold someone like that—how do you look at them like that—and then just leave?” he takes a step forward instinctively. “i had to, bug i—”
but you cut him off. not cruelly. just desperately. because if he finishes that sentence, you might break completely. “you did,” you say, voice shaking now. “but you left me behind and forgot me.”
then softer, almost shattered: “you left me with all of it.” silence again.
but this one is different. it’s not empty. it’s unbearable.
his voice finally comes, rough at the edges. “i didn’t know how to stay,” he admits. honest. broken “i didn’t know how to not be there and not love you so much it physically ached.”
that makes you laugh once. but it’s not humour. it’s disbelief.
“you think you not trying didn’t ruin it?” you ask quietly. your voice drops now, almost whispering through the ache.
“it already was you. it was always going to be you.” that’s when something in him fully shifts.
like the final restraint finally gives way. but neither of you moves.
not yet. because everything that was unspoken has finally been spoken—
and there’s nowhere left for it to hide.
he doesn’t speak straight away. not because he has nothing left. because everything he does have left is too big to fit into words without breaking something.
his chest rises once—sharp, uneven. like he’s been holding his breath since he was a kid and only now realised it was never meant to be held this long. “you think i don’t know what i lost?” he says quietly.
and it isn’t defensive. it isn’t even loud. it’s just… stripped. raw in a way he never lets himself be on a track, or in front of cameras, or anywhere the world can see.
“i think about that night before I left,” he admits. his voice tightens. ot with anger. with memory.
“you were crying and I couldn’t stop holding you because it felt like if i let go even a little bit, i'd lose you completely.”
his jaw flexes slightly. “and I still left anyway because i had a dream i wanted to chase just as much as my heart wanted to stay behind and love you forever.”
that lands between you like something fragile finally cracking open.
he takes a small step closer. not fast. not urgent anymore. just inevitable. like gravity has stopped pretending this is optional.
“i didn’t stop loving you when i left,” he says. and now his voice breaks just slightly on the edge of it.
“i just became someone who didn’t know how to deserve you when i was the one breaking us apart.” that’s when it happens.
the moment everything narrows.
he looks at you like he’s memorising you in real time. like he’s trying to catch up on years of not doing it properly. his eyes flicker over your face—like he’s seeing every version of you at once.
six years old in a garden, kissing his cheek with soft lips and a cheeky smile.
twelve years old laughing too hard when you burnt a batch of shortbread shaped like race car helmets and he ate them anyway.
fifteen years old crying into his shirt on the bed as he held you tight.
that night before he left.
all of it layered over the present. “i don’t think I ever stopped being yours,” he says quietly.
Then softer—devastating in its honesty:
“i just kept pretending i wasn’t so my heart hurt less when you weren't at arms reach” your breath catches. because that sentence doesn’t sound like confession. it sounds like surrender.
and then he moves. not hesitantly. not uncertain anymore. just finally—
like something in him has stopped fighting itself.
his hand comes up gently, not forcing, just finding you the way it always has. it rests on the curve of your cheek.
his eyes flick to yours again. he doesn’t rush it.
It’s like he’s afraid that if he moves too quickly, the moment will fracture into something he can’t get back.
his hand is still at your jaw—warm, steady, grounding—but it’s his eyes that change first.
they drop, just for a second. to your mouth.
your breath catches. not dramatic. not loud.
just a sharp, involuntary hitch—like your body has recognised something before your mind has permission to process it. and that tiny sound seems to undo him. because his expression changes immediately. softens. breaks open in a way that isn’t controlled anymore.
his eyes flick back up to yours, but they don’t stay there for long. they keep drifting back down again.
like he’s already decided and is just trying to survive the decision.
it feels like every version of you two colliding at once.
his thumb shifts slightly against your cheek. enough that your whole focus narrows down to it.
to him. to this. and then— he leans in.
it isn’t sudden. it isn’t uncertain. it’s inevitable.
like every version of him that ever loved you has finally stopped holding back.
not just this moment. everything before it.
the garden kiss you never forgot. his shocked, red face. the childish seriousness of asking for permission like it was a rule of the universe.
the beach sunsets. the treehouse ice cream. the letters folded into suitcase seams. the almost-kiss before he left. the crying. the holding on too tightly. the letting go too late. it’s all there. all of it.
in the way his hand steadies at your jaw like he’s always known exactly where you belong. in the way your fingers clutch his shirt like your body recognises him before your mind can catch up. in the way neither of you moves away.
not even slightly. when he breathes against you, it’s like relief and grief all at once. like something finally found and something else finally allowed to be mourned. and for a moment—
just a moment—
there is no paddock.
no silence years ago.
no distance.
no almosts.
no leaving.
no missing.
just this.
finally, unbearably real. and everything you were both too young to understand— finally understood in full.
your eyes flutter shut right as it happens, right as his lips finally meet yours. and it’s nothing like a first kiss. it’s too known for that. too full of history. too layered with everything that came before it.
his lips are warm. soft in the way that feels almost unfair after everything sharp that led here. and there’s a second—just a single suspended heartbeat—where neither of you moves. like the world has to confirm it’s allowed. then it deepens.
not aggressively. just fully.
like something finally allowed to exist in its correct shape. your hand finds his shirt instantly, fingers curling into the fabric like your body is trying to hold onto proof. his hand tightens slightly at your jaw, then slides more securely behind your neck, anchoring you in place like he’s been afraid you might disappear mid-moment.
and it hits you all at once.
the sensory flood of it. the faint taste of something sweet and sharp from your drink still lingering. the warmth of his breath against your skin. the subtle shake in his exhale like he’s been carrying this pressure for years and only just set it down. and underneath it all— memory.
all of it folds into this moment like it was always leading here.
His lips move against yours again—slightly more certain now, like something in him has stopped asking permission from fear.
and you feel it in your chest. that unbearable, dizzying recognition of finally. the weakness in your knees with the reassurance that finally, finally, he's catching you as you both fall.
when he breathes your name against your mouth, it isn’t spoken clearly. it’s more like it escapes him without meaning to.
like he forgot there was anything else he was supposed to be doing with air. and for the first time in years—
nothing in either of you is running away.
he’s still there when you pull back. not far. not leaving. just… close enough that your breath is still tangled with his, like the kiss hasn’t fully ended so much as paused. his forehead almost brushes yours, like his body hasn’t quite accepted separation yet. his nose nudges yours gently.
for a second, neither of you speaks. because there isn’t language for what just happened. not really. not one that feels large enough.
his eyes open slowly. and when they do, they’re still wrecked with it.
still soft. still shaken. still full of something that looks a lot like relief and something that looks a lot like fear. but also endless, boundless devotion.
like he finally got what he wanted and is only now realising he doesn’t know how to hold it safely. you’re the one who moves first. barely.
just enough to feel the air between you again.
you can feel his heartbeat under your palm.
fast.
real.
human.
but your expression shifts. not away from him. just inward.
like something inside you is catching up too late to the moment. because love doesn’t erase the ache. it just sits beside it. uncomfortably honest.
“i need time,” you whisper.
it comes out soft. not defensive. not angry.
just true in a way that costs you something to say out loud while he’s still this close.
his reaction is immediate. not panic, not argument. just understanding.
like the words land directly in him and rearrange something quietly. his breath catches slightly.
“…yeah,” he says after a second. quiet. hoarse. a little dazed.
like he already understands what you mean even if it hurts. you don’t pull away fully. but you don't collapse into him the way your heart desperately wants you to. like your body wants to keen into his broadness.
and that in-between space suddenly feels more vulnerable than the kiss did.
his thumb moves gently along your cheek again—almost instinctively—but slower this time. more careful.
like he’s trying to relearn you in real time without breaking what’s just started to open. “i’m not asking you to forget anything,” he says softly.
his eyes don’t leave yours. “i just—i didn’t think I’d ever get you back at all.” that lands differently, because it’s not pressure.
it’s honesty. and it makes your chest tighten in a way that isn’t cleanly one emotion or the other. you swallow.
your fingers curl slightly against his shirt again before you let them relax.
“i don’t know what I am to you right now,” you admit quietly.
then softer, almost shaking: “but I know what you were to me the entire time.” his expression shifts at that.
something fragile flickering across it. not winning, not losing. just feeling.
he nods once. slow. like he’s accepting that this doesn’t get to be simple. not after everything. not after years of absence that still hurt even in the middle of reunion.
“i’ll wait,” he says. then corrects himself immediately, softer:
“not in a… pressure way. just—i’m here.”
a breath.
“however long it takes. and however much effort it takes. i'll do it for you. i'll make it up to you”
silence again. but this one isn’t empty.
it’s full of possibility and pain sitting side by side without resolving yet.
you stay close.
still close enough to feel his warmth.
still close enough that if either of you moved just a little, everything would tilt again. but for now—
you don’t.
and neither does he.
because for the first time, love isn’t the only thing in the room.
oscar looks at you like he’s trying to memorise the exact shape of this moment.
like if he blinks too hard, it might change.
like if he looks away, he might lose you again in a different way.
his hand shifts slightly—still near yours, not quite touching, but close enough that the space between feels intentional.
and then, quietly. not dramatic.
not spoken for anyone else to hear.
just for himself, and for you in the way you always seem to hear him even when he’s barely speaking—
“i’m going to earn this,” he says.
his jaw tightens just a fraction, like he’s choosing every word carefully.
“i’m going to be someone you don’t have to second-guess. someone you don’t have to hurt over.” his eyes stay on yours.
unwavering now. not pleading. deciding.
“i don’t care how long it takes,” he adds softer, but somehow even more intense. “i’m going to be worthy of you.” it isn’t a promise to fix the past.
he knows that much already. it’s something else.
domething more dangerous. more steady.
a mission he’s just set for himself—quietly, completely, without asking permission from anyone else in the world.
and in that moment, standing there with the noise of victory still echoing somewhere far behind you both—
it doesn’t feel like an ending.
or even a beginning. its just a continuation of something everyone around you would simply deem inevitable.
he glances at your door. then back at you.
like he’s thinking about leaving. like he doesn’t want to.
like he’s trying to behave like a normal person and failing at it quietly.
“get some sleep bug. you've had a long day ” he says eventually.
soft.
careful.
like the word might break something if he pushes it too hard.
you nod. but you don’t move either. not immediately.
there’s a pause. one of those long ones that doesn’t feel uncomfortable.
just full. you look at him properly then.
at the slight mess of his hair still from earlier. the way his expression keeps softening every time he thinks you’re not looking directly at him.
the way he still looks a little stunned, like he can’t quite believe the day actually ended with you here. and then you step forward. just one step.
enough to close the space that’s been sitting between you since the corridor started.
his breath catches instantly—so quietly you almost miss it, except you know him too well to ever miss that. his eyes flick to your lips again.
instinctive. same as always. same as years ago.
same as the almost-kiss that never quite finished becoming real. same as the real kiss moments ago that had your knees weak.
and you don’t wait this time. you reach up, hand finding his shirt lightly, not pulling—just anchoring. and you kiss him this time. it’s not rushed.
but it’s not hesitant either.
it’s the kind of kiss that comes from certainty you didn’t have a few hours ago but somehow have now.
like something in you has finally settled into place.
his reaction is immediate. a soft exhale against you like relief slipping out of him without permission. his hand finds your waist again almost instinctively, like it’s remembering a language it’s always known.
and this kiss—
this one—
feels different from the first.
not the shock of it.
not the overwhelming disbelief.
this one is quieter.
warmer.
a little more dangerous in how natural it feels.
like it belongs in the space after victory, after confession, after years of almosts.
when you pull back, it’s only slightly. barely enough to breathe.
your forehead not quite brushing his because you can't remember when he got so tall.
his eyes are softer now. a little dazed. like you’ve undone him in the best possible way. you let out a small breathy laugh, because honestly—
after everything—
you can’t believe you just did that again.
“goodnight,” you whisper, but there’s a smile in it now.
different from before.
oscar blinks slowly, like he’s trying to process the fact that you’re still there. still close. still real.
“goodnight,” he repeats, but it comes out a little uneven.
like the word has been permanently changed by everything that just happened. you finally step back.
reluctantly. both of you feel it immediately—the loss of contact, the shift in air, the space returning. but neither of you moves away fully.
not yet.
just enough distance to pretend you’re going to behave like this is normal.
like this isn’t life-changing.
like tomorrow won’t feel completely different.
you reach for your door handle.
then pause.
look back at him one last time.
he’s still watching you.
of course he is.
like he’s already decided that’s his job now.
and you smile again—small, real, a little overwhelmed.
then disappear into your room.
but even with the door closed—
you can still feel him there.
Not physically.
just lingering in your heart and your skin and your memory.
the boy you've always loved.
loved.
loved.
loved.
loves you back.
loves you back.
loves you back.
*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧*:･ﾟ✧
a/n : ahhhh here we go!! do not worry there are definitely more parts coming, but they might be a little later than these first few chapters were!! hope you enjoyed, and as always, any engagement is always appreciated and makes my day :) all my love!!
hello my divas!!! I am feeling the urge to start writing again...... so if you have any requests or ideas to get my brain jogging, feel free to send me a DM or send me an ask!!
a few people have asked about being tagged in future fics, so i've put together a little reader form!
you can choose which drivers (or nba content) you'd like notifications for, suggest future fics, and generally help me figure out what everyone wants to read.
absolutely no pressure to join - it's just for those who'd like updates when something new is posted ♡
hi! ♡ please fill out the questions below, so that you will get tagged in my future fanfics. -dean.
