Day 7: Ugly Sweaters | OP81
Pairing: Oscar Piastri x Reader
Tropes: Enemies to Lovers, Forced Proximity, Winter Fluff, Matchmaker Lando Norris, Secret Pining, He fell first but has social anxiety, Grumpy x Sunshine (Perceived), The "I thought you hated me" confession.
WARNING: Swearing, Angst, Slight Makeout session.
Summary: Mandatory Decompression." That’s what Zak Brown called the forced team-building trip to the Austrian Alps. You just called it a nightmare. You’ve spent two years convinced that Oscar Piastri hates your guts. You were prepared to ignore him for the whole trip. But then Lando Norris discovers a "local legend" about soulmates matching clothes, and you make the fatal mistake of wearing your limited edition, 1-of-50 ugly Christmas sweater to the village festival. The problem? Oscar is wearing the exact same one. Between three-legged races, aggressive mistletoe, and a very specific gingerbread cookie, you’re forced to realize that maybe Oscar’s silence wasn’t hatred after all.
Word Count: 5.6K
A/N: 5.6K WORDS IS CRAZY WORK. What was I on please. Never mind, this is my fave fic of all time. Lando Noriss and Oscar Piastri bromance, please. I totally do not know if the angst is good enough, but what I DO KNOW IS THAT I enjoyed making Lando "Hypeman/Matchmaker" Norris so much. MORE PAPAYA BOYS PLEASE <3
*ੈ✩‧₊˚ 📼 masterlist. 🏎️ inbox. 🏁 taglist
"Mandatory Decompression." That was what the email from Zak Brown had called it.
In reality, it was a forced team-building retreat in the middle of a snow-buried village in the Austrian Alps. The F1 season was over, the post-season testing was done, and instead of being on a beach in Dubai, the entire McLaren lineup, including the F1 Academy team, had been shoved onto a bus and driven up a mountain.
"It’ll be good for morale!" Zak had insisted as we boarded. "Fresh air will be a nice change of pace!"
The bus ride had been three hours of Lando Norris trying to hijack the aux cord to play Christmas techno, and Oscar Piastri sitting across the aisle from you, noise-canceling headphones on, staring out the window with the enthusiasm of a statue.
You’d spent the ride glaring at the back of his head. Technically, you were part of the same "Papaya Family," but the dynamic was complicated. You were McLaren’s chosen driver for the F1 Academy series. Oscar and Lando were part of the main F1 team. You shared the same simulator days at the MTC, and the media managers loved the narrative of the “McLaren trio," but the reality was a lot colder, well, between you and Oscar, anyways.
You never got along with him. It stemmed from your very first week at McLaren. Fresh out of the contract signing, buzzing with adrenaline, and desperate to prove you deserved the seat, you’d just finished a grueling simulator session.
"Track limits are just a suggestion, right?" you’d joked, wiping your forehead as you almost bumped into him in the doorway. It was a nervous attempt at charm, a way to break the ice with the guy you’d been secretly admiring since his junior days and someone you desperately wanted to get to know beyond the "Future World Champion" label.
Oscar hadn’t smiled. He hadn’t even looked at you; he was looking past your shoulder at the telemetry screens on the wall. "You lost three tenths in Turn 4," he’d said, his voice completely flat. "You’re overdriving the entry… It’s…definitely a choice…”
Then he walked past you and stepped into the rig you’d just vacated, leaving you standing there feeling like a scolded schoolchild. You’d decided right then and there: You will never let Oscar Piastri walk all over you ever again.
By the time the bus hissed to a halt in the village square, you were stiff, freezing, and ready to fight someone for a hot drink.
"Right, everyone dumps their bags at the hotel," Zak shouted over the wind. "Meet at The Rusty Antler in twenty minutes. Don’t you dare try to sneak off; this is still a workday.”
—————————————————
Twenty minutes later, you were trudging through shin-deep snow toward the local pub. Oscar was walking a few paces ahead of you. He didn't even shiver. He just walked with those infuriatingly gigantic strides, hands tucked into his coat pockets.
"You know," you called out, stepping over a slush puddle, "some people help their teammates so they don't die of hypothermia."
Oscar stopped and turned. The snow was catching in his eyelashes. He looked at your shivering form, then at the pub entrance five meters away.
"We are ten seconds from the door," he said, his voice calm and reasonable. "The probability of you freezing to death in that timeframe is statistically impossible."
"You're the worst," you muttered, brushing past him and shoving the heavy wooden door open.
Oscar followed you in, the bell above the door jingling.
The change in atmosphere was instant. The pub was suffocatingly warm, smelling of stale ale and burning timber. Outside, the Austrian winter was doing its best to bury the village in white, but inside, the McLaren team was doing its best to be the loudest group in the establishment.
You shed your heavy coat and grabbed a drink, sliding into a booth. Oscar sat in the corner, as far away from the center of attention as possible.
But peace was never an option with this team.
Suddenly, Lando Norris stood on a chair, a crumpled pamphlet in his hand, looking like a town crier who’d had three too many pints.
"Oi! Guys! Listen to this!" Lando shouted, kicking the table leg to get attention. He waved a crumpled pamphlet in the air enthusiastically. "According to this legend—I'm not making this up—there's a saying..."
"That is definitely not a real thing," you muttered into your drink.
“'That those who match the wool, match the soul!'" Lando continued, ignoring you completely. "'If two strangers wear the same threads on the Night of the Frost, which is coincidentally tomorrow, their fates are woven together forever. It’s destiny, mate!"
You rolled your eyes so hard it physically hurt. "Please, Lando. If destiny relied on mass-produced knitwear, half this pub would be accidentally married to each other by midnight."
"You're just cynical because you didn't pack anything festive," Lando teased.
You glanced across the table. Oscar was nursing a glass of water, looking bored, scrolling through his phone with that detached, calm expression that always drove you crazy. Oscar looked up, felt your eyes on him, and offered a tiny, almost imperceptible nod before going back to his screen.
Arrogant fucking asshole, you thought.
"Right, I’m heading back to the hotel," you announced, standing up and grabbing your coat. "But for the record, Lando, I did pack something festive for tomorrow. It is absolutely hideous. So if your stupid legend is real, I might actually find my soulmate. God help the poor guy."
—————————————————
You stood in front of the mirror in your hotel room, tugging at the hem of your sweater. It was a masterpiece of bad taste—a thick, scratchy knit featuring a pixelated F1 car crashing violently into a snowman. The snowman’s head was flying off in a spray of red yarn. It was a limited release, 1-of-50. You bought it purely because it made you laugh.
"Showtime," you whispered.
You walked back toward the town square, where the team had gathered for the festival opening. The cold air hit your face, but the sweater was surprisingly insulated. You rounded the corner to the designated meeting spot by the massive outdoor fireplace and saw Lando first, grinning like a maniac. Then, you saw the figure standing next to him.
Standing there, hands in his pockets, looking entirely too unbothered, was Oscar. He was wearing the exact same sweater. The pixelated crash. The decapitated snowman. The garish orange trim.
Just like that, your mood immediately turned sour. Oh, hell no. You blinked, hoping it was a hallucination. It wasn’t.
Lando’s stupid pamphlet echoed in your head like a curse. Those who match the wool, match the soul.
It felt like a cosmic punch to the gut. Of all the people in the world, the universe just had to pair you with him. And the worst part was that deep down, in the pathetic, secret corner of your heart you refused to acknowledge, you wanted it to be true.
You had spent two years burying that initial spark of admiration, shoveling dirt over the crush you’d developed watching him dominate F2, all because he had made it crystal clear on day one that he found your existence barely tolerable. You had forced yourself to accept that he hated you. You had learned to wear a mask of indifference to protect your pride.
What were the actual odds? Fifty of these sweaters are in existence, and somehow, one was on you, and the other was currently worn over the frustratingly broad shoulders of your arch-nemesis.
Lando took one look at you, then at Oscar, and practically fell off the bench he was leaning on. "NO FUCKING WAY! The Legend! This is the best thing that has ever happened to me. Oh my God, should I prepare my best man speech for the wedding?”
Oscar looked down at his own chest, then slowly lifted his gaze to yours. He didn’t even react. He just raised a single eyebrow.
"Well," Oscar said, his voice flat. “This is going to be awkward.”
"Take it off, Piastri.” You warned him.
"No," he said simply. "It’s warm."
“We are going to be the topic of conversation among the locals," You glared at him, panic rising in your chest. "And I seriously do not want to be the subject of some weird romantic misunderstanding. Especially not with you. So go change."
Oscar went still. For the briefest microsecond, his eyes flickered. The calm, bored expression cracked, revealing a flash of genuine hurt before he blinked it away.
"I packed light," Oscar lied. You knew he lied because he traveled with three suitcases. “Besides, I have no time to look for something else right now.”
The damage was instantaneous. The local villagers, primed by Lando’s earlier shouting, immediately clocked the matching outfits. Old ladies were pointing and cooing, while Lando whispered loudly to everyone near him that both of you were "shy lovers" who needed a good nudge.
"I am going to push you into the fire," you threatened Lando.
"Save that aggression for the games!" Lando chirped, grabbing your shoulders.
"Games?" You frowned, looking between him and the crowd gathering in the square. "What games are you talking about?"
"The Night of the Frost Trials, obviously," Lando said, waving a hand at the obstacle course being set up in the snow. "The locals hold it every year. And Zak, being Zak, has decided that Team McLaren must participate in pairs to…increase team morale.”
You scoffed. "Fine. I'll pair up with you, then. Let's go."
"Ah, see, I would love that," Lando said, backing away with a mischievous grin. "But unfortunately, the locals are very specific about the rules."
He pointed to a group of elderly village women who were nodding enthusiastically at you and Oscar, pointing at your matching chests.
"According to the fine print," Lando explained, tapping the paper with mock solemnity, "' To separate a Woven Pair is to invite great misfortunes among them.' Now, I’m no expert, but I’m pretty sure that translates to McLaren having the worst possible year in F1 History.”
He leaned in, raising his eyebrows. "You wouldn't want to be personally responsible for that, would you? Imagine explaining that to Zak."
"That is ridiculous," you argued, turning to the nearest villager. "Tell him that's ridiculous."
The old woman just clapped her hands. "Das Schicksal! The soulmates must be pairs!"
Lando shrugged, looking delighted. "See? Can't argue with tradition, mate. Go on, off you pop."
He shoved you right into Oscar. He caught you instantly, his hands shooting out to grip your waist and steady you against his chest.
For a heartbeat, the chaos of the festival faded. You were pressed right up against him, your hands instinctively clutching his forearms for balance. He felt surprisingly solid, warm, and sturdy against the biting cold.
“Are you okay?” he murmured, his voice rumbling against your ear. His hands lingered on your waist, thumbs brushing against the scratchy fabric of your sweater.
He leaned back just enough to look you in the eye. “Gotta admit, Lando can be pretty annoying sometimes."
Before you could process why your heart had suddenly decided to race faster than an F1 engine, a local villager dropped to her knees at your feet.
"Das Band!" she cheered.
The moment was shattered as she began aggressively tying your ankles together with a thick red ribbon
—————————————————
The first trial was the three-legged race, and it was an immediate disaster. You were trying to be fast because Lando was beating both of you, while Oscar was trying to establish a walking rhythm.
"Go, go, go!" you yelled, practically jumping forward.
Oscar dug his heel into the snow, bringing you to an abrupt halt. "Stop hopping. You're going to face-plant."
"We're in last place, Oscar! Move your legs!" you shouted, pointing at the two grandmothers currently speeding past you.
"We're in last place because you're flailing like a caffeinated child," Oscar countered, looking down at your tied ankles. “For God's sake, can you please just match my stride. Inside leg on my count."
"I hate you," you panted, but you stopped hopping.
"Sentiment noted. Now focus," he said calmly.
It was annoying, but he was right. Once you stopped fighting him and matched his pace, you started gliding past people. You didn't win, but you finished second. And more importantly, you didn't eat snow.
The adrenaline faded as the group moved to the gingerbread station. You were currently drowning a gingerbread man in green icing, creating something that looked more like a biological hazard.
"Is that supposed to be a tree, or did the gingerbread man get radiation poisoning?" Oscar asked, leaning over your shoulder.
“Art is subjective, Piastri." You scoffed, glancing at his workspace. “Like yours is any bet—“
You stopped. Looking down at the tray, you realized he hadn't made a snowman or a reindeer.
He’d made a tiny, edible version of you.
Specifically, he’d recreated your helmet design on the cookie’s head. The detail was absurd; he’d even nailed the specific jagged lines of your visor strip.
"Is that... my helmet?" you asked, pointing with a sticky finger.
Oscar froze, his hand hovering over the tray. He blinked, looking at the cookie like he’d just realized what he was doing.
“Uhm, no, it’s not," he said, his voice casual but slightly higher than usual.
Snap.
In one swift motion, Oscar picked up the cookie, bit the head off, and chewed decisively.
What the fuck is wrong with this guy?
“Let's go. We were never gonna win against the grandmas in a cookie decorating game anyway," he mumbled through a mouthful of crumbs, grabbing his mug of hot chocolate.
He nudged you away from the table, guiding you toward a patio heater near the edge of the square. The snow was falling heavily now, creating a quiet curtain around you. You leaned against the warmth, watching the steam rise from your breath, while Oscar finished destroying the evidence of his gingerbread affection.
"You know," you said, "You could have swapped sweaters with Lando or something. Saved yourself the embarrassment of matching with a radioactive gingerbread-making aficionado.”
Oscar swallowed the last of the cookie, wiping a crumb from his lip. He looked at you intently,
"I don't mind the embarrassment," he said quietly. Then, a small smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Besides... have you seen Lando's complexion? This shade of orange would wash him out completely. He’d look terrible."
You laughed, a genuine sound that seemed to surprise you both. "He really would."
—————————————————
After the gingerbread fiasco, both you and Oscar tried your best to win the other games, but because Lando Norris was an absolute shit head who bribed the local grannies to help him, it was not shocking to see him win.
“I AM THE CHAMPION!" Lando screamed, sliding across the finish line with his partner, "Team LN04 takes the gold! Suck it!"
You stood shivering near the sidelines. You and Oscar had come in a respectable second, but the emotional toll of being physically tethered to the man you’d been trying to ignore for years was starting to weigh heavily.
"Group photo!" Lando yelled, scrambling up and waving frantically. "Everyone under the arch! We need a new photo for the office.”
You sighed, trudging toward the massive pine archway decorated with holly. You tried to stand at the edge, aiming to disappear into the foliage, but Lando, high on victory and sugar, grabbed your shoulders and shoved you right into the center, directly next to Oscar.
"Smile!" Zak Brown called out, holding up a professional-grade camera. "Closer! Squeeze in, not everyone can be seen!"
You stiffened, forced to step sideways until your arm was pressed firmly against Oscar’s. You could feel the heat radiating off him through the sweater. He stood rigid, his hands buried deep in his pockets, staring straight ahead like a man awaiting a firing squad.
The flash went off, blinding you for a second. You let out a breath, ready to step away and escape the awkward proximity.
But nobody moved.
Instead, a hush fell over the front row of the crowd. A few local teenagers started giggling and pointing upward. Lando followed their gaze, his eyes widening with delight.
"Oh, you have got to be kidding me," you whispered.
Hanging directly above your heads, tied with a velvet red bow, was a sprig of mistletoe the size of a cabbage.
One of the village elders shouted, pointing a gloved finger at the two of you. "Das Paare! The two must kiss!"
You tried to laugh it off, taking a step back. "Ha, yeah, very funny. Good game, everyone."
"No, no!" Another voice joined in. "Bad luck if you don’t!"
"Bad luck for the Constructors' Championship!" Lando shouted, cupping his hands around his mouth.
The crowd laughed, and suddenly, the atmosphere shifted from a casual photo op to a public spectacle. The chant started low, a rumble from the back of the square, but it spread like wildfire.
“Kiss her!!”
You looked around, searching for an exit, but the crowd had formed a semi-circle, effectively boxing you in against the archway. Phone cameras were rising like a sea of digital eyes, all recording and waiting.
"Come on, guys!" Lando cheered, not helping at all as he lowered his camera to watch. “Just a bit of Christmas fun!”
The pressure felt physical, pressing against your chest. It wasn't just a joke anymore.
You glanced up at Oscar. He hadn't moved an inch. His jaw was clenched so tight, his gaze fixed resolutely on a point in the snowy distance. He looked like the idea of kissing you was so repulsive that he had to physically dissociate to get through the moment.
It was a fucking punch to the gut.
If he had laughed it off, you could have handled it. If he had rolled his eyes and given you a quick, platonic peck on the cheek just to shut everyone up, you could have survived. But this? Paralysis? It was so much worse.
He would rather stand here in agonizing silence than touch you.
He was literally holding his breath, as if sharing the air between you was so agonizing. It was the final nail in the coffin of every stupid daydream you’d ever entertained. You realized, with a sickening drop in your stomach, that Oscar Piastri couldn't think of a worse fate than being woven into yours.
"KISS! KISS! KISS!"
The chanting was rhythmic now, accompanied by clapping. Lando was jumping up and down, and the grandmas were cheering.
You felt your face heat up from the sharp, stinging humiliation. It hit you all at once. Not just the tiredness of the day, but the exhaustion of years.
You had spent them pretending that Oscar’s coldness didn’t sting, pretending that him hating you was a fact of life you can’t erase. This entire "soulmate" charade? It was a cruel, flashing neon sign mocking you with the one thing you desperately wanted but knew you’d never have. It wasn’t a fun joke to you anymore.
It was torture.
Something inside you snapped. Everything was too much now—the cold, the exhaustion, the stupid sweater, and the overwhelming proximity to a guy who clearly couldn't wait to get away from you.
You felt the hot prick of tears behind your eyes.
Don't cry, you commanded yourself. Do not cry in front of the grid.
"I... I need a second," you mumbled, ducking your head.
You didn't wait for a response. You pushed through the crowd, ignoring Lando’s confused "Oi, where are you going?" and bolted toward the edge of the village square.
You found a quiet spot behind the old church, where the fairy lights didn't reach, and the snow was untouched. You leaned against the rough stone wall, taking jagged breaths, trying to force the tears back down.
Stupid, you thought. Stupid myth. Stupid feelings. Stupid Oscar.
Then, the fast crunch of footsteps accompanied your thoughts.
"Go away, Lando," you choked out, wiping your eyes furiously with your sleeve. "I'm not in the mood."
"It's not Lando."
You froze. You knew that voice. It was flat, calm, and infuriatingly nice to hear from the person you did not want to see right now.
Panic clawed at your throat. Why was he here? Was the public humiliation not enough? Did he feel the need to come out here and clarify the rejection verbally? Did he want to list the statistical probabilities of why you and he were incompatible? Or worse— he was here to scold you and to tell you that running away was unprofessional, that you were making the team look bad?
You couldn't handle his calm, detached rationality right now, while you were currently held together by spite and heartache. You stiffened, forcing your spine straight against the cold stone wall, and wiped your face aggressively, desperate to erase any evidence of the tears.
You wouldn't give him the satisfaction.
You wouldn't let him see that his silence had broken you.
Oscar was standing there, slightly out of breath as he had jogged after you.
"What do you want, Oscar?" you snapped, your voice shaking violently and sounding broken. "Did you come to finish the job? Do you want to list all the reasons why the idea of kissing me was so repulsive that you literally froze in front of the entire grid?"
Oscar stopped a few feet away. He looked winded, his cheeks flushed from the cold, but his brow was furrowed in deep, genuine confusion.
"I didn't—I came to see if you were okay," he said, breathless. "You left in a hurry."
"I'm fine," you lied, crossing your arms tightly over the sweater, trying to hold yourself together physically. "I just got tired of the joke. I know you hate it. I know you hate me."
Oscar blinked, taking a step back as if you’d physically shoved him. "What?"
"Stop it. Just stop," you choked out, the anger finally boiling over. "Don't look at me like you don't know what I'm talking about. I’ve known since day one. 'Track limits are a suggestion.' Remember? You looked at me like I was a child. Like, I was a waste of a simulator seat."
You stepped forward, poking a finger hard into the pixelated snowman on his chest.
"I know I'm loud. I know I drive like physics is just a polite suggestion. I know I’m messy and emotional and everything a 'proper' McLaren driver isn't. But I admired you, Oscar. I watched your races since your karting days, and I was so pathetic that I was actually excited to be your teammate."
Your voice cracked, betraying the sob rising in your throat.
"But you’ve looked down on me since the moment we met. You made me feel small. And tonight? Standing under that archway? You looked like you wanted to vomit at the thought of being inches beside me. So just... go back. Go celebrate with Lando. You don't have to pretend to care about the 'diversity hire' just because we're wearing matching jumpers."
The silence that followed was heavy, suffocating, and deafening. The only sound was the wind howling through the trees and your own ragged breathing.
Oscar stood there, his mouth slightly open. The color had drained from his face. He looked struck.
"Is that what you think?" he asked, his voice barely a whisper. "That I look down on you?"
"Yes! Your silence made that pretty loud and clear!"
"You have it completely wrong," he said, his voice rising for the first time, cracking with a sudden, desperate intensity. He took a sharp step closer, invading your space. "I don't look down on you. I'm... I'm terrified of you."
You stared at him, the wind knocked out of you. "Bullshit."
"It's not," he insisted, running a hand through his hair, destroying his perfect style. He looked frantic. "Do you have any idea what it’s like? You walked into the MTC that first day, and you were... You were magnetic. You were joking with the engineers, you were laughing, you were so effortless. You have this energy that just pulls everyone into orbit around you. And I… I don’t know how to do that.”
He looked down at his boots, shaking his head, before forcing his gaze back to yours. His eyes were dark, intense, and filled with a raw honesty that terrified you.
"I didn't ignore you because I thought you were a joke. I stared at the data screens because I couldn't look you in the eye without forgetting how to speak. You don't make sense to me. You make me nervous. I didn't know how to talk to you without sounding like a socially inept idiot, so I just... didn't. And then I panicked and criticized your turn entry because racing is the only language I’m fluent in.”
You stood there, stunned, the snow melting on your burning cheeks. He wasn't looking at you with judgment. He was looking at you with a terrified, exposed vulnerability that you had never seen on his face
"You... you’re actually scared to talk to me?" you whispered, the realization hitting you like a physical weight.
He let out a harsh, self-deprecating laugh. "Especially tonight."
He took a deep breath, stepping fully into your personal space. You could feel the heat radiating from him.
"You think I don't notice you?" His voice dropped, thick with frustration. "I notice everything. I know you drink your coffee black to try and impress people, but when there’s no one watching, you add three sugars. I know you hum to yourself when you’re calibrating the rig. I know you tap your left foot when you're impatient."
He looked back at you, his eyes dark and searching.
"I have spent two years memorizing you from the corner of the room, terrified to say a word because every time I open my mouth, I freeze up.”
Your breath hitched.
“The sweater.." He gestured vaguely to his chest, his gaze dropping to his boots. You watched a rare, dark flush creep up his neck, staining his ears pink. "It wasn’t accidental. I saw you looking at it on your laptop weeks ago. I tracked down the release date. I set an alarm."
Your jaw dropped. "You... what?"
"I thought..." He swallowed hard, struggling to meet your eyes. "I thought if I had the same one, maybe it would serve as an icebreaker. Maybe it would make you laugh. Maybe we’d have something to talk about."
He paused, his voice dropping to a murmur.
"I didn’t know about the 'soulmate' legend when I bought it," he admitted softly. "But to be honest? I'm glad I did. Because if I hadn't, I never would have had the excuse to be this close to you without you running away from me."
Your heart hammered against your ribs so hard it hurt. "You bought a limited edition ugly sweater just to talk to me?"
"I told you," Oscar said, his eyes searching yours, desperate for you to understand. "I was trying to find a way to bridge the gap I idiotically created between us."
"Oh," you breathed. The anger drained out of you, replaced by a sudden, overwhelming realization of two years of wasted time. "We're both idiots."
Oscar’s lips quirked in a faint, nervous smile, though his eyes remained intense. “Yes. But me, mostly.”
He reached out, his hand hesitating for a second before he gently tucked a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers were warm against your cold cheek, and the touch sent a jolt of electricity straight to your spine.
"I don't hate you, Y/N,” he whispered, his gaze dropping to your lips and staying there. "I never have. I think I’ve been halfway in love with you since you told me track limits were a suggestion."
You didn't wait this time. The dam broke.
You surged forward, grabbing the lapels of his hideous sweater, and yanked him down.
Oscar didn't freeze. He didn't hesitate. He crashed into you.
He kissed you with two years' worth of suppressed frustration and longing. It wasn't gentle; it was desperate. One of his hands tangled into your hair, tilting your head back, while the other arm wrapped around your waist like a vice, crushing you against him, lifting you slightly off the snowy ground.
It was cold air and warm skin, the scratch of wool and the softness of his lips. It was messy and unpolished and perfect. He kissed you like he was starving, like he needed to memorize the taste of you to make up for every missed opportunity.
You broke apart, breathless, gasping for air, foreheads resting against each other. Steam rose from the space between you. Oscar looked dazed, his pupils blown wide, his lips swollen and red, his composure completely shattered.
"So," you whispered, your voice trembling, your hands still clutching his sweater. "Still think I overdrive the entry?"
Oscar let out a breathy, wrecked laugh, his thumb brushing your cheekbone, his eyes looking at you.
"I think," he murmured, leaning in to brush his lips against yours again, "that your entry was absolutely perfect."
He didn't give you time to respond before he captured your mouth again, slower this time, deeper, sealing the deal.
“Y/N! Oscar! Wait! Seriously, stop, I didn’t mean to—“ Lando Norris came skidding around the corner of the church, his chest heaving, his face twisted in genuine panic.
But the moment his eyes landed on the two of you—Oscar’s arm clamped firmly around your waist, the steam rising between you, and the very obvious fact that you had just been making out—Lando’s expression transformed instantly. The guilt evaporated, replaced by chaotic triumph.
"OH MY GOD. I KNEW IT!"
The screech pierced the silence like a shriek from a banshee.
You and Oscar sprang apart…or tried to.
"FUCKING FINALLY!" Lando screamed, lowering his phone but looking like he was about to combust with relief. "Jesus Christ. You have no idea how scared I was! I thought I actually broke you! I was coming here to apologize and beg you not to report me to HR!"
"Lando—" you started, face burning.
"No! Don't you 'Lando' me!" He pointed an accusing finger at both of you. "Do you have any idea how painful it has been watching you two since the beginning? The pining? The staring? The tension in the MTC was so thick I literally couldn't breathe! It was suffocating!"
He threw his hands up in the air, pacing back and forth in the snow.
"I thought I took it too far when you ran off," he admitted, his voice dropping for a split second to something resembling sincerity. "I actually felt bad. I thought, 'Great job, Norris, you've bullied your teammate into a breakdown.' But..." He gestured wildly to the two of you, a grin splitting his face. "Clearly, it was a necessary evil! It was all for the best!"
Oscar blinked, looking mildly impressed by the outburst. "So... you planned all of this?"
“Planned? I fucking orchestrated it like a master matchmaker, mate!” Lando corrected, grinning like a total idiot. “I fabricated the entire legend! I wrote that pamphlet on the bus! The locals? Paid actors. Mrs. Huber, who tied your legs together? She runs the bakery; I promised her a signed hat!”
He shook his head, looking traumatized but victorious.
“And by the way, you are so welcome for the sweaters. That was my masterpiece. Do you know how hard it is to 'Inception' two stubborn drivers into buying the same hideous jumper? I had to leave tabs open on your laptops for weeks!”
He let out a long exhale, wiping imaginary sweat from his forehead. "Thank God it worked. Because if I had to watch one more season of the 'Sexual Tension Stare-Down' while you pretended to hate each other, I was going to crash my car on purpose.”
He held up his phone again. “Now, a lot of people owe me fifty quid. I told them it would happen before New Year’s. Those nonbelievers.”
Oscar didn't look embarrassed. He just looked at Lando, then back at you with a small, resigned smile, and tightened his grip on your waist.
“Hey, Lando," Oscar said calmly. "Run."
"Running!" Lando chirped, snapping one last blurry photo before sprinting back toward the pub, cackling into the night.
————————————
The night wound down, and the team began the trudge back to the hotel through the fresh snow. You realized you’d left your gloves by the heater, but before you could complain about the cold, Oscar took your hand and tucked it inside his jumper, keeping his own hand wrapped around yours inside the warm wool.
Your phone buzzed in your other pocket.
Instagram Notification: @landonorris tagged you in a post.
You opened it. It was the photo from behind the church—you and Oscar, foreheads touching, looking at each other like you were the only two people on the planet.
Caption: My work here is done. You’re welcome, children. 🧶🧡 #Soulmates #TheSweaterWorked #RetiringToBecomeAProfessionalMatchmaker #CalledIt
You showed the screen to Oscar. He didn't let go of your hand; he just pulled out his own phone and typed a comment.
@oscarpiastri: Delete this, Lando. (But send me the pic).
You leaned your head against his shoulder, matching his stride easily now. As you passed a darkened shop window, you caught your reflection in the glass: two figures huddled together against the Austrian cold, wearing the world's most hideous matching sweaters.
Yesterday, that sight would have made you cringe. Today, looking at the pixelated crash on his chest right next to the one on yours, you decided Lando might have been right about one thing.
Maybe you were really soulmates.
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