summary: You take a stranger to couples therapy to see how long it takes the therapist to realize that you don't know each other at all.
word count: 4.2k
contains: crack, based on this tweet
It started as a joke.
On a Tuesday night, after too much scrolling and too little dignity, you opened Tinder and changed your bio to read:
Looking for someone to take to couples therapy and see how long it takes the therapist to notice we don’t know each other.
It was one of those chaotic thoughts you weren’t supposed to act on, the kind that belonged in a group chat, not a dating profile. But the wine glass was half empty, and you were feeling reckless, so there it went. You expected maybe a handful of half-hearted reactions. A lazy “lol.” A pity match or two. Definitely not everyone is taking it seriously.
You didn’t expect Alex.
His opening message wasn’t a “hey” or a smarmy pick-up line. It was:
This is the funniest thing I’ve ever seen on Tinder. Are you serious?
You blinked at the screen. And then, before you could think better of it, you typed back:
One hundred percent serious. Imagine the chaos.
That was the start of the worst and best idea of your life. Because instead of running in the opposite direction like any sane person, Alex dove headfirst into it with you. Within half an hour, you had the skeleton of a fake relationship plotted out—how you’d met in a coffee shop, how you’d argued over oat milk, how he’d once lent you an umbrella, how your anniversary was in May. By midnight, you were laughing so hard you could barely breathe, trading increasingly ridiculous “issues” to fight about. You claimed he chewed like a cow. He claimed you had a debilitating obsession with reality TV.
By the end of the night, you had an actual appointment booked.
It was only when you woke up the next morning, groggy and hungover on adrenaline, that it hit you. You were really about to walk into a licensed professional’s office with a stranger you met on Tinder less than twenty-four hours ago and pretend to be in a relationship on the rocks.
You should have canceled. You should have deleted Tinder altogether. Instead, you put on your favorite jeans, downed a coffee, and headed out to meet him.
You hadn’t thought this far ahead.
It was one thing to type out chaotic backstories over Tinder with a stranger named Alex, who, judging by his emojis and weirdly specific insults, was probably harmless. It was another thing entirely to stand outside a beige office building with a sign that read “Dr. Martin Grey, Licensed Couples Therapist” and realize you were about to commit a federal-level crime against psychology.
Well. Maybe not federal. But at least unethical.
“Y/N?”
You looked up, startled, and immediately regretted it because the man approaching was unfairly tall, unfairly attractive, and unfairly holding two iced coffees like he hadn’t just agreed to become your fake boyfriend in front of a licensed professional.
“Alex?”
He grinned, and you hated how boyish it was. “One oat milk latte, for my favorite hater.” He held it out, as if this were a normal first meeting and not an audition for who could commit to the bit harder.
You took the cup, squinting at him. “You actually got oat milk.”
“Obviously. It’s canon now. That’s how we met, remember? You called me the human embodiment of oat milk. I had to method act.”
You sipped. Damn him. It was good. “Okay, fine. Points for consistency.”
“Thank you. I take this role very seriously.” He straightened up, mock-solemn. “So, should we rehearse? We’ve got, what, five minutes before we’re due in there?”
You both looked at the sliding glass doors like they might swallow you whole.
“Right,” you said, tugging your phone out to skim the notes app where you’d written your “lore.” “Okay, so. Coffee shop, eight months ago, umbrella in March, anniversary in May—”
“—and our main conflict is that you hate how loudly I chew,” Alex finished, pointing at you.
You pointed back. “And that you think I’m addicted to reality TV.”
“Which is true.”
“Shut up.”
“See? Perfect,” he said, like this wasn’t absolutely deranged. “We’re already fighting.”
You groaned, covering your face with your hands. “We are so going to get caught.”
Alex leaned against the wall, casual in ripped jeans and a hoodie, like this wasn’t the weirdest Wednesday of his life. “Nah. Think about it. Therapists probably see couples way messier than us every day. Like—‘my boyfriend of twelve years won’t do the dishes’ messy. We’re gonna look normal by comparison.”
“I don’t think normal couples plot their relationship lore on Tinder.”
He tilted his head, considering. “Normal’s boring.”
You shouldn’t have laughed. You really shouldn’t have. But you did.
The laugh turned into a nervous little spiral of giggles, and Alex was watching you with that infuriating grin, and suddenly the absurdity of the whole thing cracked something open in your chest. “Oh my god,” you wheezed. “We’re actually insane.”
“Yeah,” he agreed, sipping his coffee like this was all routine. “But at least we’re insane together.”
You looked at him then, really looked. He had a sharp jaw softened by an easy smile, hair that clearly resisted being tamed, and brown eyes that flickered between amusement and—something else. Something you weren’t about to acknowledge, not when you were about to fake a relationship in front of a stranger with a psychology degree.
Instead, you forced a grin. “Okay, partner in crime. You ready?”
He exhaled dramatically. “Born ready.” Then, lowering his voice: “So, just to clarify, if they ask how we met, I don’t say ‘on Tinder.’”
“God, no. Stick to the coffee shop.”
“And if they ask about our first fight?”
“You chewed too loudly during our second date.”
He nodded, serious. “Right. And if they ask why we’re here—”
“—because we’re working on communication. And because I watch too much Love Island.”
He cracked a smile. “Solid.”
For a moment, you just stood there, staring at each other with matching smirks, two idiots about to gaslight a therapist.
Then Alex pushed the door open and held it for you. “After you, fake girlfriend.”
You rolled your eyes, stepping inside. “Don’t make it weird.”
“Too late,” he whispered.
The waiting room smelled faintly of lavender and judgment.
You both sat on opposite ends of the couch at first, awkwardly scrolling your phones like two strangers in a doctor’s office—which, technically, you were. Then Alex leaned over, nudging your knee with his.
“We should probably sit closer,” he muttered. “Couples don’t sit like this.”
You froze. He was right. Normal couples didn’t sit with a three-foot buffer zone of pure “stranger danger” between them. Slowly, carefully, you slid closer until your thighs brushed, and holy hell, when had it gotten so warm in here?
Alex chuckled under his breath. “Relax. We’re not actually dating.”
“Right,” you said, pretending the heat in your face was from the coffee. “Totally.”
Before you could overthink further, the office door opened and a middle-aged man with kind eyes and a clipboard stepped out.
“Alex and Y/N?” he asked.
Alex shot you a look that screamed, "Showtime."
You both stood, and for a brief, ridiculous second, Alex reached for your hand. His palm was warm, his grip firm, and you knew it was for show, but your heart didn’t get the memo.
“Yes,” Alex said smoothly. “That’s us.”
And just like that, you walked into the lion’s den, hand in hand with your fake boyfriend, trying very hard not to laugh — or maybe scream.
The office looked like it had been decorated by someone who thought IKEA catalogs counted as personality. Neutral beige walls, two armchairs angled just enough to look conversational, and a box of tissues on the coffee table like an ominous warning.
You and Alex sank into the loveseat together, stiff as mannequins. His arm brushed yours, his knee bumped your leg, and every nerve in your body screamed, do not laugh.
The therapist, Dr. Grey, according to the little brass plaque on his desk, sat down across from you, crossing one leg over the other. He had the practiced smile of a man who’d seen every kind of marital crisis known to humankind.
“So,” he began, pen poised over his notepad. “Tell me what brings you two in today.”
Showtime.
Alex cleared his throat, shooting you a side glance. “Uh, well… we’ve been together for about… eight months now?”
You nodded too eagerly. “Yes. Eight months. Exactly.”
Dr. Grey’s eyebrows lifted, already scribbling. “That’s a very precise answer.”
“Anniversary in May,” Alex added quickly, as if that explained anything.
“May 13th,” you blurted.
The therapist’s pen paused. “Impressive memory.”
You forced a sweet smile, gripping Alex’s knee under the table like do not blow this, oat milk man. “We’re very… detail-oriented.”
Alex winced slightly at your grip but leaned into the role. “Right. But lately, um… we’ve been having some disagreements.”
“Mm-hm.” Dr. Grey tilted his head, waiting.
You jumped in before Alex could waffle. “He chews like a cow.”
Alex gasped, full betrayal. “I do not!”
“Yes, you do! It’s like sitting next to a lawnmower when you eat cereal.”
“That’s so specific—”
“Because it’s true!”
Dr. Grey held up a hand, his voice calm, soothing. “Okay. So one concern is… eating noises?”
“Yes,” you said firmly, while Alex muttered, “She exaggerates.”
“And,” Alex countered, “she’s addicted to reality TV. Like, she’ll watch four hours of Love Island in one sitting.”
You sat up straighter, indignant. “That’s called commitment to character arcs!”
“It’s called brain rot!” Alex shot back.
The therapist’s pen scratched furiously. You half-expected him to underline brain rot.
For a moment, silence settled over the room, broken only by the faint hum of the air conditioner. Then Dr. Grey steepled his fingers.
“It sounds like you two care about each other,” he said. “But small irritations are becoming amplified.”
“Exactly,” Alex said, nodding seriously. “Like, it’s not a dealbreaker that she knows the names of every contestant on Too Hot to Handle, but it’s… concerning.”
“And it’s not a dealbreaker that he slurps noodles like he’s auditioning for a sound effects job,” you added sweetly.
Alex whipped his head toward you. “That’s a low blow.”
“You deserve it.”
The therapist cleared his throat. “Let’s talk about how you two met. Often, remembering the foundation of the relationship helps put current issues in perspective.”
Crap. Here it was. The lore test.
You jumped in first. “We met at a coffee shop.”
Alex nodded rapidly. “Yeah. I was in line. She insulted me.”
Dr. Grey blinked. “…She insulted you?”
“She called me— uh— what was it again?” Alex glanced at you desperately.
“The human embodiment of oat milk,” you supplied.
The therapist blinked again, pen hovering. “…Interesting.”
“Yeah,” Alex said, as if this were the most normal meet-cute in history. “Romance blossomed after that.”
“Instantly,” you said, trying not to crack.
“Instantly,” Alex echoed, his lips twitching.
Dr. Grey scribbled something that you were certain was just ?? in all caps.
“Okay,” the therapist said slowly, “and your first date?”
“Umbrella,” Alex said too quickly.
You nodded like a bobblehead. “Yes. It rained, and he… lent me his umbrella.”
“In March,” Alex added, smugly.
“Right,” you said, glaring at him like don’t get cocky.
“And when did you become official?”
“May,” you chorused in unison.
Silence.
Dr. Grey’s eyes flicked between you, suspicion glinting. You could feel sweat prickling your back.
Alex reached for your hand again, squeezing, and for one absurd second, it steadied you. Like, yeah, maybe you were lying through your teeth, but at least you were lying together.
“Well,” Dr. Grey said finally, “it’s clear you two share a playful dynamic. But let’s dig into what happens when conflicts arise. Can you give me an example of a recent fight?”
Your brain blanked. Your carefully written notes hadn’t covered this.
Alex, bless his chaotic soul, said, “She got mad because I ate the last cookie.”
Your head whipped around. “That’s not a fake example, that actually would make me mad.”
“You didn’t even bake them!”
“Cookies are communal!”
“You can’t claim dibs on the whole pack!”
Dr. Grey pinched the bridge of his nose like he was already reconsidering his career choices.
The silence stretched again, thick with awkwardness. You stared at Alex, and he stared back, and somewhere between your glare and his smirk, you both started to break.
First, it was a twitch of your lips. Then a stifled snort. Then Alex’s shoulders shook, and before you knew it, the two of you were half-laughing, half-choking on the loveseat, desperately trying to hold it together in front of a man who thought he was saving your relationship.
The therapist looked done.
“Do you often laugh during conflict?” he asked dryly.
“Yes,” Alex gasped, wiping his eyes. “It’s our coping mechanism.”
“Very unhealthy,” you added, still giggling.
The look Dr. Grey gave you could’ve rivaled the power of God himself.
Dr. Grey tapped his pen against his notepad. “So. The last cookie fight aside… when disagreements arise, how do you typically resolve them?”
You and Alex froze.
Because you hadn’t gotten that far in your fake backstory.
“Uh,” you started, wringing your hands in your lap. “We… talk it out.”
Alex nodded too quickly. “Yeah, lots of communication.”
“Mm-hm,” Dr. Grey said, unconvinced. “And what does that communication look like?”
Alex hesitated for half a beat too long before blurting, “Um… I usually make her tea.”
You whipped your head toward him. “Tea?”
“Yes,” he said, leaning into it. “Tea calms you down. Chamomile, specifically.”
You narrowed your eyes. “You don’t even know what chamomile looks like.”
“Of course I do!”
“What color is it, then?”
“…greenish?”
“That’s all tea, Alex!”
Dr. Grey’s eyes flicked between you both like he was watching a tennis match. His pen was working overtime.
“Okay,” the therapist said slowly, “so perhaps the tea ritual isn’t as consistent as it could be. What about physical affection? Do you use touch as a form of reassurance?”
The question hit like a stun gun.
You and Alex glanced at each other, and then away, like two teenagers caught passing notes in class.
Finally, Alex coughed. “Uh, yeah. We… hug.”
“Hugging,” Dr. Grey repeated, deadpan.
“Yes. Hugging,” you echoed, your voice an octave too high.
“Do you want to demonstrate?” the therapist asked.
Your soul left your body.
Alex’s eyes went wide. “Demonstrate?”
“Sometimes it helps,” Dr. Grey said calmly, “to show how you connect physically in moments of tension.”
You wanted the earth to open up and swallow you whole.
But Alex, ever the method actor, opened his arms in slow motion like he was about to embrace a feral cat.
“Come here, chamomile girl,” he said under his breath.
You glared at him. “If you call me that again, I will actually leave.”
But you leaned in anyway, because what else could you do? His arms wrapped around you awkwardly at first, one around your shoulders, one hesitating at your waist. You stiffened, then slowly — too slowly — let yourself sink into it.
And god help you, he was warm. Steady. Comfortable in a way that made your brain short-circuit.
“Mm,” Alex said loudly, patting your back with exaggerated force. “See? Hugging fixes everything.”
You elbowed him in the ribs on principle.
Dr. Grey’s face was unreadable.
“Thank you for that demonstration,” he said finally. “It seems like you two do rely on humor and physical touch… but I’m sensing there may be some deeper communication issues.”
“Oh, definitely,” Alex said solemnly, still holding his side where you’d jabbed him. “She doesn’t respect cookies as individual entities.”
You rolled your eyes so hard they nearly got stuck. “And he doesn’t understand basic tea taxonomy.”
The therapist inhaled deeply, clearly regretting his career path.
“Let’s try something different,” Dr. Grey said, flipping a page on his notepad. “I want you both to list three qualities you appreciate about each other. Start with Y/N.”
Your stomach dropped. Crap. Compliments.
You blinked at Alex. He was watching you expectantly, and you had the distinct impression he was enjoying this.
“Um…” You fidgeted. “He… makes good jokes?”
Alex raised his brows. “Good jokes?”
“Fine, passable jokes.”
“Better.”
You exhaled through your nose. “And… he’s reliable. He showed up today with coffee, so that’s something.”
His expression softened for a blink before he smirked again. “That’s two. One more.”
You hesitated, then muttered, “He’s… nice to look at.”
Alex’s grin spread slowly, lazily, and he was far too pleased with himself.
Dr. Grey scribbled something furiously.
“Interesting,” the therapist said. “Alex, your turn.”
Alex didn’t hesitate. “She’s funny. Like, the kind of funny that sneaks up on you and makes you laugh when you shouldn’t.”
You blinked. That was… weirdly specific.
“She’s also stubborn,” he continued, tilting his head at you, “which is… frustrating, but kind of admirable.”
Your chest did a weird, fluttery thing.
“And…” He paused, a smirk tugging at his lips. “She’s got great taste in reality TV. Even if it’s brain rot.”
“Wow,” you muttered, looking away before he could see the stupid smile tugging at your own lips. “Backhanded compliment much?”
Dr. Grey set his pen down slowly, watching the two of you like a scientist who’d just discovered a new species.
“I see,” he said carefully. “So despite your disagreements, there’s clearly… affection here.”
Both you and Alex opened your mouths to protest at the same time—
“Affection?” you squeaked.
“Definitely not,” Alex said too fast.
But your hands were still suspiciously close on the couch cushion, pinkies nearly brushing, and the way Alex’s knee pressed against yours told a very different story.
Dr. Grey leaned back in his chair, the corners of his mouth twitching just slightly, like he was onto something.
And for the first time all session, you were genuinely terrified.
For the first thirty minutes of the session, you had been proud — no, smug — about how well you and Alex were pulling this off. Sure, there were some hiccups: the cookie debacle, the chamomile lie, the oat milk meet-cute that sounded less romantic and more like a dietary restriction. But overall? You thought you were killing it.
Until Dr. Grey leaned forward, rested his elbows on his knees, and hit you with the calm, measured tone of a man about to end your entire career.
“Y/N. Alex.”
You both froze like students caught passing notes.
“Yes?” you said, your voice doing that embarrassing crackle thing.
“I want to be honest with you,” Dr. Grey continued. His eyes narrowed slightly, sharp despite the kind smile he’d been wearing all session. “I don’t believe you’ve told me the truth about your relationship.”
Silence.
You could hear the faint buzz of the fluorescent lights above you, the way Alex sucked in a sharp breath beside you, the sound of your own soul trying to yeet itself into another dimension.
“Excuse me?” Alex said, finally, a nervous laugh slipping through.
Dr. Grey didn’t flinch. “You’re not a couple. Are you?”
You and Alex spoke at the exact same time.
“Yes, we are—” Says you.
“No, we’re not—” Says Alex.
Your heads snapped toward each other, eyes wide.
“You traitor,” you hissed.
“I panicked!” he hissed back.
Dr. Grey sat back, steepling his fingers again like some kind of judgmental Batman. “Well. That clears things up.”
You buried your face in your hands. “Oh my god.”
“Okay, okay, hear me out,” Alex said, holding his hands up like he was negotiating a hostage situation. “Technically, we’re not a couple. But! We’re auditioning for the role of one.”
You kicked his shin. “Don’t make it sound like community theatre.”
“What else do you want me to say? ‘Hi, Dr. Grey, we’re two psychos from Tinder who thought it would be funny to prank a licensed professional?’ That sounds worse!”
Dr. Grey’s mouth twitched like he was fighting the urge to laugh. “That’s… exactly what you’ve just admitted, though.”
You groaned, sliding down in your seat until your head hit the back cushion. “We’re going to hell.”
“Correction,” Alex said, pointing a finger at you. “You’re dragging me to hell. This was your bio idea.”
“Like you didn’t swipe right!”
“Because it was hilarious!”
The therapist cleared his throat, and both of you snapped back to attention like guilty schoolchildren. “So let me get this straight,” Dr. Grey said. “You matched on Tinder… devised a fake backstory… and booked a therapy session. For fun.”
“…Yes,” you muttered.
Alex, apparently deciding to lean into the bit until the bitter end, added, “It’s kind of a social experiment, if you think about it.”
Dr. Grey stared at him for a long, withering moment. “I’m not sure that makes it better.”
The silence that followed was suffocating. You could feel the heat rising in your cheeks, your whole body buzzing with embarrassment. Beside you, Alex shifted like he couldn’t decide whether to bolt for the door or keep digging his grave.
And then, you laughed.
A small, stupid giggle bubbled out before you could stop it. Alex turned to you, wide-eyed, like you’d just lost your mind. Which, maybe you had.
Because soon the giggle snowballed into full-blown hysterics, your shoulders shaking, tears stinging your eyes.
Alex lasted all of five seconds before he cracked, too. His laugh was loud, unrestrained, contagious. Within moments, you were both doubled over on the loveseat, wheezing like hyenas, while Dr. Grey sat across from you, looking like he was reconsidering every decision that had led him to this profession.
“This is— this is the worst idea we’ve ever had,” you gasped, clutching your stomach.
“The best idea,” Alex corrected, wiping at his eyes. “We actually made it thirty whole minutes before getting caught. That’s a record.”
“Are you keeping score of fake couples?”
“I am now!”
Dr. Grey pinched the bridge of his nose. “I have to say, in my twenty years of practice, this is a first.”
“Happy to make history,” Alex said, still grinning.
You were still laughing when you finally sat up, cheeks aching, chest heaving. Alex was watching you with that stupid boyish smile again, eyes crinkled at the corners. And you hated it.
Well, you didn’t hate it. That was the problem.
The session ended mercifully soon after. Dr. Grey, to his credit, didn’t kick you out on the spot. Instead, he sighed, scribbled something in his notebook, and said, “For future reference, couples therapy works best when… You are, in fact, a couple.”
You and Alex nodded solemnly like kids being scolded.
“Understood,” Alex said.
“Totally,” you added.
“Please don’t book another session under false pretenses,” Dr. Grey finished, his voice flat.
“Got it,” you both said in unison.
And with that, you were free.
The second the office door clicked shut behind you, you and Alex collapsed against the hallway wall, laughter exploding out of you again like you couldn’t hold it in.
“Oh my god,” you wheezed, doubling over. “We actually did that. We actually wasted a professional’s time.”
“We’re criminals,” Alex agreed, tears in his eyes from laughing. “We’re going to be blacklisted from every therapist in the city.”
“Do therapists even have a blacklist?”
“They do now. We’re probably at the top.”
You leaned your head back against the wall, still catching your breath. Alex was standing close, too close, his shoulder brushing yours. When you turned to look at him, he was already looking at you.
The laughter died down, leaving a charged silence in its wake. His smile lingered, softer now, almost hesitant.
And before you could talk yourself out of it, before your brain could scream bad idea bad idea bad idea, you leaned forward and kissed him.
It wasn’t a long kiss. Just a quick, impulsive press of your lips to his, tasting faintly of oat milk latte and bad decisions. But when you pulled back, his eyes were wide, his mouth curved into a stunned half-smile.
“…What was that?” he asked, voice low.
You shrugged, trying to look casual despite the way your heart was sprinting in your chest. “A thank you. For committing to the bit.”
“A thank you,” he repeated, still grinning.
“Yes.”
He tilted his head, studying you, and damn it, why did he have to look at you like that? “You know,” he said slowly, “we could… actually do this again.”
“What, lie to another therapist?”
“No,” he said, laughing. “I meant… a second date. Like, a real one. No fake backstory, no chamomile lies.”
You blinked at him, surprised. “A real date?”
“Yeah. Dinner, maybe. Or—” he smirked—“we could go to a coffee shop. Make it canon.”
You rolled your eyes, but you were smiling too. “You’re ridiculous.”
“And yet,” he said, bumping your shoulder lightly, “you kissed me.”
You shoved him playfully, but your cheeks were still warm. “Fine. One real date. But only because I want to prove to you that cookies are communal.”
“Deal.”
“Deal,” you echoed, shaking his hand like you were signing a legally binding contract.
And as you walked out of the building together, still laughing, still buzzing from the chaos of the afternoon, you couldn’t help thinking: maybe the joke had gotten away from you.
summary: Oscar Piastri has been following you around since you were six. At the time, you didn’t know why, but with just one look, he knew he’d love you forever. Early on, he made his mom befriend yours, which meant you saw him almost every week as kids. Growing up, you were there for each other through every up and down. Years later, he still wouldn’t give up, from your classmates shipping you two in first grade, to you finally giving him a chance at fifteen.
contains: in my culture, "auntie" can be a title used in referring to your friend's mom, not just the literal definition of aunt for a relative, short love triangle with lando, slowburn, holy yearner!oscar, oblivious!reader, piastri family appearance, no names for your parents, idk it's really long i can't remember what i wrote but nothing bad except for a mention of chickenpox, english isn’t my first language, title is a lyric from faye webster's "kind of"
word count: 13.2k words
part two: he loves me yeah! | part three: in a lifetime
The classroom smelled faintly of crayons and dust, the kind of scent that always clung to first days—equal parts excitement and nerves. Six-year-old Oscar Piastri tugged at the straps of his backpack, his fingers sweaty, eyes darting with both hope and uncertainty as the teacher calmly encouraged everyone to find their seats. Kids clustered in little groups, voices bubbling with familiar laughter and whispers, as though they’d already built their own worlds. In the swirl of sound, that’s when he saw you.
You were sitting off to the side, hands folded so tightly on the desk that your knuckles blanched, eyes fixed on the floor, face set in anxious concentration as if you could disappear if you tried hard enough. Your hair was pulled back with a ribbon that trembled with each tiny, nervous movement, and the lunchbox in front of you sat untouched—a silent sign of how uneasy you felt.
Something in Oscar’s chest tugged.
Without thinking twice, he marched across the room and slid into the empty seat beside you. His legs dangled off the chair, sneakers not quite reaching the floor, but he leaned forward with the grin of someone who never second-guessed himself.
“Hi,” he chirped, swinging his legs. “I’m Oscar.”
You blinked at him, startled, and then ducked your head. “...Hi.”
It wasn’t much, just one word, but he lit up like you’d given him the secret password. He pointed at the box on your desk. “Do you like crayons? I always pick orange. Orange’s the fastest color.”
You didn’t answer, not really. Just a tiny shrug, as if even that much effort took all the courage you had. But Oscar didn’t mind. He kept talking about his racecar lunchbox, about how he thought dinosaurs were cooler than astronauts, about how maybe you could trade snacks at recess if you wanted. You stayed quiet, eyes flicking toward him now and then, but you didn’t tell him to go away either.
And for six-year-old Oscar, that was enough.
Sitting beside you felt right, like he’d found his spot. He didn’t know it then — couldn’t possibly — but the simple choice to plop down next to the quiet girl with the ribbon in her hair would end up being the start of everything.
It started on a Tuesday afternoon, a day when the sun made the classroom stuffy and the chalk squeaked a little too loudly on the board. You and Oscar were supposed to be coloring worksheets, but he’d quietly slid his chair closer to yours until the sides were touching.
“Orange’s fastest,” he muttered, scribbling a racecar onto the corner of his paper. “You should use orange too.”
You raised an eyebrow, clutching your crayon. “I like red better.”
“Red’s okay,” he conceded after a moment, tilting his head toward your drawing. “But orange’s faster. If we’re racing, I’ll win.”
You stuck your tongue out at him, and he grinned — wide and unbothered, like he’d already won something just by sitting next to you. That’s when a boy from the next row leaned over, smirking. “Why do you always sit with her, Oscar? Is she your girlfriend?”
Your crayon slipped in your hand. “What?!”
A ripple of giggles spread across the desks, the other kids picking it up like wildfire. “Oscar has a girlfriend!” someone sang. “Oscar and Y/N sitting in a tree —”
Your face burned. You ducked your head, pretending to color harder, but Oscar’s reaction was immediate and fierce.
“She’s not my girlfriend,” he said flatly, though his ears had turned pink. “She’s just... mine.”
The oooo’s doubled, louder this time, and you wished the ground would open up and swallow you whole. You nudged his arm with a frantic whisper. “Oscar, stop!”
But he didn’t. He scooted even closer, a shield between you and the teasing voices. His little hand brushed yours under the desk, not quite holding but hovering like he wanted to. “She’s my best friend,” he declared, chin tilted up, voice stronger than you’d ever heard it. “So stop saying stuff.”
The kids laughed even harder, and eventually, the teacher shushed them, but the damage was done. Your heart pounded all the way until recess.
You didn’t say anything until you were sitting together under the big oak tree, knees tucked up, watching the other kids chase each other across the playground.
“You didn’t have to yell,” you muttered, picking at the grass. “Yes, I did,” Oscar said simply, ripping blades of grass with too much force. “Because you are.”
“Am what?”
“My best friend.” He looked at you then, eyes clear and certain. “That’s more important than being a girlfriend anyway.”
You didn’t know how to answer that. So you just nodded, cheeks warm, and Oscar smiled like he’d settled something big.
Oscar Piastri was seven when he realized that sitting next to you at school wasn’t enough.
Recess, weekends, holidays — he wanted all of it with you. He’d already gotten used to your habits: you nervously tugged at your sleeves when you didn’t want to talk, shared your snacks without being asked (even when you claimed you didn’t like sharing), and your laughter, quiet at first, grew louder the longer you spent around him.
And seven-year-old Oscar, in his infinite wisdom, decided he needed to make sure you stayed close to him. One Saturday morning, as his mum was buttering toast, Oscar tugged her sleeve to get her attention.
“Mum,” he said solemnly, “you have to be best friends with Y/N’s mum.”
Nicole Piastri blinked, knife mid-air. “Do I, now?”
“Yes,” Oscar insisted. “Because we’ll have to see them. Every week. Forever.”
His mum pressed her lips together, amusement tugging at her mouth. “That’s quite the plan, Osc.”
“It’s a good plan,” he argued, already bouncing on his toes. “You like her mum anyway. She picks Y/N up at the same time as you pick me up. She smiles at you. That’s how it starts.”
Nicole laughed, shaking her head. “Oh, is it?”
“Yes.” His face was so serious, so determined, that she sighed in defeat.
That afternoon at pickup, Nicole lingered by the gate, striking up a conversation with your mum. She made a comment about the weather, then about the chaos of school drop-offs, then about how her son wouldn’t stop talking about her daughter.
You didn’t know it at the time, too busy chasing Oscar around the playground, but that was the start.
From then on, little things shifted.
Your mums began trading recipes, swapping tips about schoolwork and after-school activities. What started as quick chats during pickup turned into coffee dates, which turned into weekend visits.
And suddenly, you and Oscar were seeing each other everywhere: at his house on Saturday mornings, curled up on the couch watching cartoons while Nicole brought out snacks you both liked, at your house on Sunday afternoons, building pillow forts in the living room while your mum and his traded stories over tea, in the backseat of one car or the other, giggling over silly songs as your mums drove you to birthday parties, sports practice, or just the park.
Oscar thrived in it. He got to show you his favorite toy cars, telling you about his dream to become an F1 driver, and made you promise you’d always be his co-driver. He proudly introduced you to his nan, who pinched your cheeks and called you “lovely”. And when you tripped on the pavement one day and scraped your knee, both mums rushed over at once — fussing over you like you belonged to both families.
That night, you sat on Oscar’s bedroom floor with a bandage wrapped snug around your knee, and he offered you his most prized Hot Wheels car “to borrow until you felt better.”
You didn’t realize it, but that was Oscar’s version of a vow.
By the time you were eight, it was impossible to tell whose mum was whose best friend. They sat together at school assemblies, planned joint birthday parties, and laughed at how inseparable the two of you had become.
Oscar just grinned smugly whenever anyone asked why he was always with you. Because seven-year-old Oscar had made up his mind long ago: if befriending your mum was what it took to keep you, then he’d make sure of it.
And he did.
The kitchen smelled like your mum’s cooking, warm and comforting in the way it always did on the weekends. You’d darted upstairs to grab something from your room, leaving Oscar alone at the dining table with your mum.
She set a steaming plate of pasta in front of him. His eyes lit up instantly. “Thank you, auntie!”
“You’re welcome, sweetheart,” she said, settling across from him. “Go on. Try it.”
“He didn’t need to be told twice. His fork clinked against the plate as he started twirling noodles with the determination of a pro. His little legs dangled off the chair, tapping restlessly against the wood as he took a huge bite. Oscar’s whole face lit up. “This is so good. Better than school lunch.”
“Careful,” she teased, “you’ll make your mum jealous if you say that too loud.”
He grinned sheepishly and pushed the noodles around his plate. “Mum doesn’t cook pasta like this. She buys the other kind. The... not as good one.”
Your mum chuckled, shaking her head. “Well, you’re welcome to eat here whenever. You’re practically family anyway.”
His head snapped up. “Really?”
“Of course,” she said warmly. “I see you in this kitchen more than some of Y/N’s cousins.” Oscar blushed, ducking his head. But then he froze, as if something important had just hit him. “Even when we’re older?”
She tilted her head. “Older?”
“Yeah. Like... when we’re big. Teenagers. Or grown-ups.”
“Hmm.” She rested her chin on her hand, studying him. “That depends. Do you think you’ll still want to be around Y/N when you’re grown up?”
“Yes,” he answered immediately, not even blinking. Her brows lifted. “That was fast.”
“Because it’s true!” His little fists tightened around his fork. “She’s my best friend. I’ll always want to be around her.”
Her chest softened at the certainty in his voice. “You know, that’s a long time. People change, things change.” Oscar shook his head firmly. “Not me. Not with her.”
Your mum smiled. “And what about Y/N? You think she’ll want you around?”
For the first time, Oscar hesitated. His fork spun the pasta slowly, his voice quieter now. “I... I hope so. Do you think she will?”
“Yes,” she said, without missing a beat. “She’d miss you if you weren’t here.” That made him perk up, shoulders relaxing. A small smile tugged at his lips. “Good. Because...” He hesitated again, then leaned forward, his voice dropping like a secret. “I think I’ll like her forever.”
Your mum blinked. “Like her?” Oscar’s cheeks went crimson, but he nodded stubbornly. “Yeah. Like, like her.”
Before she could react, he hurried on, stumbling over his words. “I mean — it’s not weird, right? People marry their best friends all the time. My uncle said so! And if I like her now, then I’ll like her later too. Forever. That’s just how it works.”
She had to cover her mouth to keep herself from laughing, though her eyes softened. “You’ve got it all figured out, huh?”
“Yep,” he said proudly, stabbing at his pasta. “I’m gonna marry her when we’re grown-ups. You’ll see.”
Just then, you came bounding back into the kitchen, waving a stuffed animal like a trophy. “Look what I found!”
Oscar immediately straightened in his chair, stuffing a bite of pasta into his mouth to cover the embarrassment burning on his face.
Your mum glanced between the two of you — you beaming, Oscar pretending not to stare — and bit back another laugh. “Oh, I see it already,” she thought.
The fever hit hard and fast. One day, you were fine, the next you were shivering under a mountain of blankets, your head heavy and your throat scratchy. School became a distant thought; your mum had called you in sick, and the house felt too quiet with everyone else gone during the day.
Except for ten-year-old Oscar.
At first, he came by after school, his backpack still hanging off one shoulder as he trudged up your porch steps. He’d press the doorbell three times in the special rhythm only you two used, grinning when your mum opened the door.
“Can I see her?” He’d ask, already slipping off his shoes before waiting for an answer.
Your mum always sighed but let him in.
The first time he saw you pale and curled in bed, his grin faltered. He clutched the straps of his backpack tighter, shuffling closer. “You look... really bad.”
“Thanks,” you croaked, rolling your eyes.
He smiled a little then, relieved you still had enough energy to sass him. “I brought your homework. And...” He pulled out a crumpled bag of gummy bears from his pocket. “...these. Don’t tell your mum.”
From then on, it became routine. Every day after school, Oscar showed up. Sometimes he brought homework, sometimes snacks, and once he even dragged over his playstation controller to hook up to your TV, insisting you could still play racing games “even if you look like a zombie.”
But mostly, he just stayed. He’d sit at the edge of your bed, swinging his legs, chattering about the things you were missing at school. “Ms. Reynolds made Josh read out loud, and he kept saying ‘photosynthesis’ like ‘photo-sin-thesis.’ Everyone laughed.” Or, “We had dodgeball and I got out right away, but it’s fine, because I saved my team last time.”
Some afternoons, you were too tired to reply, your eyes drifting shut while he talked. He never left, though, just lowered his voice, letting it fill the room like background noise. Sometimes, when you dozed off, he’d nudge your water glass closer or smooth the blanket up to your chin, careful not to wake you. He’d stay until the night got dark, until his sister had to come to your house asking for him.
One evening, your fever spiked, and your mum was bustling around with medicine. Oscar sat on the floor, hugging his knees, worry written all over his little face. When your mum stepped out to grab something, he climbed back onto the bed, looking at you seriously.
“Don’t scare me like that again, okay?” His voice cracked just a little. “I don’t like it when you’re not at school. Everyone’s boring without you.”
You groaned, half-asleep. “You’re boring.”
He grinned then, relieved, even if your words were slurred. “Yeah, but I’m here.”
And he was. Every single day until you got better, he was there — your quiet, stubborn shadow who refused to let you feel alone.
Your first day back at school felt strange, like the world had kept spinning without you. The classroom buzzed with the usual chatter, but the moment you walked in, heads turned.
And right there at the door was Oscar, waiting. He’d gotten to school early for once, practically vibrating with energy, and the second he saw you, his whole face lit up.
“You’re alive!” he blurted out, too loud, earning a few laughs from your classmates. He didn’t care. He bolted over, grabbing your backpack before you could even protest. “Give me that, you’re still weak.”
You rolled your eyes, tugging it back. “I’m fine, Oscar.”
He squinted at you like he didn’t believe a word. “You still look pale. You should sit near the window. More fresh air.” He guided you to your desk anyway, practically shoving your hair out for you like you were royalty.
“Seriously,” you muttered, cheeks burning at all the eyes on you. “You don’t have to—”
“Sure, I do,” he interrupted firmly. “You’re not allowed to get sick again. I’ll make sure nobody breathes near you.”
You chuckled, “Are you my doctor or my boyfriend?”
Oscar didn’t even flinch. He folded his arms, standing guard beside your desk. “I’m your best friend. Which means I’m both.”
Your face turned crimson. “Oscar!”
He just grinned, smug as anything, like embarrassing you was the best game in the world. “What? It’s true. And if you don’t take care of yourself, I’m gonna tell your mum.”
Oscar plopped down in his seat, still grinning. “Not allowed to scare me again. Ever.”
You sighed, but the corners of your lips curved anyway. “Fine. But only because you’ll annoy me to death if I do.”
He leaned back, satisfied. “Good, then we’re even.”
After school, you found yourself sprawled out on the living room floor, crayons scattered everywhere. Oscar was hunched over his racecar coloring book, carefully shading the helmet in orange.
“I’m gonna do this one day,” he announced out of nowhere. You looked up, “Color in coloring books?”
He shot you a look. “No. Drive. Like, for real. Karting. My dad’s taking me.”
At ten years old, you didn’t know much about racing. But the way his eyes lit up when he said it made you believe it was the most important thing in the world.
“Can I come?” you asked.
“Of course,” he said, like it was obvious. “You’ll be my lucky charm.”
And that’s when it started. From the first race, you were hooked — not on the sport itself, but on him.
Oscar, in his too-big helmet, was practically wobbling under the weight of it. Oscar was gripping the wheel so tight you thought his knuckles might snap. Oscar’s mum was fussing over him while he rolled his eyes, and his dad was shouting encouragement from the sidelines.
And then there was you, standing at the fence with wide eyes and nervous fists, cheering so loudly your throat hurt.
“Go, Oscar!” you screamed as the little karts zoomed past. “Faster! You can do it!”
He didn’t win that first race. He came third, skidding across the finish line with a grin that could split his face. When he pulled his helmet off, sweaty curls sticking to his forehead, the first person he looked for was you. “Did you see that?” he panted, rushing over. “I overtook two kids! Two!”
“You were amazing,” you said, and you meant it. “You looked like Lightning McQueen!” He beamed so hard it nearly knocked you over.
From then on, weekends meant karting. His parents would load up the car, and more often than not, your mum would drop you off too. You’d sit with his little sister, trading snacks and making up chants. You would decorate poster boards with glitter and markers, writing things like PIASTRI #1 and ZOOM ZOOM OSCAR!
When he won, you’d scream until your voice cracked, jumping up and down while he lifted his trophy like it was the World Cup. When he lost, you’d sit beside him on the curb, handing him your juice box without a word.
“Maybe I’m just not good enough,” he’d say, helmet abandoned at his feet. Then you’d frown, “Don’t be dumb. You’re the best one out there.”
“You didn’t even see me spin out.”
“I don’t care,” you’d shoot back, fierce in the way only a kid could be. “You’ll still win next time. I know it.”
And somehow, that always made him believe it too.
By twelve, karting wasn’t just a hobby. It was his thing. You could see it in the way he carried himself, in the hours he spent talking about corners and braking points you barely understood. His friends at school didn’t get it, but you didn’t mind. You went to every race you could, standing at the fence like always, shouting yourself hoarse.
At thirteen, he started winning more. The trophies got taller, the competition tougher. He was gone more often — training, racing, traveling. But even when he was tired, even when he missed a day of hanging out, he always found you afterward.
One evening, after a long weekend at the track, you sat on your porch steps together, watching the sun dip low. His hair was still damp from a shower, his hands fidgeting with the zipper of his hoodie.
“Do you ever get tired of it?” you asked softly.
He shook his head. “No. Not when I’m in the kart. It feels... right.”
You smiled, bumping his shoulder with yours. “Good. Because I think you’re gonna be really big one day.”
He glanced at you then, eyes lingering like he wanted to say something else. Instead, he smirked. “That’s why you’ve gotta keep coming. Lucky charms can’t quit halfway.”
You laughed, but inside, you promised yourself you’d never miss a race if you could help it.
The summer before freshman year, things shifted. He was busier than ever, but when he was home, he made time for you. On one of those rare afternoons, the two of you sprawled across your living room floor again, older now, the crayons replaced with half-finished homework.
“High school’s gonna be weird,” you muttered. Oscar shrugged, “As long as you’re there, I’ll be fine.” He said it so casually. In a way that comes naturally, the way it always came out, ever since you were six. Ever since he sat next to you in first grade, and ever since he won his first race.
You shot him a look. “That’s cheesy.”
“Maybe,” he said with a grin. “But it’s true.”
You rolled your eyes, but deep down, you knew it was. Because for years now, through every twist and turn, you’d been right there at his side — and he never let you go.
The classroom was buzzing with chatter, groups of kids clustering in corners, old friends reuniting. Now fourteen years old, you and Oscar had stuck close together — partly because you were new, partly because that’s what you’d always done.
It hadn’t taken long for whispers to spread. You’d caught them: Are they dating? They came in together.
You didn’t mind. Honestly, it made things easier. If people thought you and Oscar were a unit, then maybe you wouldn’t have to figure out how to blend in alone.
But of course, not everyone got the memo.
“Hey, I'm Lando.” A tall boy with curly hair leaned against your desk during break, his grin too practiced to be casual. “You’re new, right? Want me to show you around?” His British accent curled around his words, making them sound like some kind of offer you'd regret turning down.
You blinked, caught off guard. “Oh, uh—” Before you could even process an answer, Oscar’s chair scraped loudly against the floor. He leaned back in it, long legs stretched out, chin propped on his knuckles like he was bored. Except his eyes were sharp as knives.
“She’s fine,” he said, voice calm but edged. “She already has someone showing her around.”
The boy looked between you two, a little thrown. “Oh... are you—?”
“No,” you said quickly, heat rushing to your cheeks. “We’re just friends.” Oscar’s jaw twitched, but he didn’t look away. “Friends who don’t need your help.”
The boy gave a half-hearted shrug, muttered something about “your loss,” and slunk off to the back of the room.
You turned to Oscar, raising a brow. “Really?”
“What?” He leaned back in his chair, smugness curling into a smirk. “You said no, didn’t you?” You rolled your eyes. I said no because I didn’t want to, not because you scared him away.”
“Mm-hm,” Oscar hummed, tapping his pen against his notebook. “Still. Kind of nice watching him run.”
You tried not to smile, but that infuriating, boyish grin he has whenever he thinks he’d won made it impossible.
“Don’t get used to it,” you said, shoving his shoulder. “I already am,” he shot back, still smirking.
And from the corner of your eye, you could see other students watching you both, whispering again. The way you laughed at him, the way he leaned in like you were the only person in the room — yeah, they definitely thought you were together.
By the second week of school, the teacher had assigned everyone seats.
You landed at a desk group with Lando and another girl named Anna, while Oscar was placed at the next table behind you, partnered with a girl you hadn’t spoken to yet and a boy whose name escaped you. It shouldn’t have been a big deal. It was just seating. But the moment you realized Oscar wasn’t going to be beside you anymore, the air seemed heavier.
You told yourself not to make a fuss — you weren’t seven anymore, clinging to each other at every opportunity. Still, when you sat down and looked over your shoulder, there he was: Oscar, slouched in his chair, tapping his pen against the desk. He gave you a quick smile, the kind you’d normally return without thinking. But this time, you just nodded and turned back around, heart thudding too loudly for comfort.
It’s fine. It’s fine. You’ll still see him at break, still walk home together. It doesn’t matter if he’s not sitting right next to you.
It mattered; the day dragged on anyway.
Oscar hated it too.
He’d gotten used to leaning his elbow against your desk, whispering dumb commentary under his breath while the teacher droned on. He’d gotten used to the way you’d kick him gently under the table when he teased you, or the way your head tilted when you asked him for help on math problems. Without you next to him, the room felt oddly quiet — too quiet, despite the low chatter of everyone else.
He tapped his pen against the desk, sneaking glances at you. You were pretending to focus on the worksheet in front of you, but he noticed the way your shoulders tensed whenever Lando leaned in.
Lando, of all people.
He didn’t even know why that bothered him. The guy was harmless, more interested in cracking jokes than actual schoolwork. Still, Oscar’s jaw tightened every time Lando grinned at you.
From your side, it wasn’t much better. Lando was friendly — too friendly.
“So, Y/N, where’d you move from?” he asked, leaning on his elbows while Anna rolled her eyes.
You kept your answers short, not out of rudeness, but because you were hyperaware of Oscar’s presence just behind you. Every word you said felt like it carried across the aisle, and you hated how your thoughts spun in circles: Is he listening? Does he care? Is he annoyed?
At one point, you dropped your pen. Before you could reach down, Lando scooped it up with a flourish, handing it back with a wink.
“Thanks,” you muttered, cheeks warm.
From behind, you didn’t need to look to know Oscar was watching. The weight of his gaze prickled at the back of your neck.
Lunch couldn’t come fast enough.
You and Oscar usually sat together, sometimes with others drifting in, but always side by side. Today, you caught him waiting by the doorway of the classroom, bag slung over his shoulder. When your eyes met, the knot in your chest loosened a little.
“C’mon,” he said simply.
The two of you walked to the cafeteria in silence, shoulders brushing now and then. It was comforting — familiar — but you couldn’t shake the lingering awkwardness from earlier.
Halfway through your sandwiches, you finally spoke. “The new seats suck.”
Oscar let out a breathy laugh. “Yeah. They do.”
There was something in the way he said it, though. Like it wasn’t just about the desks. Like he missed you, too.
For a fleeting second, you wanted to tell him you hated not being next to him, that it felt wrong. But you bit your tongue. He was your best friend — had been since you were kids. Saying something like that might ruin everything.
So instead, you stuffed another bite of sandwich in your mouth and let the silence stretch.
Back in class, the tension continued.
The teacher droned on about quadratic equations, writing examples across the board. Anna scribbled notes furiously while Lando whispered a half-joke about how boring it all was. You chuckled politely, but your ears were tuned to the faint sound of Oscar shifting in his seat behind you.
Every time the teacher asked you a question, you swore you could feel his gaze, steady and unrelenting. And every time Lando leaned too close, your heart thudded, not because of Lando, but because of Oscar.
It was exhausting — overthinking every move, every word.
By the time the final bell rang, you felt wrung out.
Walking home with Oscar should have eased the tension, but it didn’t.
He was quieter than usual, his hands shoved into his pockets, his gaze fixed on the pavement. You wanted to ask what he was thinking, if he’d felt the same strangeness you had all day. But instead, you filled the silence with small talk, telling him about the math homework, about how Anna seemed nice, about how Lando was —
“Too much,” Oscar cut in, surprising you.
You blinked. “What?”
“Lando,” he said quickly, shrugging like it was nothing. “He’s… a bit much, isn’t he?”
You hesitated, then nodded slowly. “Yeah. Kind of.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, almost like a smile. “Thought so.”
That was it. He didn’t elaborate, and you didn’t push. But the unspoken words lingered between you — a quiet hum of something neither of you wanted to name.
That night, lying in bed, you replayed the day over and over.
Oscar’s glances. Lando’s grin. The way Oscar’s voice had dipped when he said too much.
It was just the first day of assigned seats, and already you felt like you were unraveling.
Across town, Oscar lay in his own bed, staring at the ceiling.
He told himself it didn’t matter where he sat. It was just a classroom. But the truth gnawed at him: without you next to him, it felt like something vital was missing. And when he closed his eyes, all he could see was the way Lando had leaned in too close, the way your laugh had sounded when it wasn’t meant for him.
He turned over, burying his face in the pillow.
It was only Monday.
The second morning of assigned seats should’ve been easier. After all, you’d survived Monday — barely. But waking up felt heavier than usual, like the dread of walking into the classroom and seeing Oscar a whole desk away was carved into your chest.
You lingered over breakfast longer than necessary, your fork circling scrambled eggs until your mom told you you’d be late. You weren’t avoiding school, not exactly. You just… weren’t ready to spend another day pretending that the gap between you and Oscar was no big deal.
It’s fine, you told yourself again as you laced your shoes. You’ll see him at break, at lunch. You always do.
Still, it wasn’t the same.
When you arrived at school, Oscar was already by the gates, leaning against the railing with his backpack slung low. His hair was still messy from sleep, though you suspected he’d run a hand through it a few times to make it look less obvious. He noticed you instantly, standing straighter as if he’d been waiting.
“Morning,” he said, voice casual, though there was something careful in his eyes.
“Morning,” you echoed.
The silence stretched. Usually, you’d fall into easy conversation — who forgot their homework, which teacher was cranky, which game you’d play after class — but now it felt like both of you were thinking about the same thing and refusing to mention it: the damn seating chart.
He scratched the back of his neck. “You ready for another thrilling day of quadratic equations?”
You smirked, relieved by the effort. “Can’t wait. Highlight of my life.”
He smiled faintly, and for a moment, the knot in your chest loosened. But the bell rang, and the brief illusion shattered.
Class was worse than you remembered.
The teacher droned on at the board, and Lando was already in full swing, leaning into your space like proximity was his god-given right.
“So, Y/N,” he whispered during the first exercise, “what do you think’s more boring — equations, or watching paint dry?”
Anna sighed loudly beside him. “Maybe if you actually wrote something down, you’d know the answer.”
You chuckled awkwardly, torn between agreeing with Anna and not wanting to be rude. “Uh, watching paint dry, probably.”
Lando grinned like you’d just given him the world. “Knew it. We’re on the same wavelength.”
You forced a smile, pen scratching on your paper. But you could feel it — Oscar’s gaze, steady and sharp from behind. Every time Lando leaned too close, every time his voice dipped into some practiced drawl, you swore you felt the back of your neck burn.
He’s listening, you thought, biting your lip. He has to be. He always listens.
Oscar was listening.
He hated himself for it, but he couldn’t block it out. Lando’s voice carried, every lazy joke aimed at you like you were his personal audience. And you — well, you weren’t encouraging him exactly, but you weren’t shutting him down either.
She’s just being polite, Oscar reasoned, gripping his pen tight enough to leave marks. She always is. She doesn’t like him like that.
But the way you laughed — even softly, even awkwardly — made his chest twist.
The girl beside him, Rachel, nudged his notebook. “Um, are you gonna use that pen or just stab it to death?”
He blinked, realizing he’d been digging the lead so hard it nearly snapped. “Right. Sorry.”
She gave him a weird look, but he ignored it, eyes flicking to the back of your head, to the way your shoulders lifted whenever Lando leaned closer.
He’s too much. She said so yesterday. The memory soothed him only a little. Still, the thought of Lando’s grin aimed at you all day made him want to throw the kid’s workbook out the window.
By mid-morning, you were exhausted.
The teacher had split you into pairs for a problem set, and of course, that meant you and Lando.
“Don’t worry, I’m good at math,” he said, flipping his pen between his fingers. “You just sit back and watch a pro in action.”
You arched a brow. “You didn’t even bring your textbook.”
“…Okay, maybe I’ll just supervise,” he said, grinning.
You sighed, lowering your head to your paper. Across the room, you caught Oscar’s glance — quick, fleeting, like he didn’t mean to be caught. But when your eyes met his, something tightened between you. You looked away fast, heart pounding.
We’re not even dating, but why does it feel like I’m cheating on him when I’m literally just doing math problems with another guy?
The thought rattled you for the rest of the lesson.
Oscar was drowning.
The boy next to him, David, was nice enough, but he wasn’t you. Their conversation barely went past “what’s the answer to number three,” while Oscar’s mind spun circles around the sound of your laugh with Lando.
He hated how much it mattered. He hated how much it hurt.
When the teacher collected the papers, Oscar caught another glimpse of you tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, biting your lip as Lando said something else. You smiled politely, and Oscar’s chest clenched.
He shoved his pen back in his case a little too hard.
Lunch was the only reprieve.
You found him at your usual table, already unwrapping his sandwich. When you sat down, your knees brushed under the desk, and neither of you pulled away.
“You survived,” you said lightly.
“Barely,” he muttered.
You tilted your head. “That bad?”
Oscar shrugged, eyes fixed on his sandwich. “Just… distracting.”
You didn’t press, though you wanted to. Instead, you nudged his foot with yours. “Well, at least math is over.”
That earned you a real smile — small, but enough to steady you. For a few minutes, it was just the two of you again, laughter spilling into the space where words weren’t enough.
Afternoon classes were more of the same.
Lando’s attention never wavered, his questions bordering on invasive: what music you liked, where you lived, if you’d been to the mall nearby. You answered cautiously, feeling the weight of Oscar’s silence behind you with every word.
At one point, Lando leaned close enough that you instinctively shifted back, your chair scraping the floor. The sound echoed, and heads turned — including Oscar’s. His gaze was sharp, unreadable, but it lingered on you for a second too long.
Your cheeks flamed. “Sorry,” you mumbled to the teacher, adjusting your chair.
But your pulse didn’t calm down until the bell rang, and you practically bolted.
Oscar followed you out the door, not close enough to seem obvious, but close enough to watch the way you gripped your bag strap like it was a lifeline. He wanted to say something — anything — to bridge the gap between you, to tell you that he hated watching Lando act like he owned your attention.
But the words stuck in his throat.
So he walked in silence, matching your pace, waiting for the right moment that never came.
By the time the final bell rang, you were wrung out.
The day had been a blur of forced smiles and quick glances over your shoulder. You couldn’t remember half of what the teacher had said, only the endless cycle of Is Oscar mad? Is he jealous? Am I imagining it?
When you caught him waiting by the lockers, the tension eased. He didn’t say much, just, “Ready?” like always.
And you nodded, the ache in your chest softening at the familiar rhythm of his voice.
But as you walked side by side, you couldn’t shake the thought that something had shifted between you. That maybe the assigned seats weren’t just about desks and partners — maybe they were the start of something bigger.
Something scarier.
Something you weren’t sure either of you was ready to name.
The afternoon heat clung to the pavement as you and Oscar walked home, your bags bouncing lightly against your sides. Neither of you spoke much at first — the air between you still heavy from the day — but your strides matched effortlessly, as always.
Halfway down the street, you sighed, breaking the silence. “Today was exhausting.” Oscar shot you a quick glance, his brow twitching in something close to relief. “Yeah. Same.” You fiddled with the strap of your bag. “Lando talks a lot.”
His lips pressed into a thin line, fighting a smirk. “You don’t say.” That earned a laugh from you — a real one, finally. He basked in it quietly, something loosening in his chest. “You wanna come over?” he asked before he could stop himself. “Mum’s making pasta tonight.”
You hesitated, just long enough for his pulse to spike, then nodded. “Sure. I could use pasta.”
The Piastri house smelled like garlic and basil when you walked in. It was comforting, familiar, like a second home by now.
“Y/N!” His little sister, Hattie, barreled down the hallway, nearly tripping over her socks as she hugged your waist. “You’re staying for dinner, right? Please say yes.”
You laughed, ruffling her hair. “If your mum doesn’t mind.”
“She won’t! She loves you more than Oscar.”
“Oi,” Oscar muttered, dropping his bag by the door. But he didn’t deny it.
You followed him into the kitchen, where his mum was stirring a pot on the stove. She looked up with a smile. “Y/N, perfect timing. You can keep this one in line.” She tilted her chin at Oscar, who scowled good-naturedly.
You grinned. “I’ll try my best.”
Dinner was loud in the best way — Hattie and Edie bickering over who got the bigger bread roll, Oscar’s dad cracking dry jokes, his mum fussing over whether you had enough on your plate. It was chaos, but the kind that wrapped around you like a blanket.
At one point, Hattie leaned across the table. “Can Y/N stay the night?”
Your fork froze mid-air. “Oh, I don’t—”
“Yes,” Oscar cut in before you could finish, voice steady. “She’s staying.”
You blinked at him, startled by his certainty. He met your gaze with something unreadable, like he was daring you to argue. You didn’t.
So that was that.
Later, you were in Oscar’s room, the familiar mess of racing posters, half-built Lego sets, and books scattered across his desk. You sat cross-legged on his bed while he sat at the edge, fiddling with a Rubik’s cube he hadn’t solved in months.
“This feels like old times,” you said softly.
He glanced up. “It’s not old times. You’re still here.”
The words hung between you, heavier than they should’ve been. You busied yourself by pulling one of his pillows onto your lap, hugging it close. His scent clung to it — laundry powder, a hint of cologne, something distinctly Oscar.
“Your sisters adore you,” you said after a beat.
He snorted. “They adore you. I’m just their chauffeur.”
You smiled, watching him twist the cube absentmindedly. The room buzzed with unspoken things, the kind that made your heart beat too fast.
“Hey,” you said suddenly, breaking the quiet. “I won’t be at school tomorrow.” His hands stilled on the cube. “What? Why?”
“Doctor’s appointment,” you admitted, shrugging like it was nothing. “Nothing serious. Just a check-up.” But his brows furrowed anyway. “You should’ve told me earlier.”
“It’s not a big deal.”
“It is if you’re not there.” His voice was low, firm, like the words had slipped out before he could stop them.
You blinked, throat tightening. “Oscar…”
He shook his head quickly, standing to put the cube back on the shelf. “Never mind. Just— text me, yeah? So I know how it goes.”
You nodded, clutching the pillow tighter. “I will.”
When he finally sat back down, closer this time, your knees brushed. Neither of you moved.
The silence stretched, filled with the warmth of his presence, the steady rhythm of his breathing, the faint sound of his sisters laughing down the hall.
For a moment, you thought he might say something — that he might close the gap and finally spill the words you’d both been holding back.
But instead, he leaned back on his elbows, eyes on the ceiling. “Wanna watch something? Take your mind off watching paint dry and Lando?”
You laughed softly, grateful and disappointed all at once. “Yeah. Sure.”
So you did. You sat side by side, shoulders pressed together, watching a movie neither of you really paid attention to. And though nothing was said, nothing confessed, the weight of almost-everything lingered in the air, thick enough to taste.
By the time you curled under the spare blanket on his bed that night, Oscar stretched out on the floor beside you, you couldn’t help but think:
If only he knew how much I wanted to stay here, always.
And on the floor, Oscar thought the same.
Oscar noticed immediately: the empty seat at the front of the classroom.
Your chair was neatly tucked in, your books absent, your bag not slung across the side like it always was. It shouldn’t have thrown him off balance so badly, but it did. The sight of that empty seat tightened something in his chest.
You’d told him last night about the doctor’s appointment, but seeing the proof made it real. You weren’t here. You weren’t sitting with your chin propped on your hand, rolling your eyes at Lando’s antics, sneaking quick glances back at Oscar when you thought he wasn’t looking.
Oscar slouched lower in his chair, pen tapping against the desk.
And then, of course, came the inevitable. “Oi, Piastri.”
Oscar froze, already dreading the sound of that voice. He turned slightly. Lando was leaning against his desk, a smug grin plastered across his face.
“Where’s Y/N?” Lando asked casually, twirling a pen between his fingers. “Didn’t see her this morning. You two usually walk in together, yeah?”
Oscar forced a shrug, careful to keep his tone flat. “Dunno.”
Lando arched a brow. “Really? Thought you’d be the first to know.”
Oscar’s grip on his pen tightened. He kept his face neutral. “She doesn’t report to me, mate.”
That earned a chuckle from Lando, too knowing for Oscar’s liking. “Right. Sure. Guess I’ll ask her myself later.” He straightened, tossing his pen into the air and catching it with practiced ease. “But hey, don’t take it personal. Not my fault, she’s got options.”
Oscar didn’t reply. He couldn’t trust his voice not to crack — not with anger, but with something heavier, something he couldn’t name without tasting bitterness. Instead, he pressed his jaw tight and turned back to his paper, scribbling numbers he didn’t even register.
Lando hummed, smug and satisfied, before sauntering off.
Oscar exhaled slowly, shoulders tense, heart pounding. Don’t let him get to you. Don’t.
But all he could think was: Options?
When you texted after your appointment, “Done. Free this afternoon. Come over?” Oscar felt the weight lift instantly.
He didn’t even bother with an excuse to his parents, just grabbed his bag and headed straight for your house.
Your room hadn’t changed much since you were little: the same posters tacked up, the same stack of books on your desk, the same faint scent of lavender your mom swore by.
You sat cross-legged on your bed, patting the space beside you when Oscar walked in. “Well? Did school survive without me?”
He dropped his bag and sat down, shoulders brushing yours. “Barely.”
You laughed, and the knot in his chest loosened.
“Lando was…” Oscar hesitated, then smirked faintly. “Annoying.”
“Shock.” You tilted your head, eyes sparkling with amusement. “What’d he do this time?”
“He asked where you were.” Oscar kept his tone casual, though his chest was still tight. “I told him I didn’t know.”
Your brows lifted. “You lied for me?”
He shrugged. “Didn’t want him bothering you.”
Something in your chest fluttered at the quiet protectiveness in his voice. You nudged his knee with yours. “Thanks. You’re the best.”
Oscar ducked his head, ears warm. “Don’t mention it.” You grinned, unable to resist. “Bet he was smug about it, though.”
Oscar let out a humorless laugh. “You have no idea.”
The two of you dissolved into laughter, trading imitations of Lando’s overconfident smirk until your sides hurt. When the laughter faded, silence settled — soft, not awkward.
You lie back on your bed without thinking, staring at the ceiling. Oscar followed suit a moment later, his arm brushing yours as he stretched out beside you.
The proximity made your breath hitch.
You were so close you could feel the warmth radiating off him, the steady rhythm of his breathing. Your fingers itched to reach for his hand, but you curled them into the blanket instead.
Oscar, for his part, was doing his best not to stare at the curve of your cheek, the way your hair fanned out on the pillow. He swallowed hard, forcing himself to keep his gaze on the ceiling.
“This feels familiar,” you said softly.
He glanced at you. “How so?”
“Like when I had chickenpox,” you murmured, lips quirking. “Remember? You used to come over every day. Lay on the floor, keep me company even though I looked like a zombie.”
Oscar chuckled, though his voice was quieter, gentler. “You didn’t look like a zombie. More like… a very grumpy hedgehog.”
You gasped in mock offense, swatting his arm. “Oscar!”
He grinned, rubbing the spot where you’d hit him. “What? It’s true. You wouldn’t let me near your bed half the time. Just hissed at me to leave the snacks and go.”
You laughed, but there was a warmth in your chest that lingered. “And yet you still came every day.”
His smile faltered, softened. “Of course I did.”
The words carried more weight than either of you were ready to acknowledge. The silence that followed was thick, filled with all the things unsaid.
You turned your head toward him. “Why?”
He blinked, caught off guard. “Why what?”
“Why’d you keep coming? Even when I was miserable and cranky and didn’t want anyone around.”
Oscar hesitated, throat tight. He could say it, that he couldn’t stand the thought of you being alone, that even then, at ten years old, he couldn’t stay away from you. That he loved you.
Instead, he cleared his throat. “Because you’re my best friend. Always have been.”
Your chest ached at the sincerity in his voice. You smiled softly, whispering, “Always will be.”
Your eyes lingered on his a second too long, your breath catching when his gaze flicked down, almost, almost to your lips.
But then he turned away, staring back at the ceiling, jaw tight.
Inside, Oscar was unraveling.
The way you looked at him, the way your voice softened when you said always — it nearly broke him. He wanted to reach across the space between you, cup your cheek, tell you everything he’d been holding back.
But fear rooted him in place. Fear of ruining everything. Fear of losing you.
So he stayed still, every muscle tense, heart hammering.
You swallowed hard, forcing your gaze back to the ceiling too. The air between you buzzed with unspoken things, a weight you both pretended not to feel.
But your hands, traitorous, edged closer on the blanket. Not touching, not yet, but close enough that the heat of his skin brushed yours.
Oscar noticed. Of course, he noticed. His fingers twitched, aching to close the gap. But he didn’t move.
Neither of you did.
And in that fragile, suspended moment, you both knew:
Something was shifting.
Something neither of you could ignore forever.
By Thursday morning, you felt lighter. The doctor’s appointment was over, you were back at school, and you were ready to slip into routine again. But the second you slid into your seat beside Lando, you realized routine wasn’t on the menu.
“Morning,” Lando greeted, leaning far too casually against the edge of your desk. His grin was as smug as ever. “Didn’t see you yesterday. Thought maybe you’d skipped just to avoid me.”
You pressed your lips into a polite smile, already bracing yourself. “Doctor’s appointment.”
He whistled, tilting his head. “So you did miss me, then.” You didn’t even blink. “The teacher’s about to start.”
And with that, you turned toward the front. Short, clipped, final. Lando blinked, thrown off for a split second, but then chuckled. “Cold. I like it.”
From behind you, there was a quiet sound — the faintest little snort. Almost imperceptible, but you caught it. And you knew exactly whose it was.
Oscar.
You risked a quick glance back. Sure enough, he was hunched over his desk, head bowed like he was deeply engrossed in his notes. But the way his shoulders shook gave him away. He was laughing under his breath, savoring every second of your shutdown.
Heat rose in your chest. Not embarrassment, but something warmer. Sharper.
Lando didn’t notice. He tapped his pen against your desk, leaning in closer. “So, Y/N—”
“Listen in front,” you cut in smoothly, nodding toward the front.
Sure enough, Mrs. Daniels had begun outlining the day’s lesson. You didn’t look at Lando again, not even when he huffed and leaned back, clearly unused to being dismissed so easily.
From behind, another muffled laugh escaped Oscar, softer this time, almost like he couldn’t help it.
You kept your eyes on the board, a small, traitorous smile tugging at your lips.
Oscar, meanwhile, was fighting a battle of his own.
The sight of Lando trying — trying — to charm you made his blood simmer, but the way you shut him down? Effortlessly, decisively, with no room for argument? That nearly had him grinning like an idiot.
He bit the inside of his cheek to stop himself, but when you’d said, “The teacher’s about to start,” with that cool tone of yours, it slipped out anyway — that quiet snort of laughter.
God, he loved that about you. The way you didn’t play games, didn’t waste words. The way you always knew exactly how to put someone in their place without raising your voice.
And the way you hadn’t even looked flustered, not once, while Lando stumbled over his own ego.
Oscar sat up straighter, forcing his expression back to neutral as Mrs. Daniels turned toward their row. But inside, he was warm all over.
Warm with pride.
Warm with relief.
And warm with something deeper, something he couldn’t quite name, but that pulled him toward you like gravity itself.
The rest of class passed without incident — Lando retreating, you focused, Oscar quietly, smugly satisfied.
But every so often, you felt it: that weight of a gaze on the back of your head. Not heavy, not invasive — just steady. Watchful.
And every time, you knew it was him.
The Piastri household always smelled like something good. Tonight, it was garlic bread — buttery, crisp, with just the faintest char at the edges — and tomato sauce simmering low on the stove. Nicole was bustling between the kitchen and the dining room, apron already dusted with flour, while Chris uncorked a bottle of wine at the counter.
Your parents had arrived first with you in tow, and the moment you stepped into the house, Edie practically launched herself at you.
“Y/N!” she squealed, her little arms wrapping tightly around your waist. “You didn’t come yesterday, and Oscar was grumpy all day. But I missed you, too.”
You laughed, smoothing a hand over her hair. “I missed you more.”
Behind her, Hattie poked her head out from the living room, smirking. “Don’t let her fool you. She’s been drawing you and Oscar together all afternoon. Wedding dress and everything.”
“Hattie!” Edie shrieked, her cheeks flaming as she clung tighter to you.
Oscar, who had just come down the stairs, groaned loudly. “Seriously? Can we not—”
Edie, perched at the bottom step with her phone, didn’t even look up. “Relax. Everyone already knows you’re whipped.”
You froze. Oscar choked.
Your parents chuckled as if this were all perfectly normal. Your dad even clapped Chris on the shoulder, grinning. “Kids, huh?”
But Nicole wasn’t letting it slide. She handed you a plate to bring into the dining room and, with a knowing smile, murmured, “Don’t worry, sweetheart. We’ve been teasing him about you since he was eight. He’s used to it.”
You nearly dropped the plate. “Auntie—”
“Mom!” Oscar hissed, but she breezed past him like she hadn’t just detonated a small bomb.
Dinner was loud, warm, chaotic in the way only big family dinners could be. The table was stretched to its maximum length, and leaves were added so everyone could squeeze in. You sat between Hattie and Oscar, your parents across from you, while Edie and Mae bickered about seating order at the far end.
Nicole and your mom shared serving spoons like they’d been doing this forever, their friendship easy and practiced. Chris and your dad traded stories about old cars and backyard projects.
It should’ve been comfortable.
And it was.
Except for the way Oscar’s knee brushed yours under the table.
The first time, you thought it was an accident. The second, maybe still. But by the third time, when neither of you moved away, your heart was hammering so loudly you barely heard Hattie chatter about her school project.
Oscar was the picture of calm, eyes fixed on his plate as if the spaghetti was the most interesting thing in the world. But you saw the faint flush creeping up his neck, the way he chewed slower, more deliberately.
It was unbearable. In the best and worst way.
“So,” your mom began suddenly, cutting through the chatter. Her eyes flicked between you and Oscar with dangerous amusement. “When are you two finally going to admit it?”
Forks clinked against plates. The whole table went silent.
“Mum!” you gasped, mortified.
Oscar’s head snapped up, ears red. “We’re not—”
“Yes, you are,” Edie cut in immediately, smirking. “It’s obvious. He’s been sulking whenever you’re not around.”
“Not true,” Oscar muttered, stabbing a meatball with unnecessary force.
Mae leaned forward, grinning. “Totally true. He even asked me yesterday if I thought you’d skipped school because of him.”
Your dad raised a brow, amused. “Did you?”
“Dad!”
Chris chuckled, swirling his wine. “See? We don’t even have to say anything. The kids are doing it for us.”
Nicole gave a satisfied hum, serving herself more salad. “I told you, Chris. They’ve been circling each other since they were children. It was only a matter of time.”
“Can we please change the subject?” Oscar mumbled, but his knee pressed harder against yours under the table, like he needed the anchor.
You swallowed, cheeks burning, fingers tightening around your fork.
The conversation shifted eventually — thank God — but the damage was done. Your parents and the Piastris had made it clear: they were rooting for something neither you nor Oscar dared name out loud.
And the worst part? A tiny part of you wanted to.
After dessert (apple pie, courtesy of your mom, served with ice cream that dripped sticky-sweet down your spoon), the younger ones darted into the living room for a movie. Edie claimed the armchair, Mae sprawled across the rug, and Hattie curled up with her blanket.
You and Oscar lingered at the table, helping clear plates.
“You okay?” he asked softly, when the noise of the kitchen and the movie muffled everyone else.
You forced a smile. “Yeah. Why wouldn’t I be?”
He hesitated, drying his hands on a dish towel. His eyes, steady and warm, searched yours. “They’re just… relentless.”
You let out a small laugh, one that was more air than sound. “Yeah. But it’s not like we can stop them.”
“No,” he admitted, voice low. “We can’t.”
For a moment, you both just stood there, silence stretched taut between you. The hum of conversation from the other room, the faint clatter of dishes, the muffled laughter from his sisters — it all faded under the weight of his gaze.
Then Hattie’s voice rang out, shrill as ever: “Oscar! Y/N! The movie’s starting!”
He blinked, breaking eye contact, and the spell shattered.
“Coming,” he called back, too quickly.
You followed him into the living room, your heart still racing.
The living room was dim except for the glow of the movie flickering across the TV. The smell of apple pie and garlic still lingered faintly in the air, blending with the clean scent of laundry from the blanket draped over the couch.
Mae had long since drifted off, her tiny body curled up against your lap, her breath soft and even. You kept stroking her hair absentmindedly, your focus slipping in and out of the movie.
Oscar sat pressed close beside you, the blanket covering both your legs. He wasn’t watching the movie either. His eyes flicked to you every few minutes, then back to the screen, then back to you again.
His pinky brushed against yours once, tentatively. Then again, with a little more certainty. This time, he let it linger.
You felt it. God, you felt it everywhere — in the way your chest tightened, in the warmth that flooded your skin, in the way your breath caught for just a second too long. But you didn’t move away. You couldn’t.
Instead, you curled your pinky ever so slightly, hooking it with his.
He froze. And then you felt it — the tiniest squeeze.
The rest of the room faded away.
It was just you and him, wrapped up in a blanket of unsaid words.
Oscar’s thoughts were a mess.
Say it. Just say it.
He’d been carrying it around for years — since he was six, since he first sat beside you and thought, this is it. This is her.
And now, with your hand against his, with Hattie asleep between you like some symbol of the family he already imagined having with you one day, it was unbearable not to.
He leaned a little closer, his voice so quiet you almost didn’t hear it. “Y/N…”
You turned to him, eyes soft, questioning. “Yeah?”
He swallowed. The words lodged in his throat, but he pushed anyway. “Do you ever think about… us?”
Your heart stopped.
Us?
You opened your mouth, but no sound came out. Heat rushed to your cheeks, your pulse hammering loud enough you were sure he could hear it. “Oscar, I—”
But before you could finish, Edie’s voice rang out from the floor. “Can you two stop whispering? Some of us are trying to watch the movie.”
You both jolted like you’d been caught doing something illegal.
Oscar cleared his throat, shifting slightly, his pinky slipping away from yours as if it had never been there. “Sorry,” he muttered, eyes fixed stubbornly on the TV.
You turned back, too, though your heart was still racing, your head spinning with the weight of his almost-question.
Do you ever think about us?
You did. More than you should.
And now, you weren’t sure you’d ever be able to stop.
The movie ended, families gathered coats, and yawns spread through the room. Your parents chatted idly with Nicole and Chris at the door, while you lingered in the living room, sliding Hattie’s blanket gently over her sleeping form.
Oscar hovered nearby, hands shoved deep into his pockets, hair messy from running his fingers through it too many times.
When you finally looked at him, he met your eyes for just a heartbeat — and the question was still there.
Unspoken.
Burning.
The last bell rang, but it didn’t matter. The only thing anyone could talk about all afternoon was the news that had dropped an hour before lunch:
Oscar Piastri. Officially signed to race in Formula 4 UAE.
It wasn’t just a local headline; it had made waves across every group chat you were in. By the time school ended, it felt like the whole campus knew. Some kids crowded him in the hallway, others shouted congratulations as he passed, and you—well, you watched it all from the corner, your heart swelling with pride so big it almost hurt.
You’d known for weeks how close he was. You’d seen the late nights, the obsessive practice sessions, the stress eating when he thought no one was paying attention. And now it was real. He’d done it.
And tonight, both families were celebrating together.
Nicole outdid herself. By the time you arrived with your parents, the Piastri dining table had been stretched to its limit again, covered in plates of pasta, trays of roasted vegetables, garlic bread stacked high, and a cake with CONGRATULATIONS OSCAR! piped in messy red icing.
Chris was already pouring sparkling cider into mismatched wine glasses, while your dad and Oscar’s traded a handshake that turned into a hug.
Hattie and Edie burst into the hallway the moment you stepped inside, each talking at the same time:
“He’s famous now!”
“He’s going to forget about us when he’s rich!”
“I called dibs on a pit pass for his first race!”
Mae, leaning on the banister, smirked. “I’m holding out for a Ferrari.”
Oscar came down the stairs a beat later, still wearing his school uniform, but his grin was brighter than anything you’d seen on him before. The second he saw you, it softened, just a little.
“You made it,” he said simply, like the noise of the whole room quieted when his eyes landed on you.
“Of course I did,” you teased, trying to mask the way your chest fluttered. “Wouldn’t miss your victory lap.”
Dinner was chaos. The good kind.
Your mom kept nudging you to take more food, Nicole kept calling everyone “darling” as she darted back and forth with extra napkins, and Chris tried to make a toast, only for Mae to interrupt with a sarcastic, “To Oscar, who finally has an excuse for being this cocky.”
But beneath the laughter, there was pride. Real, deep pride that filled the room until it was almost overwhelming.
“Not many kids get to this point so fast,” your dad said, raising his glass. “Oscar, you’ve earned this. Every lap, every hour of work — it’s yours. Congratulations.”
“Hear, hear!” Nicole chimed, clinking her glass against everyone else’s.
Oscar ducked his head, cheeks pink, but the grin never left his face. His eyes flicked to you again, just for a heartbeat, and the warmth there made your stomach somersault.
Later, after cake and seconds of garlic bread and Hattie smearing icing across Oscar’s cheek (“for luck!” she’d declared), the living room turned into a mini dance floor. Someone put music on, Edie and Mae sang along dramatically, and Hattie insisted on teaching your dad a TikTok dance.
You sat on the arm of the couch, watching it all unfold with a soft smile.
This was his night. His moment.
And yet, every time you glanced up, you found his eyes already on you.
The celebration wound down slowly, like the glow of sparklers fading into smoke.
By eleven, the younger girls were out cold in the living room—Hattie curled on the rug like a cat, Edie sprawled over half the couch with her mouth open, and Mae valiantly pretending she wasn’t falling asleep mid-conversation. Your mom had finally convinced Nicole to sit down after three straight hours of fussing, and Chris and your dad had launched into one of those deep talks that only seemed to happen once the clock passed midnight.
And you were upstairs.
Oscar’s room hadn’t changed much since you were kids. The posters were newer, the trophies shinier, the stacks of notebooks taller, but it was still him. His space. Safe in a way that made your chest ache.
You sat cross-legged on his bed, the duvet slightly rumpled under you, while he leaned against the headboard, one knee bent, tapping his fingers absently against his thigh. The air smelled faintly of laundry detergent and the vanilla candle Nicole always insisted on sneaking in, claiming his room needed a little softness.
Neither of you had said much since coming upstairs. The noise of the celebration was muffled through the floor, but the quiet stretched between you like a string pulled tight, humming with something unnamed.
You picked at a loose thread in the duvet. He clicked his tongue against the roof of his mouth.
It should’ve been ordinary. It should’ve felt like the hundred other nights you’d spent in this house. But it didn’t.
Not tonight.
He did it. He’s really going to race Formula 4. This is the beginning, the real thing. And I’ve been here the whole time — does he even realize how proud I am? Does he even know what he means to me?
And then, the other voice:
What if this is the start of him leaving? Of him becoming something bigger than us, bigger than this? What if I lose him in all the noise?
You tried to shake it off, but it clung stubbornly, heavier with every heartbeat.
Beside you, Oscar’s fingers stopped tapping. He exhaled slowly through his nose, gaze fixed on some point on the far wall. His profile in the soft lamp light was achingly sharp—jaw set, brows faintly furrowed, lips pressed into a line that betrayed the storm beneath his calm.
You knew him well enough to recognize it: he was thinking himself in circles, too.
The silence broke at last.
“You were quiet at dinner.”
His voice was low, careful, like stepping onto thin ice.
You looked up, startled. “What do you mean?”
He turned then, meeting your eyes. And oh, it was unbearable—how direct his gaze was, how much it demanded.
“You didn’t… I don’t know. Everyone else was talking so much, and you just…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “It’s not like you.”
You blinked at him, throat tightening. He noticed.
“I was just…” You scrambled for the right words. “watching. Letting you have your moment.”
His brows knitted. “It wasn’t just mine.”
You tilted your head. “What do you mean?”
He shifted closer, only an inch, but enough that you felt the warmth radiating from him. His knee brushed yours, deliberate or accidental — you couldn’t tell, but it sent a shiver straight through you.
“This,” he said quietly, gesturing vaguely at the world beyond his room. “The racing. Tonight. It’s not just mine. You’ve been there the whole time, Y/N. From the start. Every test, every win, every time I wanted to give up — you were there. So don’t say it’s just mine.”
Your breath caught. You hadn’t expected him to lay it out so plainly, so raw.
“I…” Your voice faltered. You swallowed. “I’m glad I was. I wouldn’t have been anywhere else.”
The corners of his mouth twitched upward, but his eyes stayed serious, locked on yours like he was holding back something bigger.
The weight of his gaze made it hard to breathe. You looked away, staring at the floorboards, the scuffed corner of his desk, anywhere but him.
And yet, you felt him still watching. Always watching.
The air thickened. The hum of the heater, the distant laughter downstairs, the faint tick of his wall clock—they all faded under the sharp awareness of how close he was.
Say something, you begged yourself. Anything.
Instead, you asked the most ordinary question imaginable.
“So… how does it feel? Being official. Formula 4.”
He laughed softly, almost disbelieving. “It feels… insane. Like I’m still waiting for someone to tell me it’s a mistake.”
“It’s not,” you said immediately, firm.
The intensity in your voice made him glance over again, startled. But you didn’t back down.
“You earned this, Oscar. Every second of it. If anyone deserves to be there, it’s you.”
For a moment, he didn’t answer. His jaw worked, like he was chewing on words too big to swallow.
Then, quietly: “You really think that?”
You let out a shaky breath, finally daring to look at him again. “I know it.”
The silence that followed wasn’t empty this time. It was full. Heavy. Charged.
His hand shifted, resting on the bedspread between you, so close that your pinky finger almost grazed his. Almost.
Your mind screamed with the temptation to close that gap, to let your fingers slip against his, to feel what you’d been aching to know for years. But you stayed frozen, every muscle taut with restraint.
And yet—you couldn’t pull your eyes away from his hand. From the way it lingered there, just barely not touching.
Does he know what he’s doing to me?
Beside you, he inhaled slowly, like he was steadying himself. “You’ve always believed in me more than I believe in myself.”
The admission cracked something in your chest.
“Someone has to,” you whispered, the words out before you could stop them.
His head turned sharply at that, and when his eyes locked onto yours, you knew—absolutely knew—that the string you’d been dancing around for years was about to snap.
But not yet. Not quite.
He blinked, forcing himself to lean back against the headboard again, breaking the contact. His fingers drummed once more against his thigh, like he needed the rhythm to keep himself tethered.
“I don’t know what happens next,” he said finally, voice low, thoughtful. “The travel, the races… it’s all going to change.”
You swallowed hard. There it was again—the fear that had been gnawing at you all evening.
“I know,” you said softly.
His gaze softened at your tone. “Does it scare you?”
Your throat tightened. “A little.”
“Me too.”
You looked at him, really looked, and the vulnerability on his face nearly undid you. This wasn’t the confident boy everyone else saw. This was the Oscar only you knew, the one who doubted, who worried, who cared so deeply it overwhelmed him.
And all you wanted, more than anything, was to reach across the space and promise him you weren’t going anywhere.
The clock’s second hand ticked louder than it should have.
Or maybe it was just you, hyperaware of every detail—the shift of Oscar’s shoulders, the faint scuff of his socked foot against the floor, the almost-soundless drag of his breath.
The whole house had gone quiet. Even the muffled laughter downstairs had thinned out, fading into drowsy silence. Everyone else had surrendered to the hour.
But not you. Not him.
You couldn’t.
The string stretched taut between you had been vibrating all night. Every word, every look, every almost-touch, each one pulling tighter, tighter, until it hummed in your veins. And now, sitting in the dim lamplight, it was unbearable.
You fiddled with the duvet again, partly to give your hands something to do, partly to ground yourself. But the thread slipped from your fingers, and your gaze snapped back to him.
Because he was looking at you. Still.
You tried to laugh, soft and small, hoping to cut the tension. “What? Why are you staring at me like that?”
His lips parted, but no words came. He blinked once, slowly, and then—“Because you matter more to me than anyone else.”
The air left your lungs like a punch.
You stared, heart thundering, convinced for a second that you’d misheard. “Wh—what?”
He swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His voice came out rough, almost hoarse. “You heard me.”
And now you were trapped. Because how could you look away when he’d just ripped the floor out from under you?
Every nerve screamed, begging you to move, to breathe, to do something, but you couldn’t. Not when his eyes pinned you like that, raw and unshielded, the truth laid bare in the dark.
“Oscar…” Your voice cracked halfway through his name.
He leaned forward, abandoning the safety of the headboard, closing the distance inch by inch until his knee pressed into the mattress beside you. His hand hovered close to yours again, closer this time.
“You’ve been there since the beginning,” he said quietly, his words deliberate, heavy. “When no one else cared, when no one else even noticed me, you did. You always have.”
You wanted to answer, but your throat burned too much to form words.
He kept going, unstoppable now. “And I thought maybe I could keep it in. That it’d be safer if I didn’t say anything. But tonight—seeing you look at me like you were already slipping away—” He broke off, jaw tight, eyes squeezing shut for a second before locking on you again. “I can’t. I can’t keep pretending anymore.”
Your pulse roared in your ears. He can’t keep pretending anymore.
And suddenly you understood—every brush of his shoulder, every lingering look, every laugh too soft, too private. It wasn’t just friendship. It never had been.
Your mouth opened, but nothing came out.
Instead, Oscar pushed through, voice trembling with urgency.
“I love you.”
The words detonated in the silence.
Your breath hitched, sharp and shallow.
He was still staring at you, still holding your gaze like it was the only thing tethering him to the earth.
“I’ve loved you since—God, since before I even knew what it meant.” His hand finally moved, brushing against yours, tentative, shaking. “Since we were kids, since the first time I sat next to you and thought, I don’t ever want to sit anywhere else.”
Tears stung at the corners of your eyes.
“I tried to tell myself it was just friendship. That you wouldn’t feel the same, that I’d ruin everything if I said it out loud.” His thumb barely grazed your knuckle, the lightest touch, but it set your skin on fire. “But I can’t— Y/N, I can’t sit here and pretend you’re just my best friend anymore. You’re not. You never were.”
You squeezed your eyes shut for a second, overwhelmed, trembling with all the feelings you’d buried for years. And when you opened them again, he was still there. Waiting.
“Oscar,” you whispered, your voice breaking.
He flinched, almost pulling back, but you caught his wrist without thinking, clutching it like an anchor.
Your grip was desperate, your eyes wet, your chest heaving with words too big to keep down. “Don’t you ever think I don’t care. Don’t you ever think that.”
His lips parted, stunned.
“I’ve been terrified,” you admitted, the confession tumbling out in pieces. “That if I said anything, I’d lose you. That you’d slip away, and I couldn’t—” Your throat clenched. “I couldn’t survive that.”
For a moment, he just stared, shock and hope warring in his face. “Y/N…”
“I—” Your voice wavered, but you forced it out. “I love you too. I’ve always loved you.”
The string snapped.
And suddenly, he was moving.
Not recklessly, not like a storybook swoop, but careful, deliberate, with a kind of reverence that shattered you. His forehead pressed against yours, noses brushing, his breath trembling as it mingled with yours.
“Say it again,” he whispered. Not a command, but a plea.
You closed your eyes, letting the truth bleed out. “I love you.”
His breath hitched, shaky. “God, I’ve waited so long to hear that.”
You laughed softly through your tears, your grip on his wrist tightening. “You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m yours,” he corrected, voice raw.
The world narrowed to just the two of you, breaths syncing, hearts colliding in uneven rhythm.
But then he pulled back slightly, enough to meet your gaze, his expression fierce with something older than either of you.
“I don’t just want to be your best friend who happens to love you. I want—” He broke off, swallowed, then tried again. “I want to do this properly. I want to court you.”
The phrasing made you blink, startled. “Court me?”
Color rose in his cheeks, but his gaze didn’t falter. “Yeah. I want to show you I’m serious. That this isn’t just some— some teenage crush or whatever Lando probably thinks it is. I want your parents to know. I want mine to know. I want—” His voice cracked. “I want you.”
Your chest caved in, your heart splitting wide.
“Oscar…”
He leaned closer, desperate now. “Say yes.”
And God, how could you not?
“Yes.”
The word came out on a broken laugh, tears slipping down your cheeks. “Yes, you idiot.”
Relief crashed over his face, so raw and unfiltered it made you dizzy. He laughed too, choked and breathless, before wrapping both arms around you, pulling you against him like he’d been holding back for years.
And you let yourself go, burying your face in his shoulder, inhaling the warmth of him, clutching at the back of his shirt like you’d drown if you let go.
This— this was it. The thing you’d both been circling, aching for, terrified of. Finally, finally, it was real.
When you pulled back, faces still inches apart, his smile was small and trembling but brighter than anything you’d ever seen.
“I’m not letting you go,” he whispered.
“Good,” you whispered back.
And when your foreheads touched again, both of you laughing through your tears, it felt less like the end of a night and more like the beginning of everything.
kiki's note: HELLO! i didnt expect the sneak peek post to get a lot of notes but this is so long holy crap but um chapter 5 of like real people do might not come until next week or so because to make up for the days that i missed, i will collect 3-5 chapters in my drafts to post in one go. I HOPE YOU ENJOYED!!! LMK WHAT U THINK!
Hi, can i request a George Russell fic?? Fluff and stuff lol. Reader as Toto’s daughter, where Toto is not really happy about them being together but eventually he sees how important George is to her so he just warns George and is happy for reader. Reader is few years younger than George.
Thank you love🫶
secret door (fools on parade)
⟢ summary: Too young, too off-limits, too close to the one man who could end his career with a sentence. But somewhere between shared glances in paddock corridors and stolen nights after race wins, it stopped being a crush and started becoming a confession he couldn’t swallow down.
⟢ pairing: george russell x wolff!reader
⟢ word count: 11.3k
⟢ contains: wolffdaughter!reader, age gap (5 years), tooth rotting fluff, kimi and valtteri cameos, protective dad!toto, avoidant!reader, title from arctic monkeys' "secret door"
You’re still shaking when he crosses the line.
Even with headphones on, even with the garage buzzing, screaming, exploding into celebration, your heartbeat is louder. Everyone’s hugging and high-fiving, and you’re caught in that crush of bodies—but your eyes don’t leave the screen until the camera cuts to him. George. Breathless. Laughing. Helmet still on and head thrown back like he’s trying to taste the sky.
Your father is already marching forward to congratulate him, pride written in the set of his jaw, even if he doesn’t show it as loudly as the others. But you stay behind, blending into the flurry of engineers and mechanics, fingers twisted in the hem of your team jacket because you know you have to wait. You always wait.
Publicly, you’re just Toto’s daughter. Privately, you’re George Russell’s girlfriend.
And while the first fact is obvious to everyone in the paddock, the second is something the two of you guard like it’s made of glass.
You don’t know if today will be any different. A part of you hopes it will.
When the chaos dies down enough for you to move without being trampled, you slip toward the back corridor—the one no one uses unless they're staff or lost. It’s quiet, with only the hum of distant machinery and the faint echo of your father’s booming voice carrying through the tunnels.
You check your phone.
George: On my way. Don’t move.
George: And don’t let your dad see you. I like winning, but I also like living.
You let out a sound that’s too close to a laugh and text back:
You: He’s busy. Hurry.
You don’t hear footsteps at first—not over the leftover noise of the paddock—but a second later, arms wrap around your waist from behind, lifting you off the ground before you can even gasp.
“Got you,” he says, breathless and boyish and stupidly proud.
Your feet barely touch the floor before you spin around and collide with him. He hasn’t taken off his race suit yet—not even the top half—and he smells like sweat, champagne, and adrenaline.
“Congratulations,” you say into his chest, voice muffled.
He holds you tighter. “You’re the only person I wanted to hear that from.”
You pull back just enough to look at him, really look at him. His cheeks are flushed, hair damp at the temples, eyes brighter than you’ve ever seen them. Victory looks good on him. It always has.
But today… Today, it looks different.
“You should be celebrating,” you whisper.
“I am celebrating.” His forehead dips to yours. “With you.”
He shouldn’t kiss you; you shouldn’t let him. Not here. Not this close to the garage. Not after a race your father oversaw like a hawk.
But George has always had this gravity to him, a quiet, patient pull that you never stood a chance against. And when he tilts your chin up with his gloved hand, you feel the ground shift beneath your feet.
You kiss him like you’ve been waiting all day—because you have—but it’s soft, restrained, careful. The kind of kiss that acknowledges the risk and ignores it anyway. His thumb strokes your cheek, and your hands fist the fabric of his suit, pulling him closer, letting him sink into you the way he didn’t have time for earlier.
When you break apart, he breathes out a laugh. “Toto is going to kill me.”
“He doesn’t even know,” you shoot back, though the guilt stirs in your stomach.
George hums, brushing his nose against yours. “He’s not stupid. And whenever you disappear, I think he… assumes.”
“That I’m doing what?” you challenge.
“That you’re with someone he wouldn’t approve of,” George says, smirking. “And he’d be right.”
You swat his arm. “You’re impossible.”
“And you’re adorable when you try to scold me.”
Before you can argue, he tugs your hand and pulls you behind him. “Come on. I want to actually celebrate with you before the world steals me back.”
“Where are we going?” you whisper, suddenly aware that you’re still inside the restricted area where cameras aren’t exactly rare.
He grins, opening a side door with familiarity that tells you he’s done this before. “To the one place Toto would never think to look for you.”
The room he sneaks you into is small, quiet, lit only by the glow of equipment monitors that have long since been shut off for the day. A forgotten engineering bay. Private. Empty.
Safe.
He closes the door behind you and exhales like he’s finally allowed to.
“You have no idea,” he says, leaning back against the door, “how badly I wanted to run to you after the podium.”
You smile. “You did incredible today.”
“I kept thinking about you watching.”
You look away, warmth blooming in your cheeks. “You always say that.”
“Because it’s always true.”
You sit on one of the unused tables, legs dangling over the edge. He walks toward you slowly, unzipping the top half of his race suit, headphones hanging loosely around his neck now. The smile that spreads across his face when he reaches you is softer than the one he wore on the podium. Private. Reserved for you.
“Come here,” you murmur.
He steps between your knees, and your hands immediately cup his jaw. You kiss him again, slower this time, letting your lips move with the unhurried rhythm of two people who finally have a moment alone. His hands settle on your hips, warm and firm through the layers of fabric, and you feel him relax—not the careful, composed driver the world sees, but the boy who loves you, the one who’s been holding it in for hours.
He pulls away first, eyes searching yours. “I wish I didn’t have to hide this.”
You swallow. “I know.”
“Toto will come around,” he adds, even though you both know it’s a hope, not a promise.
“Eventually.”
“In the meantime,” George says with a small, conspiratorial smirk, “we’re celebrating. Properly.”
Your brows lift. “Properly, how?”
He steps back and opens a small cupboard. A bottle of the other champagne—the one the drivers bring for private celebrations—sits inside.
Your jaw drops. “George Russell. You didn’t.”
“Oh, I did.”
“You stole that from the coolers!”
He shrugs. “I borrowed it. For us.”
You shake your head, laughing. “My dad is going to kill you.”
George hands you the bottle, eyes bright. “Worth it.”
You twist off the cap—no cork in this one—and take a small sip. It’s sweet and cold and tastes like victory.
You offer it to him. “Your turn.”
He takes a sip, wipes his mouth dramatically, and grins like he’s never been happier.
Then, with a gentleness that undoes you every time, he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“I want every win to feel like this,” he says softly. “Like I’m sharing it with you.”
You don’t know what to say. So you pull him in again, sealing your answer with another kiss.
The kind you couldn’t give him in front of the cameras.
The kind that says: “I’m yours. I’ve always been yours. I’m scared—but I’m yours.”
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.
The worst part isn’t the guilt.
It’s the timing.
Because the morning after George’s win—the morning after he snuck you into a forgotten engineering bay to kiss you breathless and clink stolen champagne like you were living out a secret rom-com—you wake up already smiling.
And unfortunately, you’re not alone.
You walked into the motorhome kitchen thinking you’d be safe. It was early, too early for anyone normal to be awake. The paddock was half-asleep, the hospitality still setting out pastries, the world quiet.
The perfect place to replay every single second of last night in your head.
Until you walk inside and come face-to-face with the one person on Earth who does not need to see you smiling like a girl who has secrets.
Your father. Toto Wolff. Eyes as sharp as a hawk despite holding a mug of coffee that’s practically the size of your head.
“Good morning, schatz,” he says in a tone far too calm to trust.
“Morning,” you choke, grabbing water just to have something to do with your hands.
He studies you for a beat that lasts a lifetime. You can practically hear him analysing your body language like it’s telemetry data.
“You look… happy,” he says slowly, suspiciously.
You shrug. “It was a good race.”
“Yes. A very good race.” He narrows his eyes. “You are happy because of the race?”
“Of course.”
He hums.
And you know that hum. That is the hum of a man who absolutely does not believe you.
Before he can interrogate you further, the door opens and someone very stupid and very pretty walks in with bed hair and a tired smile:
George.
He stops the moment he sees you. Then he sees your father. Then he sees the look on your face, and his soul visibly leaves his body.
“Toto,” he says, clearing his throat. “Morning.”
Your father’s eyes flick between the two of you like he’s watching a tennis match he didn’t pay to attend.
“George.” Toto nods. “You are up early.”
“Couldn’t sleep,” George lies.
You inhale sharply. Too sharply. Your father looks between you again.
Oh God.
“Did you not sleep well either?” Toto asks you pointedly.
You nearly drop your water bottle. “What? No—I mean yes—I mean I slept. Fine.”
George shoots you a look that can only be translated as stop talking immediately, I beg you.
Your father stares.
You stare back, innocent, panicked, one second away from spontaneously combusting.
Then—thank the racing gods—someone calls Toto’s name from outside.
He stands, but not before delivering the most fatherly, threatening, utterly terrifying sentence you’ve ever heard:
“We will finish this conversation later.”
You nearly sink to the floor when the door closes behind him.
The silence is deafening.
George blows out a breath, bracing his hands on the counter. “Well,” he murmurs, “I am dead.”
“You?” you squeak. “I’m his daughter. He’s going to put me into witness protection.”
He laughs under his breath and steps closer, fingers brushing yours where your hand rests on the counter.
“Hey,” he says softly. “We’ll be careful today.”
You nod, heart still racing. He squeezes your hand once, quickly, hidden behind the counter.
Then he lets go—just in time. Because the door swings open again.
It’s Kimi. He takes one look at you. One look at George. One very, very long look at the space between you.
And then he smiles. A slow, knowing, devilish smile.
“Oh,” Kimi says. “Oh, this is going to be fun.”
“Nothing is happening.”
Kimi raises a brow. “Mhm. Totally believable.”
He walks to the fridge, takes a drink, and glances back.
“Toto’s in a mood, by the way. Just thought you should know.”
George pales.
You consider fainting.
Kimi leaves humming cheerfully, like he hasn’t just detonated both of your heart rates.
George mutters, “We’re finished.”
You sigh. “We’re very finished.”
But despite everything—the panic, the suspicion, the near-death experience courtesy of your father’s stare—you catch George smiling as he moves toward the door.
“What?” you whisper.
He pauses, turns back, eyes soft.
“I like that he’s suspicious,” George admits. “Means he notices how much I look at you.”
Your heart flips. Shamelessly. Traitorously.
“That’s not good,” you remind him.
“No,” he agrees, grin widening. “But it’s true.”
The suspicion doesn’t die down during media rounds.
In fact, it gets worse.
Because George is glowing today—post-win happiness, post-secret-kissing satisfaction, post-everything—and everyone notices.
He keeps accidentally glancing at you. You keep accidentally blushing. And every time you cross paths, there’s this moment—too long, too soft—that absolutely gives you away.
Kimi notices, engineers notice, and random staff members notice.
But worst of all?
Your father notices.
You catch him watching you from across the garage, arms crossed, lips pressed in a flat line that could either mean “I’m proud of the team” or “I’m sending George to a remote glacier.”
You don’t know which, and you don’t want to know.
And then the moment you’ve been dreading finally comes.
“Toto wants you,” an engineer says, pointing to your father’s office.
You swear the world slows down. Your stomach drops. Your spine goes cold. This is it. This is the end.
You look around instinctively for George, as if he can rescue you.
He sees your panic from across the hallway.
He mouths, "It’s okay. Breathe."
You do not breathe. You march like someone heading toward a firing squad.
Inside the office, Toto doesn’t look up immediately. He’s typing something on his laptop, sunglasses pushed into his hair, expression unreadable.
Finally, he sits back.
“Close the door.” You do, hesitantly.
Toto sighs and removes his glasses completely. “I have a question for you.”
You nod, braced for death.
“Is there something going on between you and George?”
You freeze.
This is it. This is the moment everything collapses.
You could lie, you could tell the truth, you could faint, any option is possible at this point.
“Dad,” you begin quietly, “I—”
The door bursts open.
You jump, Toto startles, and George is suddenly there, breathless, panicked, speaking before anyone can stop him:
“It’s my fault.”
You whip around, horrified. Toto’s brows shoot up.
George continues in one long, fast, suicidal sentence:
“She didn’t do anything wrong, I swear—if you’re angry, be angry at me, because I like her, sir, I really like her—and I know it’s complicated, and I know it’s not ideal, but I care about her, and I’d never hurt her, and I really hope you won’t ban me from the team because I don't think that’s technically legal—”
“George,” Toto says, voice flat.
George freezes mid-ramble.
Silence.
Then Toto sighs.
“Sit down. Both of you.”
You and George exchange a glance that is fifty-percent terror, and fifty-percent “if we die at least we die together.”
You both sit down, and you think the chair feels harder now.
Toto folds his arms. “So. You two are… involved.”
You open your mouth, George opens his, but neither of you can get a word out before Toto holds up a hand.
“I am not angry,” he says slowly. “But I am concerned.”
The relief hits you so hard you nearly slide out of the chair.
George inhales shakily. “Sir, I—”
“I’ve seen how you look at her,” Toto interrupts. “I’m not blind.”
You hide your face in your hands, and George looks ready to pass out.
Toto continues, voice firm but not unkind:
“She means more to me than anything. If you are going to be in her life, then you must understand something: I expect her to be treated better than perfectly.”
George nods instantly. “Yes. Absolutely. I— I already do.”
“And if you ever hurt her,” Toto adds, leaning forward, “I will destroy you professionally, emotionally, legally, financially, spiritually—”
“Dad,” you groan.
George chokes. “Understood.”
Toto nods once, satisfied. “Good. Then we will talk again soon. Now go—both of you—before someone sees you leaving my office together and starts gossip.”
You and George stand so quickly that your chairs nearly fall over.
The moment the door shuts behind you, George grabs your hand, mouth open in disbelief.
“Did… did we just survive that?”
You exhale shakily. “I think so?”
George beams. Actually beams.
“Toto Wolff didn’t kill me!”
You laugh, burying your face in his chest. “Don’t sound so excited, he might change his mind.”
George wraps his arms around you, holding you tight, whispering into your hair:
“I’d face him a thousand times for you.”
Your heart does something that should be medically concerning.
And for the first time, it doesn’t feel like sneaking around.
It feels like the beginning of something real.
George manages to get you out of parc fermé and through the tunnels beneath the paddock without a single person stopping either of you. You don’t know whether it’s skill or luck — or whether winning a race has given him some kind of supernatural stealth ability — but you glide through the shadows as you’ve practised it.
Maybe you have, just not openly.
The tunnel opens out into a restricted garage loading bay behind hospitality. Quiet. Dim. Echoing. You can still hear the paddock alive somewhere above, but down here it feels like its heartbeat is distant.
You tug the zipper of your Mercedes jacket higher, still wearing his cap.
George looks around before turning to you, hands slipping into the pockets of his fireproofs, the adrenaline still vibrating off him like heat.
“You good?” he asks softly.
You nod. “You?”
He huffs a laugh. “I think I might still be flying.”
Your body still remembers earlier — his arms around your waist, his breath on your neck, the quiet confession pressed into your skin: I wanted you here.
You shouldn’t have been there at all, and you both know it.
But God, it was worth it.
George pulls his phone out, glances at it, slips it away again. “We don’t have long before Dad—” He stops himself. Clears his throat. “Before Toto realises you’re gone.”
“Do not call him Dad,” you say, horrified.
George grins, shoulders loosening. “What? He’s technically my boss. Boss is a dad-adjacent role.”
“No, it isn’t.”
“Some might say it is.”
“No one says that.”
He laughs, and you hate how much it melts you — how easily he makes everything feel light, even when your heart is pressed against your ribs like it’s trying to escape.
You start walking with him down the far corridor where no one ever goes, the fluorescent lights buzzing quietly overhead. It’s cold down here, colder than it should be, and before you can even think about pretending you’re fine, George drapes an arm across your shoulders, tugging you into his warmth.
“Better?” he murmurs.
You don’t trust your voice, so you just nod.
He squeezes your arm gently, then keeps you against him as you walk.
“It still feels unreal,” he admits after a moment. “Winning. I know it’s only my… second, technically. But it feels different.”
“Different how?” you ask.
He hesitates. “Because this time… I got to see your face afterwards.”
Your step falters. He notices — of course, he notices — and his thumb brushes your shoulder in a silent apology-or reassurance-or something in between.
“George…”
“You don’t have to say anything.” He looks forward again, voice calm but honest. “I just like when you’re there. Even if it’s a risk.”
Even if your father were to murder me. He doesn’t say it out loud, but it hangs in the air anyway.
You swallow, bracing your heart. “It wasn’t a risk when we weren’t… whatever we are.”
He hums. “And what are we?”
“I don’t know.”
“Liar.”
Your breath catches.
George slows to a stop, turning to face you fully in the middle of the empty hallway. The lights above flicker for a heartbeat, then steady again.
He reaches up and gently tugs on the brim of the hat — his hat — pulling your face closer.
“You know exactly what we are,” he says quietly.
Do you?
Maybe... maybe too well.
Because you know you shouldn’t be here. You know the line between your worlds is rigid and sharp and patrolled by a 6'5 Austrian with a terrifying jawline and a zero-tolerance policy for bullshit.
But George looks at you like that — soft, earnest, too in love with being alive to hide it — and suddenly all the rules blur.
“I like you,” he says. “More than I should. More than your father would approve of. Definitely more than is safe for my career.”
“George,” you whisper, “you shouldn’t say things like that.”
“I shouldn’t,” he agrees. “But I mean them.”
You stare at him, pulse loud in your ears.
Then a door above slams, echoing down into the quiet corridor.
You both flinch.
“That’s definitely him,” George mutters.
“That was absolutely him,” you confirm.
He’s quiet for a moment — then grabs your hand.
“Come on.”
“Where—”
“Somewhere he won’t look for you.”
“Oh, good,” you deadpan, “can’t wait to see where that is. Perhaps the furnace?”
George actually grins as he pulls you along. “Better.”
You don’t expect “better” to be the laundry room for team overalls.
But here you are.
George closes the door behind you with a soft click, checks the tinted window, then exhales with the relief of a man who just successfully dodged a sniper.
He turns back to you, cheeks pink from the sprint, hair messy from the wind.
“You hid me,” you say. “Of course I hid you.”
“That’s ridiculous.”
“And yet you followed me willingly.” You hate how true that is.
The room is cramped, with a faint smell of detergent and clean synthetics. There are racks of suits on either side, shadows thrown strangely by the single overhead light.
George takes a step closer. Not crowding you, just near enough to burn.
“Can I tell you something?” he asks.
You nod, despite yourself.
He lifts his hand, hesitates once — giving you time to move — then gently pushes a loose strand of hair behind your ear.
“I’ve never wanted someone the way I want you.”
Your breath stutters.
“It’s reckless,” he says softly. “It’s stupid. It’s probably career suicide. But I’ve tried ignoring it and I can’t. I like you too much.”
You could stop this. You should stop this.
But your voice comes out quiet, fragile:
“I like you too.”
His eyes close for a second — a moment of pure, unfiltered relief — before he looks at you again, brighter, softer, and undone.
Then he leans in, slow enough for you to move away.
You don’t.
Your back finds the wall of driver suits, the fabric soft against your spine, and George braces one hand beside your head, the other hovering near your waist like he’s afraid to touch you without permission.
“You’re sure?” he asks.
No hesitation, no cockiness, just honesty.
You nod.
He kisses you.
It’s not rushed or frantic — that’s not George — but it’s full of adrenaline, warm and certain and tasting faintly like champagne he wasn’t allowed to drink yet.
You grab the front of his suit, pulling him closer. His fingers slide to your waist, careful but wanting, and the heat of him sings under your skin.
He breaks the kiss first, resting his forehead against yours, breathing unevenly.
“God,” he murmurs, “I’m in so much trouble.”
“Me too.”
He laughs — soft, breathless, stupidly happy. “Worth it.”
You hear footsteps outside the corridor again. It’s louder, heavier.
You both freeze.
George whispers, “That’s him.”
“No way.”
“That’s absolutely him!”
The footsteps stop just outside the door.
Your heart stops with them.
George slowly, slowly, reaches out and flips the light switch. It's dark, silent. You don’t dare breathe as your dad's shadow passes over the small window.
He stands there, waiting, listening.
The silence stretches long enough for your lungs to hurt.
After what felt like a decade, you hear footsteps again. He’s walking away.
You both exhale at the same time. George whispers, “I think I just died.”
“You think you died? That man grounded me until I was twenty-four.”
“You’re twenty-two.”
“Exactly, George!” He laughs — you smack his arm — he laughs harder and somehow the tension breaks, replaced by something warm and dizzying.
He takes your hand again, thumb brushing your knuckles.
“We should get you back before he checks your room.”
“Right.”
He doesn’t move.
Neither do you.
Then he murmurs, “Can I see you later?”
“George…”
“Not like this,” he says quickly. “Not sneaking or hiding or running. Just… you. And me. Somewhere normal.”
Your chest aches — the gentle, dangerous kind of ache.
“I’d like that,” you say.
His smile is instant, blinding. He lifts your hand and presses a kiss to your knuckles.
“Then it’s a date.”
You swallow a breath. “You’re insane.”
“Just for you.”
You should not have slipped out of the hospitality building. You know this even as your shoes hit the stairs two at a time, even as you duck around a stack of Pirelli crates and press your back into the warm metal to breathe.
You’re not supposed to disappear on race days, you’re not supposed to be anywhere Toto can’t find you, you’re especially not supposed to be anywhere George might find you.
But the room felt too small, and the looks felt too knowing, and George’s win only made the whole building feel like it was vibrating — and he kept glancing at you like his victory was your fault, your doing, your gravity pulling him into orbit.
And you couldn’t keep sitting there with your father three seats away, pretending your heart wasn’t beating loud enough to be heard above the air-conditioning.
So you left.
Not far but just far enough that no one would think to look.
You press your thumb under your lower lip and inhale slowly, trying to get your pulse to settle. It doesn’t. Not even when you hear footsteps pounding down the stairwell.
You know them instantly.
George.
You don’t even have to see him — you know the rhythm, the impatience, the contained urgency wrapped in that deceptively calm exterior.
The door opens with a muted hiss.
“Y/N?”
His voice is too soft. Too rushed, too worried.
You squeeze your eyes shut for a second before stepping out from behind the crates.
His shoulders drop with relief when he sees you.
You hate the way it makes your chest clench.
“There you are,” he breathes, walking toward you like he would've run if you stayed hidden another second. “You scared the shit out of me.”
“You were the one who ran after me,” you mutter, which is not exactly fair — but nothing about this situation is.
He stops in front of you, breath still uneven from sprinting up stairs in a full race suit. There’s a faint shimmer of sweat at his hairline, and the zipper of his suit is loose enough that the white fireproof tee clings to his chest.
You look away before you can think of anything dangerous.
He notices, of course, he notices.
“You okay?” he asks, voice gentling, angling his head to try to meet your eyes.
“Yeah. Just… air.” God, the lie tastes awful. You add quickly, “It got too loud in there.”
George nods once, sharp, searching your expression. “Still should’ve told someone where you were going.”
There are so many sentences running through your head, but you don't say you couldn't text him because others would see, you don't say you couldn't text anyone else because he'd worry anyway. You also don't tell him that you couldn't stay because he kept looking at you like you were the only thing in the room that mattered. So you block everything out, and:
“I’m fine,” you insist instead.
But George shifts his weight like he doesn’t buy it. Not completely.
And then — footsteps above you. Voices. The unmistakable cadence of your father.
George reacts before you do, stepping slightly in front of you, instinctively shielding you from sight. His arm doesn’t touch you, but it’s close enough that your breath stutters.
You absolutely should not like that as much as you do.
Toto’s voice echoes down the stairwell.
“…did she go outside? She’s not answering her phone.”
Your stomach drops.
George looks at you.
You look at him.
And the whole world tilts an inch off its axis.
He whispers, “Go. I’ll stall.”
Your heartbeat spikes. “George, no—”
But he’s already moving — stepping into the stairwell, shoulders pulled into perfect professional posture.
“Toto!” he calls up, voice bright and easy, like he wasn’t just standing close enough to feel your breath. “She’s with Kimi, I think. Said something about meeting him near the garage.”
Your jaw drops.
He lied. He lied instantly, for you.
There’s a beat of silence above you. Then your father’s voice, skeptical:
“With Kimi? Now? Why?”
George laughs — and the sound is so convincingly casual that even you almost believe him.
“Said something about wanting to congratulate him on qualifying. You know how she is. Always checking on the drivers.”
Toto doesn't answer for a moment. You can hear the gears turning, can practically imagine the narrowing eyes.
Then:
“All right. I’ll find her after I finish with the engineers.”
His footsteps fade.
George waits a beat. Then another.
Then he exhales slowly, shoulders dropping.
He turns back to you.
And you don’t even know what to say.
You whisper, “You lied to my father.”
He shrugs one shoulder, casual to the untrained eye — but his jaw is tight. “He was about to come down here and find us hiding behind crates like teenagers.”
“We are hiding behind crates like teenagers!”
George bites back a smile. “True. But he doesn’t need to know that.”
Your hands are shaking, your breath is too fast, and your brain won’t stop replaying the moment he stepped in front of you like it was instinct, like protecting you was muscle memory.
“You can’t do that,” you whisper. “You can’t just… cover for me like that. He’ll suspect something.”
George’s expression shifts. Not guilt. Not regret.
Something heavier, something that lands low in your stomach.
“Y/N,” he says quietly. “He already suspects something.”
Your breath catches.
“He watches how you look at me when you think he isn’t paying attention,” George says softly. “And I’m… not exactly subtle either.”
You stare at him, speechless.
He runs a hand through his hair, frustrated with himself. “I’m trying, you know. I’m really trying to keep this line clean for you. But sometimes you disappear without telling anyone, and I—”
He stops before he says I panic.
You hear it anyway.
“George…” It’s all you can manage.
And then he does something reckless.
He reaches out and tucks a stray strand of hair behind your ear with two fingers — careful, reverent, as though he’s afraid you’ll break.
You freeze.
His voice drops to something unbearably soft. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
You swallow hard. “I’m fine.”
George steps back immediately, like he heard the tremor in your voice and assumed it was fear of being caught, not fear of how much you want him.
“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “Should get you back before your father actually sends out security.”
You nod, but the embarrassment in your chest is hot and prickly.
You start walking toward the stairs. George follows half a step behind — close enough to make your skin buzz, far enough to be professional if someone opened a door unexpectedly.
And then — because the universe is cruel — Valtteri turns the corner at the bottom of the stairs.
He takes in the scene: George is flushed, slightly out of breath, you are staring at the floor, and both of you are way too close to be innocent.
Valtteri raises a single eyebrow.
George opens his mouth — probably to produce another lie so smooth it’d win awards — but Valtteri lifts one hand and speaks first.
“Don’t care,” he says simply, then walks away. You gape after him.
George murmurs, “He’s going to blackmail me with this later.”
You choke on a laugh. He smiles like the sound is something he wants to pocket.
You two return to hospitality separately — George entering through the main hall, you pretending you’d been “outside taking a phone call.”
It should end there. It doesn’t.
Because as soon as George walks in, Toto calls him by name from across the room.
“George. A moment.”
You flinch.
George tenses, but nods. “Of course.”
You watch him follow your father into the smaller debrief room, shoulders stiffening with each step.
You shouldn’t listen. You absolutely should not listen.
But you do.
You drift toward the hallway, pretending to check messages, tilting your head just enough to catch the muffled voices.
Toto's voice is worried, “You seem… tense.”
After a long pause, George takes a deep breath. “Long day.”
Toto's voice is sharper now, “You wouldn’t know where my daughter disappeared to earlier, would you?”
Silence. Then George’s voice — terribly controlled. “No, sir.”
It’s a perfect lie. It lands like guilt in your throat.
You step away before you can hear the rest, pulse sprinting, guilt and fear and something warm enough to scare you pooling in your stomach.
Because George just lied to your father twice in one afternoon.
And he did it without hesitation.
For you. For this. Whatever this is. Whatever this is turning into.
You don’t realize he’s waiting for you until you turn the corner.
You’d thought the halls would be empty — the media’s finished, the engineers scattered back to their offices, the drivers split off to sponsor obligations. You’d assumed you could slip back into the quiet, unnoticed, pretend nothing happened behind the stairwell.
But your father is standing beside the door to the Mercedes debrief room, arms crossed, foot tapping once against the floor. Not impatient. Not angry.
Calculating.
Oh god.
“Y/N,” Toto says. Not loudly — just enough that the sound snaps straight down your spine.
You stop instinctively. Like a child caught sneaking out, even though you’re an adult, even though he’s always treated you like one. But something in his tone pulls the air straight out of your lungs.
“Dad!” you manage, quickly fixing your posture and swallowing. You correct quickly. “Dad.”
His eyes narrow just a fraction — not annoyance, just observation.
“Can we talk?”
It is not a question.
You nod because what else could you possibly do?
He gestures you inside the small meeting room — no cameras, no windows, just a single table and chairs that suddenly feel too exposed, too sharp. He closes the door behind you, and the soft click might as well be a lock sealing your fate.
Your hands sweat instantly.
Toto doesn’t sit. He stands across from you, hands on his hips, shoulders squared in that way that’s made world champions fold.
“Where were you earlier?” he asks.
Four words. That’s all. But they hit like a warning shot.
You try to breathe slowly before answering. “Outside. I needed air.”
“Alone?”
Your throat goes dry.
You hear George’s voice in your head — the lie he spun without stumbling.
“She’s with Kimi, I think—”
You swallow. “Yes. Alone.”
Toto’s brows lift the smallest amount, like he can hear the lie curling at the edges. Like he already knows the truth.
He studies you for a long time. Too long.
“What’s going on with you?” he asks quietly.
“Nothing,” you reply, too fast.
His stare sharpens. “You disappeared for fifteen minutes, no security, no phone response. And when I asked George where you were—” He pauses, watching your face closely. “He had an answer ready.”
Your heart thuds so loudly you’re terrified he can hear it.
You force out, “He probably assumed—”
“No.” The firmness in his voice cuts you off clean. “George does not assume. Not about you.”
Your pulse stutters.
Toto steps closer — not intimidating, not angry, but deeply concerned in a way that breaks something small inside your chest.
“Y/N,” he says, softer now, “I need you to be honest with me.”
You grip the back of a chair so your hands won’t shake. “I was overwhelmed. I stepped out. That’s all.”
“And George?”
The name feels too sharp in the air between you.
“What about him?” you whisper.
Toto gives you a look that says he’s piecing together a puzzle he’d hoped wasn’t real.
“He followed you,” Toto says slowly. “He came back looking… unsettled. And when I asked him where you’d gone, he lied to me.”
You flinch. You can’t help it.
And that is when Toto’s expression changes — not anger, not betrayal, but recognition.
The kind that cuts straight through you.
He exhales, long and tired, dragging one hand across his face. “Y/N…”
The breath you’re holding bursts out all at once, sharp and humiliating.
“It’s not what you think,” you say — but even you can hear how weak it sounds.
He stares at you. “It’s exactly what I think.”
Your stomach twists painfully.
But your dad doesn’t raise his voice. He doesn’t lecture, he doesn’t scold.
He just sets his palms flat on the table and leans forward slightly, eyes searching yours with a kind of fatherly ache that hurts more than anger ever could.
“I’m not blind,” he says. “I’ve seen the way he looks at you. I’ve seen the way you look at him—when you think no one notices.”
You shut your eyes, mortified.
“Dad—”
“Y/N.” His voice is steady again, steady enough to make your chest tighten. “George is a good man. But he is also my driver. And you…” His expression softens unbearably. “You are my daughter.”
There it is. The unspoken rule. The one you were never brave enough to test — until you did.
“I don’t want you hurt,” Toto continues. “By the media, by fans, by the pressure. And I don’t want George to think he must choose between his job and whatever is happening between you two.”
You almost tell him there isn’t anything happening. Almost.
But the words die on your tongue.
Because you remember George stepping in front of you. You remember him smoothing your hair behind your ear. You remember the fear in his eyes when he couldn’t find you.
And you know, without a shadow of a doubt, that something is happening.
Even if no one’s said it out loud.
Your father sees the emotion flicker across your face, and his expression changes again — gentler this time.
“Are you… involved?” he asks quietly.
Your throat tightens. You shake your head. “Not exactly.”
Toto’s brow furrows. “Not exactly?”
You take a shaky breath. “We’re not dating. We’re not… anything official. But it’s complicated.”
“How complicated?” he presses.
You meet his eyes, and the truth slips out before you can stop it. “Complicated enough that he lied to you to protect me.”
Toto inhales sharply. It's not anger, no. It's something sadder. “Y/N…”
“I didn’t ask him to,” you add quickly. “He just did. And I know it wasn’t right, and I know it puts him in a bad position, and I know I should’ve told someone where I was, but—”
You break off, swallowing hard, hands shaking.
“But I didn’t want you to look at me and immediately think it was about him. Even though it was. Even though it always is.”
The room goes very, very quiet.
Your father watches you for a long moment — this time not as the head of Mercedes, not as the man who built champions, but as your parent.
His voice is soft when he finally speaks.
“You care about him.” You nod without hesitation.
“And you think he cares about you.”
The memory of George’s voice — He already suspects something. The way he touched your hair like he’d wanted to for months. The way he shielded you instinctively.
Your voice cracks. “I know he does.”
Toto exhales, leaning back against the table, arms folded tightly across his chest.
“This is dangerous,” he says quietly. “For your privacy. For his career. For the team dynamic. If something goes wrong—”
“I know,” you whisper. “You could be hurt.”
“I know.”
“He could be hurt.” That one lands heavier.
Your voice is small when you reply. “I know.”
Toto studies you — the panic, the guilt, the stubborn steadiness.
And something in his expression softens.
He walks toward you, placing a hand gently on your shoulder.
“You are an adult,” he says. “I cannot police your feelings. And I don’t want to. I just need to be sure you understand what you are stepping into.”
You nod slowly, forcing your breathing to steady. “I do.”
“And you need to tell me,” Toto adds gently, “if this becomes something real.”
Your stomach twists — partly with fear, partly with something warm.
“Okay,” you whisper.
He squeezes your shoulder once, reassuring but serious. “Good. Because I will not lose a driver or my daughter to a secret that spirals out of control.”
You nod again, throat tight.
“And Y/N?” Toto adds, stepping toward the door.
“Yeah?”
His eyes soften with something you rarely ever see — tentative acceptance. “If this is real… George will prove it. He will come to me. Properly.”
Your heart stops. “I won’t allow anything half-hidden,” your father says. “It’s either honesty… or nothing.”
You open your mouth — but no words come out.
Toto leaves you standing there, breathless, trembling.
You sink into the nearest chair, burying your face in your hands.
Because you’re certain of two things: Your father knows. And George has no idea what kind of storm is coming.
You don’t mean to avoid George.
You really don’t.
The problem is that the moment you walked away from him at the motorhome doors—heart in your throat, his fingers brushing yours, Toto’s narrowed stare cutting through the paddock—you haven’t been able to think straight around him.
Not because you’re angry.
Not because you’re scared.
But because you’re in too deep, and suddenly, you’re not sure whether that’s allowed.
So you take space. Micro-spaces, at first. Small evasions he notices instantly because, of course, he does.
Instead of slipping into the engineering office early to catch him before briefing, you linger in your father’s corridor. Instead of waiting for him in the garage after FP1, you help Kimi review his telemetry. Instead of sitting beside him during lunch, you find a reason—any reason—to be elsewhere.
The paddock is a big place until you’re trying to avoid one man.
Then it suddenly feels small.
And George… is everywhere.
He doesn’t confront you. That’s almost worse.
He watches you with questions in his eyes, with that same calm, steady patience he uses on track—biding his time, waiting for an opening, waiting for a moment of truth instead of forcing one.
But the truth is, you’re the one waiting.
Waiting for your father to cool. Waiting for the tension in your chest to ease. Waiting for… something. Permission? Courage?
You don’t know.
The debrief runs late, and by the time you step out of the room, most of the drivers and engineers have already drifted off. You rub at the tension in your neck as you leave, scrolling absently through your messages—Ollie complaining about simulator hours, Kimi sending a meme that makes no grammatical sense, Franco asking if you’re at the track tomorrow.
You’re answering them when you hear it.
Your name.
Not spoken in your direction—spoken about you.
“…I care about her,” George says quietly. “More than I’ve cared about anything in a long time.”
You freeze.
You didn’t mean to eavesdrop. You didn’t even realise this hallway led behind your father’s office, that the door was slightly ajar, that the voices would carry.
Your father’s tone is measured. “George…”
“It’s not a fling,” George says, and the way his voice catches—soft, earnest—makes your breath stick. “I admire her. I respect her. I—” he stops, swallows. “She matters. A lot. And I want to be with her properly. Not sneaking around, not hiding. I want to date her. Publicly. Proudly.”
Your heartbeat pulses against your ribs, uneven and sharp.
You should leave.
You should. You know you should.
But your feet are planted, and your body is trembling, and you can’t get yourself to move.
Your father sighs, long and heavy. “You know why this is hard for me.”
“I do,” George replies. “And I’ve kept my distance in the ways you asked. I have never treated her carelessly. I have never risked her position here. I have never—”
“I know what you haven’t done,” Toto cuts in, but there’s no anger in it. Just conflict. “And I know what you have. My daughter talks about you constantly. Do you think I don’t hear it? Do you think I haven’t seen the way she looks at you?”
Your stomach flips.
George breathes out—almost laugh, almost relief. “Then you know this isn’t one-sided.”
Silence, a long one at that.
You take a shaky step back, instinct screaming to retreat, to disappear before you break what is clearly an impossible, private, high-stakes conversation.
But then your father speaks again.
And it’s soft. Wounded, almost.
“She’s younger than you,” Toto says. “Not by much, but enough. And she’s my daughter. The last thing I want is to see her hurt. You understand that?”
“I’d never hurt her,” George replies instantly. “Not intentionally. Not carelessly. Not ever.”
Your throat tightens.
Because you know that’s true. Absolutely true.
“Intent isn’t everything,” your father murmurs.
“I know,” George says. “But effort is. Commitment is. And I’m willing to give both. I want her in my life. Long-term.” His voice deepens, steadier than you’ve ever heard it. “I’m in love with her.”
Your hand flies to your mouth.
You feel it like a collision. A sharp, breath-stealing impact.
Your father inhales sharply. “You’re certain?”
“Yes.” Not a second of hesitation. “Completely.”
Something in you cracks—wide and vulnerable.
This is too much. Too real. Too exposed.
You step back—one, two, three quiet steps—until your shoulder hits the corner of the corridor.
George pauses mid-sentence.
Not because he heard you.
Because he felt something. He always feels you before you speak.
“Is someone there?” he asks softly. Shit.
You turn and slip down the hall before either man can check. Your legs move fast, your vision blurring, your breath trembling in a way you can’t properly control.
You don’t run. But you’re close to it.
Out the door, into the paddock, cold night air hits you like a slap.
You keep walking, not sure where, just… away.
From the words you weren’t meant to hear, from the love you didn’t expect, from the hope you’re terrified to name.
And from the ache blooming warm and sharp at the center of your chest, spreading with every step.
You love him back. God, you love him back so much it hurts.
Which is why you can’t breathe.
Which is why you’re suddenly desperate for space again.
Which is why, when your phone buzzes with his name—George Calling…—you can’t bring yourself to answer.
Not yet.
Not when your pulse is chaos, not when your thoughts are spiraling, not when your father’s conflicted voice is echoing in your head.
You silence the call.
And keep walking.
You don’t remember how long you’ve been walking.
Just that your footsteps echo unevenly on the asphalt, your breathing refuses to steady, and the paddock—usually loud and buzzing—has gone quiet under the late-hour lights.
Your phone buzzes again. George. Again, and again.
You silence it without looking.
Your chest is still tight with everything you heard—words you weren’t prepared for, feelings you weren’t ready to be faced with, the raw certainty in his voice when he said he loved you.
Loved.
It loops in your head, too big, too warm, too terrifying.
You push your hair out of your face, exhale shakily, and keep moving.
You’re almost at the back exit of the paddock when you hear someone running.
Not jogging, running. Fast.
“Y/N!”
His voice slices through the night.
You freeze without meaning to—like your heart reacts before your body does, stopping you cold.
Footsteps skid to a halt behind you.
For three seconds, neither of you speak. Then— “You heard us.”
Not a question, but a realization. Soft, breathless, yet pained.
You don’t turn around, but you don’t walk away either.
The silence stretches. Then you finally whisper, “…I didn’t mean to.”
George steps closer, slowly, as if approaching an injured animal.
“I know.” His voice is low, warm, trying not to scare you. “But you did. And then you ran.”
Your throat locks.
He’s right.
You ran.
You’re still running—even if your feet have stopped moving.
“I wasn’t ready to hear any of that,” you manage, voice tight. “I just— I froze.”
There’s a small pause. You hear him inhale like he’s steadying himself.
And then, softly— “It’s okay to be scared, you know.” It’s gentle. Too gentle. You turn around because you can’t respond otherwise, and the moment you face him, everything hits harder.
He looks wrecked. His hair is messy from running, his breathing uneven, his eyes wide and a little wild, and his chest is rising and falling like he’s still catching up.
“George—”
“I thought something happened to you.” He takes another step, voice cracking. “You just vanished. No text. No call. I checked the garage, the motorhome, the debrief room—”
“I’m sorry,” you whisper.
“Please don’t apologize.” His jaw tightens, a flash of pain crossing his face. “Just… talk to me. Don’t shut me out.”
You swallow.
You look away.
Because you can feel it—all of it—coiling tight inside you without an outlet.
But he waits. His eyes are patient, open, but you know he's hurting.
You finally breathe, “I heard you tell my father you love me.”
His expression softens instantly—not surprised, but relieved to finally be at the truth.
“Yes,” he says. “I did.”
Your heart punches your ribs. “And you meant it.”
“Every word,” he replies, unwavering.
That’s what breaks you.
Your breath stutters out. “I didn’t know how to handle that.”
George moves closer—not touching, but close enough that his warmth brushes your skin.
“You don’t have to handle it all at once.”
You shake your head. “I’ve been avoiding you.”
“I know,” he admits. “And I didn’t push. I didn’t want to make you feel cornered. But it’s been killing me.”
Your chest twists.
He takes a slow, careful breath. “Why did you pull away?”
You open your mouth—then close it. Because you don’t know how to say it without bleeding.
But he waits. George always waits for you.
So finally, you whisper the truth. “Because my dad looked at me like I was making a mistake.”
George’s face folds with understanding.
“And because after that,” you continue, voice trembling, “everything between us suddenly felt… dangerous. Like something that could go wrong. Like something that could break my job, my future, my relationship with my father.”
“And your relationship with me?” he asks quietly.
Your breath hitches.
He looks at you like he’s bracing for impact.
“It scared me,” you say. “Because I care about you so much that it— God, it terrifies me.”
His eyes soften as he takes another step closer. Not touching, just near enough to feel the sparks.
“So you ran,” he murmurs. “Because it felt too big. Too real.”
Your eyes sting. “Yes.”
George drops his head for a moment, exhaling slowly. When he looks up, his voice is steadier.
“I’m in this,” he says. “Fully. With both feet. I’m not scared of… whatever this becomes. And I’m definitely not scared of loving you.”
Your stomach dips violently.
“I’m scared of ruining things,” you whisper.
“I know,” he says. “But I won’t let that happen. I’ll fight for you. And with you. Not against you—not with your father and not with the team.”
Your jaw trembles.
“And I needed him to know that,” George adds. “That’s why I talked to him. Not to pressure you. Not to force you into anything. But so you wouldn’t feel like this was forbidden or fragile or something we had to hide forever.”
Your eyes blur.
You try to speak, but the words dissolve in your throat.
George finally closes the last bit of distance. His movements are slow and careful. So unbearably gentle.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Look at me.”
You do.
His eyes are warm, shining with something deep and unwavering.
“I’m not asking you for an answer tonight,” he says. “I’m not asking you to say anything you’re not ready to say. I’m not even asking you to stop being scared.”
You exhale shakily.
“I’m asking you for one thing,” he finishes quietly. “Don’t run from me.”
Your heartbeat stutters.
Then he adds, barely above a whisper. “I’d chase you every time, but I’d rather walk beside you.”
Your resolve fractures.
All the fear, the pressure, the guilt—it swells and cracks open, replaced by something warm and aching and tender.
You step closer—not much, just enough that your arm grazes his.
“I don’t want to run,” you whisper.
His breath catches.
“I just… don’t know how to be brave about this.”
George gives you a soft, devastating smile.
“That’s okay,” he murmurs. “Be scared. I’ll be brave for both of us until you’re ready.”
Your eyes sting again.
You laugh weakly. “That’s not fair.”
“No,” he agrees softly, “but love rarely is.”
Your breath stutters. The night is quiet, and you feel the world around you narrows. It’s just him, and you, and everything unsaid humming between you like electricity.
George reaches out—slowly, giving you every chance to pull away—fingers brushing the back of your hand. Barely a touch.
But it lights through you.
You don’t pull away. You turn your palm into his, and his breath shakes.
Neither of you say anything else; you don’t need to. Not tonight.
Tonight is the moment you stop running.
The hallways of the paddock look different when you’re walking through them with your heart still thrumming in your throat.
Everything is quieter now that most personnel have gone back to their hotels, but the place still hums with leftover adrenaline—stray reporters packing up, mechanics wheeling carts back into garages, the muted thump of distant music from someone’s speaker. A stray gust of cool night air slips through the open doors, brushing cold against the heat still trapped in your skin from crying.
You’re not sure if you feel lighter or heavier after talking to George.
Both, maybe.
Your chest feels unknotted, but your bones feel hollowed out—like the truth carved you open and left all your nerves exposed to the air. Every step you take feels fragile, as though you’re made of glass simply trying not to crack.
By the time you reach the hallway leading to Mercedes hospitality, the lights are dimmed and the sky outside has gone from gentle navy to pitch black. The world outside is only broken by scattered floodlights illuminating the paddock gates.
Your hand hovers over the handle.
Because you know he’s in there.
You felt it the moment you stepped back inside the paddock—something in the air shifted. A gravitational pull you’ve known your whole life. A presence that has shaped you, protected you, set impossible standards on your shoulders and still loved you more fiercely than you know how to process.
Your father.
You inhale slowly through your nose.
The air smells faintly of burned rubber, floor cleaner, the memory of champagne from earlier. Everything feels tense and suspended, like the night is holding its breath with you.
You open the door.
The hospitality unit is nearly empty. Just a few staff cleaning mugs and wiping down surfaces. A light glows under the door of the debrief meeting room.
And sitting at one of the small tables, phone untouched beside a cup of cold espresso, shoulders hunched in a way they rarely are—
Is Toto.
He lifts his head the moment you enter, like he’s been waiting for exactly this sound.
His expression shifts in a way you’ve only seen a handful of times in your life.
Not annoyed, not angry, not stern either. But something close to... concern. Relief? Uncertainty? You're not quite sure.
“Liebling,” he says quietly. “I was hoping you’d come back through here.”
Your chest tightens.
You didn’t want this talk tonight. You didn’t want any talk tonight. You’re exhausted—emotionally raw in a way that makes every breath feel too loud.
But you can’t avoid him forever. He’s your father, and you did run away from him, too.
You walk over slowly, each step measured. His eyes track you with that painfully perceptive intensity he’s always had, the one that sees more than you want it to.
“You left in a hurry,” Toto says gently. “George was very worried.”
You try to swallow your flinch. “I know.”
“He went looking for you.”
“I know,” you repeat, this time tighter.
Toto studies your face for a long, tense moment. His jaw flexes once. You can see the calculations happening behind his eyes—the strategist, the father, the team principal, all warring quietly.
And then he gestures to the chair across from him.
“Sit with me for a moment.”
You do. Slowly and carefully, like sitting down might break something.
The chair is cool beneath you, grounding. Your fingers knot together on your lap.
For a beat, you both sit in between silence and a million things unsaid.
Toto exhales through his nose. “I believe… You overheard the conversation earlier.”
Your heart squeezes painfully. “Yes.”
“I thought so.”
His voice is low, measured, deep—the one he uses when things matter, when the room is too fragile for anything louder.
You look down at your hands, thumb brushing the crescent-shaped indent your nails pressed earlier.
“You were talking about me,” you say, barely above a whisper.
“Yes.” No hesitation.
“And about him.”
“Yes,” he says again, softer this time.
You don’t lift your eyes. It feels easier to speak if you’re looking at the table instead of your father’s unreadable expression.
“You said he shouldn’t be with me.”
There’s a long pause, then:
“I said,” Toto corrects carefully, “that I worried he might hurt you without meaning to. That his job, his responsibilities, his lifestyle… they can complicate things.”
Your voice tightens. “You think I can’t handle complications?”
“Of course you can.” His answer is immediate. “That was never my concern.”
“Then what was?”
“You.”
There’s something almost broken in the way he says it.
“Sie, Liebling. Your heart. Your tendency to care too deeply. To love all at once. To put others before yourself.” His jaw clenches briefly. “I have watched this sport chew people up and spit them out. I did not want you to be another casualty.” (you, darling)
The words hit you harder than you expect.
Because you know this is how he shows love—through fear.
Through overprotection disguised as logic. Through caution disguised as objectivity.
You breathe out slowly. “I’m not a child.”
“I know that.” His voice softens. “But you will always be my daughter.”
You finally lift your eyes to meet his.
And what you see there isn’t anger. It’s worry. Raw, vulnerable worry.
“George cares for you,” Toto says, quieter. “He spoke of you with sincerity. With respect. With… more honesty than I expected.”
Your heartbeat stutters.
“He meant what he said,” Toto adds. “About loving you.”
The word hangs in the air like incense—heavy, warm, impossible to ignore.
“Did that frighten you?” he asks gently.
You look away. “Yes.”
He doesn’t mock you or lecture you. He just nods, a small, understanding motion.
“It would frighten anyone.”
Another quiet stretch of air passes.
Then, softly, “I’m sorry you heard me in a moment when I was still… sorting through my own fears.” His throat bobs. “It wasn’t fair to you.”
Your breath catches. Toto Wolff—giant of a man, a force of nature, iron backbone of a team, and your dad—apologizing is not something that happens lightly.
You swallow hard. “I wasn’t ready to hear any of it.”
“I know.”
“And I wasn’t ready to face you after.”
“I know that too.” Your lip trembles.
He shifts forward, resting his arms on the table, the way he does in serious negotiations—only this time, the stakes are emotional instead of political.
“Do you care for him?” he asks.
The question slices through you. And for the first time in hours, you don’t run from the truth.
“I do,” you whisper. “More than I wanted to.”
Toto’s eyes soften in a way that pulls all the air from your lungs.
“And does he make you feel safe?” he asks.
You think of George’s hands shaking when he found you.
Of his voice breaking when he said he’d chase you if you ran.
Of the way he looked at you—steady, sure, full of something that made the world quiet.
“Yes,” you breathe. “He does.”
Toto nods. A slow, accepting nod. “That is all I needed to know.”
Your heart stutters.
Because those are words you didn’t expect.
Maybe didn’t think you’d get.
He clears his throat once. “I will speak with him again. Not as your team principal. As your father.” Then, softer, “But I will not forbid this. Or discourage it.”
Your eyes blur.
Toto looks at you—really looks—and you see a softness there that mirrors every childhood memory, every scraped knee, every bedtime story told in a voice too big for the small rooms you grew up in.
“I only want you to be happy,” he murmurs. “And I trust you to choose who can give you that.”
The breath you release trembles out of you.
You nod once, slow, heavy with emotion. “Thank you.”
He reaches across the table, offering his hand—not demanding contact, not insisting, just offering.
You slide your hand into his.
His fingers close around yours, firm and warm. No more running, no more hiding. You’re seen.
“Go get some rest, Liebling,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow will feel less heavy.”
You nod.
And as you stand, you feel the weight on your shoulders ease—not gone, but shared.
The hallway outside Mercedes hospitality is quiet in that stretched-thin, late-night way—dim overhead lights, faint hum of machinery shutting down for the evening, the last echoes of conversations long finished. The paddock is settling, softening, shrinking from its earlier chaos into something intimate.
You step through the door with your father’s words still warm against your ribs, fingers tingling from where he held your hand. The air feels cooler out here, brushing your face like a shock.
And then you see him.
George.
He’s leaning against the wall across from the hospitality door, hands shoved awkwardly into his pockets, head bowed—but he looks up the instant the door clicks shut behind you. His eyes snap to yours like he’s been waiting with every nerve in his body tuned toward the sound.
The breath you take gets stuck halfway down your throat.
He looks… wrecked. And he looks relieved. And he looks like he’s been standing here for much longer than he’s willing to admit.
“Hey,” you say quietly.
The corner of his mouth lifts, but it’s small, tentative. “Hi.”
You’re close enough to see the way the shadows cut along his cheekbones, the way exhaustion and worry mix in his expression. His team shirt is rumpled, sleeves pushed up like he’d been running his hands through his hair a thousand times while waiting for you. He looks realer than you’ve ever seen him—less like the polished version the cameras get, more like the man behind it all.
“You waited,” you say.
“Of course I did,” he replies, voice soft but firm, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world.
Something pinches in your chest.
Because he didn’t have to. And you didn’t expect him to. But he stayed.
George shifts off the wall, stepping toward you slowly, careful, as though one wrong move might spook you. His eyes search your face with a tenderness so earnest it’s almost painful.
“How did it go?” he asks gently.
You take a slow breath. “Better than I expected. Worse than I wanted.”
He huffs a quiet, sympathetic laugh. “That sounds about right.”
You nod. “He needed to say his part. And… I needed to hear it.”
“And now?” he asks.
A strange, fragile quiet stretches between you. Your heartbeat ticks loudly in your ears, steady but nervous.
“Now,” you say, lips softening into something like a smile, “it feels like something’s finally settled.”
The relief that washes across George’s face is immediate and unmistakable. His shoulders drop, like someone finally loosened a rope cinched too tightly around him. His eyes close for half a second.
“Good,” he murmurs. “I’m… I’m glad.”
His voice cracks—just a little—but it’s enough to make your breath hitch.
Because this isn’t the George Russell who keeps his head cool at 300 km/h. This isn’t the George who smiles through media scrums or strategizes through endless data sheets.
This is George stripped down—open, uncertain, hopeful. And he’s looking at you like you matter.
He glances down, then up again, rubbing the back of his neck in that boyish, endearing way he does when he’s nervous. “I was afraid you’d leave again.”
“I wouldn’t,” you say softly. “Not now.”
He nods slowly, eyes tracing your face like he’s checking for any cracks he missed.
“You sure you’re okay?” he asks.
For a moment, you don’t answer—not because you’re unsure, but because the truth feels too big to say immediately. You look at the polished floors, the dim lights, the abandoned space around you. A place usually full of tension and competition suddenly feels still, like the world has quietly stepped aside to give the two of you space.
“I was overwhelmed,” you admit. “Everything hit me at once. You, Dad, the team… how fast it all felt.”
George takes one more step toward you, voice lower now. Warmer.
“It’s a lot,” he murmurs. “And you handled more than anyone should have to in a day.”
You breathe out, shaky. “I hated running from you.”
“I hated watching you go,” he confesses.
The honesty slices straight through you. You look up at him.
He’s right in front of you now.
Close enough to feel the warmth from his body brushing against the space between you. Close enough to see the faint stubble along his jaw, the soft lines around his eyes from stress and smiles and everything in between.
Close enough that you can feel him thinking.
“I meant every word I said earlier,” he murmurs, eyes flickering between your lips and your eyes. “I didn’t plan to say it like that—not in front of Toto, not with everything falling apart around us. But I’m not taking any of it back.”
Your lungs tighten.
You can feel it—the weight of the moment, the edge you’re standing on, the next breath that might change something between you forever.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he adds quickly, as though afraid of cornering you again. “Not tonight. Not now. I just want you to know I’m still here. I’m not going anywhere.”
You swallow hard.
“George…”
His name leaves your lips like a confession. His breath stutters.
He moves a fraction closer, a careful centimeter, testing—waiting for permission you haven’t given out loud but are giving in all the small ways: the way you’re not stepping back, the way you’re watching him like gravity itself has you anchored.
“I care about you,” you whisper. “That hasn’t changed.”
George’s inhale is sharp and soft at the same time.
You don’t touch him—not yet—but the air between your hands and his crackles with something warm, something alive.
The hallway feels too quiet, too intimate. Like the universe is leaning in.
His fingers twitch at his side.
“Can I…?” he begins, voice barely audible.
You don’t let him finish.
You step closer—just enough that you feel his breath ghost against your cheek, soft and warm and trembling with restraint.
“Yes,” you whisper.
And George, who is gentle in every moment except the ones that matter most, lifts his hand with infinite care and cups your jaw—thumb brushing the corner of your lip, fingers warm against your skin.
You close your eyes for a moment, leaning into the touch without meaning to. It feels like something inside you unspools.
When you open them, he’s watching you with an expression that makes your chest ache.
“You tell me to stop,” he says, breath uneven. “And I will.”
You don’t. Instead, you tilt your face up, and George kisses you.
Softly at first. Carefully. The way someone touches a wound they don’t want to hurt. His lips are warm, gentle, almost reverent, like he’s afraid to take too much.
You inhale sharply at the contact, fingers curling into the front of his shirt without thinking. He lets out a quiet sound—something between relief and disbelief—before kissing you again, deeper this time, slow and tender and full of everything he’s been holding back.
It isn’t fireworks. It isn’t reckless.
It’s steadier. Safer now. Honest in a way that knocks the breath from your lungs.
His forehead drops against yours when he pulls back, both of you breathing hard, the air around you charged and fragile.
“Thank you,” he whispers.
And for the first time all day, you feel sure.
You're right where you’re supposed to be.
i hate this new tumblr update the spacing between the photo and the text on website throws me awfff
but i am flesh and blood (and this flesh has needs)
⟢ summary: You fight your way up to his tongue so you can die up on it.
⟢ pairing: max verstappen x reader
⟢ word count: 3.4k
⟢ contains: smut, toxic relationship, argument, emotional dread, dry humping, oral (f!receiving), unprotected sex (don't be silly wrap your willy!), doggy, mean!max, dumbification, porn with little plot, slight manipulation, resentment, religious references, cannibalism metaphors, title is from ethel cain's "tongue"
⟢ note: these warnings could just be me reaching for the stars but better safe than sorry!
The apartment is too still.
Rain slicks the glass like melted wax from a votive candle. His things are still where he left them that morning, his jacket on the chair, the cap thrown on the dresser, the faint scent of his cologne mixing with the antiseptic hotel air. The air conditioner hums like a broken choir, and you think about how his trophies catch the lamplight like gilded saints—mute witnesses lined up to bless his sins. Outside, the city keeps breathing, engines and sirens and laughter that don’t belong to you.
You’ve already seen the photos. The headlines scroll across your phone like scripture rewritten by liars, each caption a confession you never asked for. His name beside hers. His hand on a shoulder that isn't yours.
When the door finally opens, it’s like a church bell cracking.
He steps inside, still in his team jacket, rain glistening on the fabric. He looks at you the way a sinner looks at the altar—half-dreading, half-hoping for mercy.
“Y/N,” he says, voice rough.
You don’t answer. Instead, you stare at the coffee table where your phone still glows. The evidence hums between you, holy and obscene.
“How come you’ve been lying to me?” The words come out quietly, but they cut.
“I didn’t,” he starts, shaking his head. “I swear, it’s not what it looks like—”
“I wouldn’t pull nothing like that on you,” you snap, the tremor in your voice betraying you.
His mouth opens, closes. You can see him searching for the right prayer, the one that might bring the dead back to life. “I never meant—”
“Don’t,” you whisper. “Don’t say you never meant it. You were smiling.”
The silence that follows feels like kneeling on broken glass.
You think about the way he once touched your wrist during dinner, gentle and reverent. How everything with him had felt sacred, even the smallest things. How easily sacred things rot when they’re left in the sun too long.
He steps forward like he could still reach you, but the distance between you is a confessional screen—thin, perforated, absolute.
“If you didn't want me here, you could have just said it.”
You grab your bag, your jacket, the trembling in your hands disguised as movement. The air smells like rain and engine oil.
He moves instinctively, blocking the door. The weight of him, the gravity of what you were, filling the doorway like a storm could.
“Please,” he says, voice fraying. “Don’t walk out like this.”
“No.” Your throat burns. “You can't do this to me.”
His shoulders slump. The fight drains from him like the tide leaving a body on the shore.
“Would you please move?” you choke, the sob catching halfway between a prayer and a curse.
He looks up at you. Whatever restraint he had left snaps the moment his eyes meet yours. He reaches out, fingers catching the edge of your jaw, and before you can think, his mouth is on yours.
It’s not gentle this time. It’s rough with everything he hasn’t said, the anger, the loss, the way he hates needing you as much as he does. You taste the salt of his skin, feel the urgency in how close he pulls you. You tasted sin, and it felt holy. It’s the kind of kiss that feels like it’s trying to erase the night, to pull the two of you somewhere quieter, if only for a second.
You respond without thinking, hands finding his shoulders, grounding him, pulling him closer even though you know you shouldn’t. He devoured what was sacred in you. The room feels smaller, the noise of the world outside dimming to nothing.
When he finally breaks away, both of you are breathing hard, foreheads still touching. He keeps his eyes closed like he’s afraid of what he’ll see if he opens them.
Neither of you speaks up. The air between you is alive with everything that’s been said and everything that hasn’t. Like communion turned rotten. You thought if you could touch whatever lived beneath his skin, the thing that made you ache, you’d finally stop hungering. But love is a kind of famine, and you learned to starve beautifully.
“Max,” you call out. Your voice is soft and careful, fingers caressing the rough skin of his cheek. The silence that follows feels heavier than before, the kind that presses on your ribs until you have to do something just to break it.
He exhales, short and uneven, hands running through his hair before falling to his sides. “I’m sorry,” he mutters. His eyes flick toward you, just long enough to make your stomach twist.
The words you’d planned—gentle and reassuring—dissolve before you can say them.
“She means nothing to me.” The look he gives you makes your stomach flip, not anger, exactly, but the kind of rawness that comes when pride and exhaustion have nothing left to guard them.
You nod, “Okay.”
“No. Schat, it’s only you.” For a second, the corner of his mouth twitches, not quite a smile. He scrubs a hand across his face, sighs hard, and his forehead falls to rest on your shoulder. “I promise.” He pulled you in closer, taking in your scent.
His tone was quiet, measured, almost tender, and that was what made it worse. You wanted him to stop, but some part of you ached for the sharpness, for the way he could undo you with so little effort.
He knew it, too. That was his sin—and yours was letting him.
“I understand.” You whisper, gentle and innocent. He lifts his head to look at you, not before giving your neck a peck, one he knew would drive you crazy. “You mean the world to me. I’d kill for you.” He looked at you like you were something worth tasting. When he looked at you like that, all command and fury and heartbreak, you couldn’t tell if he wanted to destroy you or keep you, and maybe that was the same thing.
You open your mouth to speak again, but he shuts you up with a kiss.
This time, he goes all in. The taste of adrenaline and salt, the sound of both your breaths tangled. His fingers tighten on your waist for a second like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.
When you finally break apart, your chest is heaving, and his forehead drops against yours.
You look at him, really look, and the anger and exhaustion you saw when he came in have burned down to something rawer. The world outside is still there, distant and irrelevant.
The silence stretches so long it starts to sound like a prayer.
You sat in front of each other, staring at nothing and everything, until the weight of him on you feels like gravity itself, inevitable, impossible to escape. The air smells faintly of rain and engine smoke, sharp and metallic, like something consecrated by fire.
He says your name once, a low rasp that trembles somewhere between plea and command. The sound of it feels blasphemous in the small room.
The expression on his face is nothing holy. His eyes are too dark, too tired, too human. There’s a kind of ruin in him that calls to you, the way church bells call the lost.
“Why do you stay?” he asks, voice rough.
You could tell him that you love him. You could tell him that it isn’t love anymore, that it’s need, that it’s faith twisted into habit. You could also tell him that you want to watch him die. But the words won’t come. All that escapes you is a breath.
Something in him shifts. The stillness snaps.
He leans forward, hand finding your jaw, and the kiss that follows isn’t gentle. It’s desperate, graceless, full of all the noise you both swallowed earlier. It tastes like copper and salt and penance—like every time you’ve ever said “Forgive me” and known you wouldn’t stop.
He breathes your name between your lips, and it feels like a confession. His fingers tremble where they rest against your throat, and you can feel his pulse hammering beneath his skin, frantic and alive.
You don’t know who moves first, only that when he pulls back, the space between you feels desecrated—a place where something sacred used to live.
He closes his eyes, voice barely a whisper. “I’m sorry.”
You nod, though your heartbeat still echoes like a hymn that refuses to end.
“I need you.” His eyes are full of hunger, and you know it’s going to be a long night. "You have me, Max."
He pulls you in, demandingly. And like clockwork, you wrap your legs around his waist to straddle him, both his hands now keeping your body steady as he kisses up your body.
You feel your head spin as he almost eats your skin off. He pulls away abruptly, and his grip on your waist tightens as he guides your hips forward and back. He looked at you the way the faithful look at fire, knowing it will burn, but reaching anyway.
“Max, please.” You sob out, knuckles turning white at how hard you were gripping his biceps. “Ah, shit, you’re so dirty.” He stares at the wet stain on your gray sweatpants, one finger mindlessly going down to press on your clothed clit.
“You were probably waiting for me to fuck you all night. Saw those photos and knew you’d have me going crazier more than she could, huh?” His voice is teasing. You couldn’t even bring yourself to resist, the smell of sex and the warm air of the room turning your mind dumb.
“You can’t even respond, dumb cunt.” He laughs, laughs, a smug grin adorning his face as he looks up at you with lustful eyes. He was both the hunger and the offering. And you? You were the altar. The knife. The willing mouth.
He had memorized your body like scripture—the kind read in secret, whispered under breath, touched by trembling fingers that knew they weren’t supposed to. And so, he knew you were close. He was cruel in the way only someone who knew you too well could be. “Fuck, I’m close!” You sob out, your hand going up to the nape of his neck, almost pulling at it to keep yourself from falling at how ragdolled your body felt.
He grumbles, shaking his head furiously. “No,” he muttered, pushing you off him and pinning you down on the couch, pulling your pants down with one single pull. Your hips jerk up at the burning feeling of the cotton. “Fuck— Max!”
“Shut up and turn around.” He growls out, every word felt like a blade pressed flat against your throat, not to kill, but to remind you he could.
You turned around, feeling your knees sink into the edge of the couch, your breathing heavy, and asking for forgiveness.
He smiled like sin disguised as grace, and you let him in every time. Just like how you were letting him in now. You heard the clanking of his belt being removed and the loud thud of the metal falling to the floor. “I’m gonna destroy this pussy.” His voice is low and hungry as he pushes himself inside you. “So tight and willing, fuck, schatje.”
His hips start to move in and out at a relentless speed, his angry tip bullying your hole. You let him take you apart piece by piece, thinking that maybe if you weren’t hollow enough, he could fill you with grace again.
He moans out your name, eyes rolling to the back of his head from the pleasure. You once read that saints starved themselves to feel closer to God. You understood it now, the hollow was the point. The ache made you faithful. Maybe you weren’t starving from lack of him; maybe you were starving for him. The difference didn’t matter anymore. You were still on your knees either way.
The sound of your pussy squelching and the skin slapping is filthy. In your head, it was just like a candle going out.
“Do you hear that, baby?” He groans. “Fucking hole is weeping for my cock. You have no idea how much I’ve been wanting to come home and just ruin you. Did you want that too?”
You nod, barely registering what’s happening before his fingers tangle in your hair, pulling your head up. “Are you close? Huh? Don’t fucking babble at me.”
You’re gripping the couch, lines forming on your fingers from the rough cushion. You start to push back onto him, feeling every inch of his girth. “Pussy’s so fucking good to me. Taking me so well like you always do, hm?” He commends, pace speeding up as he continues to consume you whole. His name falls from your lips repeatedly, like a prayer, slow and reverent, each syllable teasing the air with a quiet, aching desire.
“You’re so fucking pretty.” You told yourself it wasn’t worship, but every time you looked at him, your pulse betrayed you—steady as a rosary, desperate as confession. “You’re mine, say it.” You moaned, trying to push the words out of you. “All yours, Maxie. I’m yours.” One hand reaches behind, asking for his hand. He hums, intertwining his fingers with yours.
“Aw, you want to hold my hand while you cum, hm? So sweet.” He leaned down to press a kiss on your back, trailing up to your neck. His name lingered on your tongue like a sacrament, and you swallowed it whole, pretending it didn’t taste like blood. You thought maybe if you said it enough times, God would forgive you for meaning it.
He pumped his cock deeper, before pulling it out to the tip, and pushing back in with a groan. You cried out his name, moans long and desperate. His hand gripped your ass hard, and you were thinking it had to have left a mark by now. You felt the coil in your stomach fighting to let go, feeling your orgasm inching closer and closer. You speed up your hips, your ass bouncing against his skin, the sound of skin slapping getting louder and louder with each thrust.
“Fuck, fuck, fuck, oh my fucking God.” He’s loud, panting, and struggling behind you. You’re both moaning loudly, the sound of skin slapping as you grind into him, driving you both to your release.
“Max, I’m gonna cum!” You wail, forehead dropping down to the head of the couch. You can feel every vein, every twitch, and every push and pull of his cock inside you, and it drives you fucking crazy.
“Cum for me, Schatje. Be good and fucking milk my cock.” He grunts, hips stuttering as he chased his own high. You could only imagine what you looked like right now, bent over for him, on the altar of his indifference, begging to be noticed, to be consumed.
You came hard. A loud scream escaped you as you reached your orgasm. He spilled inside you, coating your walls with his juices. He pulled out with a groan, his cum mixed with yours, leaking down your thighs, making you shiver at the feeling.
He rubs circles on your ass before turning you over. He gets down on his knees, eyes never leaving your pussy as he watches it twitch and glisten. His breaths are heavy, his lips wet, sweat running down his forehead, and his eyes lecherous. He wants more, you can tell by the way low groans come out in between his heavy pants.
He pushed your legs open, still shaking from the previous stimulation. Your hand weakly goes up to his face, caressing his cheek softly. You moan out lowly, staring down at him with hooded eyes. You kept thinking of angels, how they burned when they fell. Maybe that’s what you were doing too, every time you reached for him.
Falling. Burning. Calling it devotion because it hurt too much to call it destruction.
He poked your lips with the tip of his tongue as if he was teasing you for his amusement. Your breath hitched, hips jerking up at the feeling. He chuckled before shoving his tongue in whole.
He throws your legs over his shoulders, his tongue diving deeper, making your stomach drop, and a hand goes up to his hair, tugging at it. He moaned into your cunt, the vibrations sending shivers up your spine.
Max’s hands were gripping your thighs hard, and you weren’t sure if he was even aware. His eyes were now fully closed, completely lost in the pleasure as he made out with your cunt.
His nails almost scratch your thigh as he brings it under and up to your middle, two fingers shoving inside your hole. He groans when he hears your sweet moans from the added pleasure. Your hips start to grind against his face, your fingers tangled in his hair, tugging at it harder. Every time his tongue retracted, you felt less human. More myth. More ruin. You wanted him to carve his name into you, to make the wanting permanent.
He pulled his tongue out to speak, “So delicious, liefje, so wet for me, hm?” He speeds his fingers up, grinning at the way your legs shook and your hips twitching at every thrust. Max was relentless; his other hand pushed your leg wider, refusing to let your knees touch in any way. He sucked on the skin of your thigh, leaving marks all over your upper thigh.
He curls his fingers up, brushing over your spot again and again. The sounds your pussy made were shameless; that repeated squelching sound was like music to Max’s ears.
Your head was spinning, feeling that coil in your stomach starting to snap again.
“Squeezing my fingers so good,” he gushes, putting his mouth back to work. Moans spill from your mouth nonstop, feeling your orgasm building up by the second. “Wanna drink up your juices, schat, cum for me.”
And you did just that. You let go, spilling your orgasm all over his face. He loved every second of it, watching you break apart for him and only him. You could never decide if he was divine or damnation, but it didn’t matter anymore. You’d already chosen your religion, and it wore his face.
He pulled away from your pussy with a loud groan, a shit-eating grin on his face as he looked up at you with horny eyes. He stands on his knees, pulling you into a kiss with a hand on your nape. He tasted like sin in the way that every forbidden thing does: sharp at first, then sweet once it’s too late to stop. You moaned his name under your breath like a curse. The shame came after, as it always did, slow and suffocating. But even then, you couldn’t help but think: if this is damnation, it’s almost gentle.
He’s the one who pulls away first, and a sticky strand of spit hung between you for a moment before breaking. He lays you back down on the cushion gently, letting you rest as he stands up to get a towel from the bathroom.
You told yourself it was love, but it felt more like being eaten alive. Not cruelly, not violently, but tenderly. Like he was consuming you the way one might consume faith: slowly, endearingly, until there was nothing left but devotion. You wondered if he ever felt full.
He became your ritual. Every glance, a genuflection. Every word, a psalm. You’d trace the memory of him against the inside of your teeth like communion, tasting his absence, swallowing it down so it wouldn’t show. Max didn’t ask for your worship; that made it worse. You gave it freely, like blood money to a god who never promised resurrection.
You prayed after, though you weren’t sure to whom. Maybe to him. Maybe to the silence he left in his wake. You asked for forgiveness, for peace, for the hunger to fade. But the only answer you ever got was the echo of his breath against your skin, a ghost of a blessing, or a curse that sounded too gentle to hate.
You never told him that he ruined you. Maybe because he’d only smile, that small, godless smile that said he already knew. Maybe because you’d still thank him for it. You’d still crawl back. You’d still call it holy.
a/n: hi guys im so sorry if this sucks i was struggling so hard since this is my first smut fic >_< and i kinda lost the plot in the middle, my apologies heh
he loves me yeah! (the sequel) oscar piastri x reader
summary: Oscar Piastri has finally won Y/N's heart, but loving each other is only the beginning. From the quiet beginnings of courtship to the high-stakes climb from Formula 4 to Formula 1, their relationship grows alongside his career. It isn’t always easy, but every challenge becomes proof of what they’ve built together. What will it take to keep loving each other through everything?
contains: established relationship, no major conflict (not really), references to part 1, suggestive, implied smut, eventual smut, domestic fluff, not timeline accurate (just in case, though i did do my research), completes the 2025 season so races after monza are completely fictional, piastri family appearance, one scene contains pourchaire and fittipaldi’s crash in jeddah 2021, title is from faye webster's song "he loves me yeah!"
word count: 14.5k
part one: kind of type of way | part three: in a lifetime
By 2020, everything had changed.
The world itself had folded into silence — races postponed, schools empty, streets hushed. But somehow, in the middle of all the uncertainty, Oscar was louder than ever. Not in the way he carried himself, no, he was still soft-spoken, still introverted, still Oscar, but in the way the world began to take notice of him.
You’d seen it first, of course. You always did. The hours at the karting tracks, the late-night study sessions after long days of practice, the way his hands trembled before his first qualifying in F4, and the way he clenched them into fists when he crossed the finish line first. You’d been there for the tears, for the frustration, for the unbearable weight of it all.
But now? Now it wasn’t just you anymore.
Now, cameras followed him. Articles had his name in headlines. Teams watched him with interest. People who didn’t even know how to spell “Piastri” were suddenly calling him the future.
And, God, were they right.
When he made his F3 debut, you couldn’t breathe during the first race. You stood there, mask over your face, hands twisted together so tightly your knuckles hurt.
He looked so small inside the car. Small, but untouchable. And when he took that first win — his first F3 win — your voice broke with the force of your scream, tears stinging your eyes as you tried to blink fast enough to keep him in view.
Later, when you found him in the paddock, still flushed with adrenaline, he grinned at you in that way that turned your knees weak. “Told you I could do it.”
You punched his arm, hard, though your hand shook with the need to pull him close instead. “I never doubted you.”
He held your gaze then, the grin slipping into something softer, something reverent. “I know.”
That became your rhythm. His racing, your support. His victories, your cheers. His doubts, your quiet reassurances whispered over late-night calls when he was away.
But the distance — it hurt.
Because as the months wore on, as travel resumed and the championship grew tighter, Oscar wasn’t just your best friend, wasn’t just the boy who’d asked to court you in the quiet glow of a lamp. He was a driver. A rising star, someone people whispered about in awe.
And sometimes, lying awake at night, you wondered if you could keep up. If you’d still be his anchor when the world pulled him further and further away.
Then came Mugello.
The race that decided it all.
You couldn’t be there in person, but your attention was glued to the screen, your heart pounding harder with every lap. Your room was dark except for the harsh glow of your laptop, your phone buzzing nonstop with updates from Oscar’s mum.
And then it happened.
Checkered flag. Championship secured.
Oscar Piastri — your Oscar — was the Formula 3 World Champion. Your scream startled the neighbors, but you didn’t even care.
You collapsed back against your pillows, tears spilling freely this time, chest tight with pride and relief. The boy you’d known since six, the boy who’d been yours since fifteen — he’d done it. He’d won the world.
And all you could think was: He deserves everything, and he’s mine.
Later, when he finally called, his voice was hoarse from shouting, laughing, and the endless congratulations. But when he said your name, it cracked in the middle, and you knew he’d been waiting to say it all day.
“Y/N,” he breathed, and you could hear the disbelief, the exhaustion, and the joy tangled altogether. “We did it.”
You laughed through your tears, pressing the phone tighter against your ear. “No, you did it.”
His answer was immediate. “No. Not without you.” Your throat tightened, too full of words you didn’t know how to say. So instead, you whispered, “I’m so proud of you.”
The line went quiet for a moment, the kind of silence that hummed with everything unspoken. And then, softly, “I love you.”
Your heart ached with how much you loved him back.
Late 2020, Melbourne. Pandemic restrictions ease, Oscar finally returns home after winning the F3 Championship.
The Piastri household had never been so loud.
You barely had time to step through the door before you were swallowed in a blur of hugs, cheers, and the unmistakable smell of Nicole’s cooking. Chris’ voice boomed somewhere from the kitchen, his laughter mixing with the shrieks of Mae and Edie racing down the hallway. Hattie clung to your waist before you could even set down your bag, squealing, “You’re back! You’re back!”
Oscar hadn’t even made it past the doormat before Nicole was in his arms, smothering him like he was still a lanky sixteen-year-old instead of the Formula 3 Champion of 2020.
“God, look at you,” she said, squeezing him tighter. “All grown up, but still my boy.”
“Mum,” he groaned, though his eyes shone as he let her fuss. “I literally just got off a fourteen-hour flight. Can we not—”
But Chris was next, clapping him on the back with so much force it made you laugh. “Our champ,” he announced proudly. “Didn’t think you’d actually pull it off, but bloody hell, you did!”
Oscar rolled his eyes, cheeks pink. “Thanks for the faith, Dad.”
And then Mae and Edie were on him, twin hurricanes of excitement, babbling over each other. “We watched all your races.” “I told my class my brother’s famous now.” “You have to sign my notebook—” “No, mine first!”
He tried to fight them off, but you caught the flicker of a smile tugging at his mouth as he ruffled their hair, letting himself be dragged into the chaos.
You stood back for a moment, watching it all unfold. Watching him.
Oscar Piastri, home again.
Not just the boy you’d grown up with. Not just your best friend who’d asked to court you under the warm glow of his bedroom lamp. But now — champion, celebrated, living proof of all the things you’d always known he could be.
He caught your gaze across the room, and for one dizzy second, it was just you and him again. His smile softened, the noise fading behind him, and he mouthed: Come here.
So you did.
And as soon as you stepped close, his hand found yours. Casual, like it was the most natural thing in the world, but his thumb stroked across your knuckles in that way only you knew.
“Didn’t think I’d get a warmer welcome than winning the championship,” he murmured low, teasing. “But apparently, I’m still just the kid Mum won’t stop fussing over.”
You grinned, bumping his shoulder. “You are. Don’t forget it.”
His eyes flicked down to your lips before darting back up, a secret just for the two of you.
Dinner was a feast. Nicole had gone all out. Roast chicken, buttery potatoes, fresh bread still warm from the oven, and the kind of rich chocolate cake that smelled like childhood birthdays.
Chris insisted on making a toast before anyone could touch their plates, raising his glass with mock-seriousness. “To Oscar. For making us proud. For making history. And for remembering to come home before his mum died of worry.”
Everyone laughed, glasses clinking.
Oscar ducked his head, muttering, “You’re all unbearable,” but the pink flush on his cheeks betrayed him. He looked at you again, a private smile tugging at his lips. And you felt it — the hum, the spark, the tether that had never once snapped, no matter how many miles stretched between you.
The meal itself was chaos, as Piastri dinners always were. Mae stole a potato off Edie’s plate, sparking a full-blown argument. Hattie tried to sneak frosting from the cake with her finger until Nicole caught her. Chris told one of his long-winded stories, and you found yourself laughing so hard you almost choked on your bread.
Through it all, Oscar sat beside you, his knee brushing yours beneath the table. Little touches, hidden in plain sight. His hand was resting on the back of your chair when he leaned close to whisper a joke. The way he refilled your glass before his own was quiet and automatic.
At one point, Mae smirked across the table, her eyes darting between the two of you. “So, Y/N,” she said sweetly. “Is it weird dating my brother now? Or have you just been pretending all these years?”
Your fork clattered against your plate.
Oscar groaned, covering his face with his hand. “Mae—”
But Edie jumped in, cackling. “Oh, come on. They’ve basically been married since they were seven.”
Nicole gave you a knowing smile, her voice light. “They’re right, though. We’ve always seen it.”
Your face burned, but Oscar’s hand found your knee under the table, grounding you. He gave it a small squeeze, his smirk lopsided as he glanced at you. “Guess we weren’t as subtle as we thought.”
“Guess not,” you muttered, trying not to smile too wide.
By the time dessert was over, everyone was stuffed and drowsy, the table littered with crumbs and empty glasses. Hattie had fallen asleep against Chris’s arm, her mouth open just enough to make Mae snicker. Nicole sighed fondly, gathering plates, while Edie declared she was definitely eating the last slice of cake for breakfast tomorrow.
The celebration had shifted into the soft quiet of late evening, laughter giving way to the warmth of familiarity, of home.
And you sat there beside Oscar, heart thrumming, thinking how strange it felt — how normal, how right.
Like the championship, the miles, the months apart hadn’t changed the core of you.
Like he’d always been yours.
The house had finally quieted.
Plates stacked in the kitchen, lights dimmed in the hallway, the low hum of Nicole’s voice faded as she coaxed Mae and Edie toward bed. Even Chris’s laughter, booming all evening, had softened into a murmur behind the living room door.
You padded up the narrow staircase, your socked feet muffled against the carpet. Every step made your pulse quicken, though you couldn’t quite explain why.
Oscar walked just ahead, his hand brushing the banister, his shoulders loose in the way they only ever were at home. He looked back once, catching your gaze, and there it was again—that quiet smile, crooked and soft, the one that undid you.
He pushed his bedroom door open, the hinges creaking faintly.
The room hadn’t changed much. Posters of race cars still lined the walls, some edges curling with age. A desk sat cluttered with papers and model cars, and the twin bed, pushed against the far wall, still had the same dark blue duvet you remembered from years ago. It smelled faintly of detergent, of boy, of something you’d missed more than you’d ever admit aloud.
Oscar tossed his phone onto the desk and sank down on the edge of the bed with a sigh, running a hand through his hair. “God, I’m wrecked,” he muttered, but then his eyes lifted to you, and his grin tilted again. “But… worth it.”
You hovered by the desk, fingers skimming over a half-finished model car, your lips quirking. “Winning the F3 championship is worth being wrecked, yeah, I’d say so.”
He chuckled, low, leaning back on his elbows. “Not just that. Tonight. Coming home. Having you here.”
The words landed heavier than they should have. You swallowed, warmth rushing to your cheeks, and turned your attention back to the model before he could see too much.
Silence stretched between you—not uncomfortable, but thick. Charged.
You finally crossed the room, perching on the edge of the bed beside him. The mattress dipped under your weight, pulling you closer. His shoulder brushed yours, the contact barely there but sparking like static.
For a long moment, neither of you spoke. You stared at the posters on the wall, the one of a karting track you’d been to together years ago. He stared at you.
You felt it.
“You know,” you murmured, breaking the silence, “this room looks smaller than I remember.”
“Yeah?” His voice was rougher now, low.
“Or maybe you just got taller.” You smiled faintly, glancing sideways at him. “Annoyingly so.”
He smirked, eyes catching the dim glow of the lamp. “You noticed.”
You rolled your eyes, though your pulse stuttered. “Hard not to.”
And then the space between you seemed to shrink on its own.
Oscar shifted, his arm brushing yours again, lingering this time. His knee bumped yours, stayed there. He looked at you like he was trying to memorize you—every line of your face, every flicker of your expression.
Your breath hitched.
“Oscar,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if it was a warning or an invitation.
He leaned closer, so close you could see the way his lashes shadowed against his cheek, the faint curve of his mouth. His voice was quiet, unsteady. “I missed you. More than I thought I would.”
You swallowed hard, your chest tightening. “I missed you, too.”
His hand moved, slow and tentative, brushing against yours on the duvet. His fingers curled lightly around your knuckles, testing, waiting.
You didn’t pull away. You couldn’t.
Instead, you turned your hand, lacing your fingers through his. The smallest gesture, but it felt monumental, like a lock clicking open.
His breath shuddered out. “God, you have no idea what you do to me.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. “Oscar…”
He shifted again, closer, his thigh pressing against yours now. His free hand lifted, hesitated, then brushed a stray strand of hair from your cheek. The touch was feather-light, reverent, but it burned all the same.
You leaned into it without thinking.
For a moment, everything froze. The air was thick, your breath shallow, his eyes locked on yours like he was standing on the edge of something dangerous.
And then he kissed you.
Soft at first, tentative, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed.
But you kissed him back.
And suddenly, tentative wasn’t enough.
The kiss deepened, slow but insistent, years of unspoken words and buried feelings spilling into the space between your mouths. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, and yours clutched at his shirt like you needed him closer, closer still.
The room tilted. The world shrank.
It was just him. Always him.
When he finally pulled back, breathless, his forehead pressed to yours, his laugh came out shaky. “Been wanting to do that for so long.”
You laughed too, though it broke halfway. “Took you long enough.”
He grinned, but it was softer than you’d ever seen, his thumb still tracing your cheekbone. “Not doing the whole subtle thing anymore. I can’t. Not after this year.”
You couldn’t stop staring at him, couldn’t stop feeling like your whole body was on fire in the best way.
“You don’t have to,” you whispered.
His lips brushed yours again, feather-light, like a promise. “Good.”
The bed creaked as you both shifted, finding yourselves tangled closer without even meaning to. His arm slid around your waist, yours looped around his neck, and the kiss turned hungrier, less careful.
Not explicit. Not dangerous. But full of everything you’d both been holding back—want, need, love, all tangled up in the way his lips moved against yours, the way his breath hitched when your fingers curled into his hair.
He pulled back just enough to murmur against your mouth, voice rough, “Tell me to stop and I will.”
You shook your head, heart pounding. “Don’t.”
And then his mouth was on yours again, deeper this time, until the only thing that existed was the heat of him, the press of his hand at your waist, the sound of your own pulse roaring in your ears.
Somewhere downstairs, a door clicked shut. Footsteps padded along the hallway.
You both froze, pulling apart with startled laughs, foreheads still touching.
Oscar’s grin was boyish, breathless. “Guess I should lock the door next time.”
You smacked his shoulder lightly, cheeks blazing. “You’re insufferable.”
“Yeah,” he said, stealing another quick kiss before you could stop him. “But you love me.”
And God help you, he was right.
The footsteps faded down the hall, a door clicked shut, and silence reclaimed the house.
You stayed where you were, your forehead resting against his, both of you breathless, your mouths tingling.
Oscar exhaled a laugh, his chest rising and falling against yours. “That was—” He broke off, shaking his head, the tips of his ears pink. “God, that was… wow.”
You were laughing too, your hand still clutching at the fabric of his shirt like you hadn’t realized you hadn’t let go. “Wow? That’s the best you’ve got?”
He squeezed your waist, smirking. “Do you want me to start pulling out poetry? Because I could. I’ve been keeping it bottled up for years.”
Your laugh bubbled out, loud enough that you had to clap a hand over your mouth. “You’re ridiculous.”
His grin softened, his voice quieter. “And you’re perfect.”
The words landed heavily, and you couldn’t bring yourself to tease this time. You just stared at him, your chest aching, your throat tight.
And then you kissed him again.
This time it wasn’t desperate. It was slow, playful, almost giddy — your noses bumping, your mouths curving into half-laughs between kisses. Every brush of his lips felt like a discovery, every little sigh making you both smile like fools.
Oscar broke away for half a second, his nose nudging yours. “Do you realize,” he whispered, “that you’re my girlfriend now?”
You snorted against his lips, cheeks burning. “You didn’t even ask me properly.”
He pulled back an inch, mock-offended, though his grin betrayed him. “Excuse me. I did ask. Friday night, big celebration, practically poured my heart out—”
“That was to court me.” You arched a brow, biting back a smile. “Not the same thing.”
His eyes lit with mischief, and before you could move, he pushed you back gently onto the duvet, hovering over you with that crooked grin that always made your stomach flip. His curls tickled your forehead as he dipped closer.
“Fine,” he murmured, voice teasing but soft. “Will you be my girlfriend?”
Your heart did a somersault.
You pretended to consider it, pursing your lips dramatically. “Hmm…”
“Unbelievable.” He dropped his forehead to your shoulder with a groan, his laugh vibrating against your skin. “I’ve been pining for, what, over a decade, and now you’re making me sweat.”
You giggled, threading your fingers through his hair, tugging just enough to make him look at you again. Your voice was gentle, honest. “Yes, Oscar. Of course I will.”
His grin nearly split his face in two. He kissed you again, quick and firm, and then he was laughing into your mouth, pure joy spilling out of him until you couldn’t help laughing too.
Minutes blurred into hours.
You ended up tangled on his bed, side by side, limbs overlapping carelessly. His arm was slung around your waist, your leg hooked over his, and every so often he’d lean down just to press another kiss to your hairline, your cheek, the corner of your mouth. Each one earned him a laugh, a swat, a whispered “stop, you’re ridiculous”—but you never really wanted him to stop.
The lamp glowed low, throwing shadows across the posters and the cluttered desk. The rest of the house was asleep. It felt like the two of you had the whole world to yourselves.
Oscar shifted onto his back, pulling you against his chest. You rested your chin there, looking up at him.
“What now?” you asked softly.
He tilted his head toward you, brows raising. “What do you mean?”
“You’re… you. You’ve just won F3. Next year is F2. You’re not stopping, Oscar. And me—” You hesitated, chewing your lip. “Where do I fit into all of that?”
His hand slid up and down your back slowly, reassuring. “Everywhere,” he said simply.
You blinked. “That’s not an answer.”
“Yes, it is.” His eyes were steady, almost fierce. “You’ve been there since the start. Since before the karting, before all of this. Do you think I’d want to do any of it without you?”
You swallowed hard, your throat tight.
“Besides,” he added, his voice softening, “we’ve already done the long nights, the hospital visits, the distance. We’ll figure out the rest, too. You’re not losing me.”
You buried your face in his chest for a moment, breathing him in — soap, detergent, that faint trace of fuel that seemed permanently baked into his skin no matter how long he’d been away from the track.
“You make it sound so easy,” you murmured.
“It’s not,” he admitted. “But it’s worth it. You’re worth it.”
That silenced you.
You tilted your head back to look at him, and he leaned down without hesitation, kissing you again. It was softer this time, lingering, the kind of kiss that said we’ll be okay.
Eventually, you both drifted into quieter conversation, voices hushed, giggles bubbling up now and then.
“Do you ever think about the future?” you whispered, tracing idle patterns on his chest with your fingertip.
He caught your hand, intertwining your fingers, his thumb brushing your knuckles. “All the time.”
“What do you see?”
He thought for a moment, then smiled. “You. Always you.”
You rolled your eyes, though your heart swelled. “That’s still not an answer.”
“It is.” He kissed your temple. “But fine… I see races, trophies, and traveling. I see you at every finish line, pretending you don’t get emotional when they play the anthem.”
You laughed, hiding your face in his shirt. “I do not cry.”
“You do,” he teased, tugging lightly at your hair. “I’ve seen it. Don’t even try to deny it.”
You groaned, hitting his chest lightly. “You’re insufferable.”
“And you love me,” he shot back, smirking.
You pressed another kiss to his jaw in retaliation. “Unfortunately.”
The conversation wandered further, softer, sillier. “What about ten years from now?” you asked.
He hummed, pretending to think hard. “We’ll probably still be in this room because my mum refuses to let me move out.”
You snorted. “Accurate.”
“But seriously?” His voice grew quieter. “Ten years… I’d like us to have a place of our own. Maybe somewhere in Europe. A little flat with terrible furniture because neither of us knows how to decorate.”
You grinned against his shoulder. “You’d leave all the decorating to me.”
“Exactly.” He kissed your forehead. “And maybe… kids someday. Not too many. Two? Three?”
You froze, then laughed nervously. “You’ve thought about this a lot, haven’t you?”
His ears went pink, but his expression stayed earnest. “Yeah. Because when I think of the future, it’s never just me. It’s us.”
Your chest tightened so much it almost hurt. You kissed him then, fiercely, trying to pour every unspoken word into it.
When you finally pulled back, you were both smiling too much to keep kissing properly.
The night stretched on. Kisses turned into giggles when your noses bumped, into whispered “stop, you’re going to wake them,” and muffled laughter under the duvet. His hand found yours again and again, as if reminding himself you were real.
At one point, you shifted closer, tucking your head under his chin, and he sighed, holding you tighter. “This feels like a dream,” he murmured into your hair.
“Then don’t wake up,” you whispered back.
He pressed a kiss to the top of your head, his voice rough. “Never.”
The clock ticked past midnight, then one.
Neither of you moved to sleep.
You just stayed there, tangled together, whispering about everything and nothing. Every memory laced with laughter, every glance filled with something heavier, deeper.
By the time his breathing finally evened out and yours began to match, you realized with a start that this—his arm around you, your fingers entwined, your lips tingling from hours of kisses—wasn’t just a moment.
It was the start of forever.
The season opener in Bahrain set the tone: dry heat, desert winds, and a brand-new chapter for Oscar.
The desert heat shimmered over the paddock, and Oscar tugged at his race suit collar as if that would ease the weight pressing on his chest.
You stood by the Prema garage, visor cap pulled low, trying not to wring your hands.
“Stop looking like you’re about to faint,” he muttered, brushing past you on his way to the grid.
You smirked. “Stop pretending you don’t like that I’m here.”
His lips twitched into the smallest smile before his focus returned. In an instant, he was gone: helmet on, visor down, sliding into the car.
Later, when he crossed the finish line, P5 in his first Feature Race, his searching eyes found your face in the limited crowd. You were on your feet, clapping like crazy, mouthing I’m proud of you. Only then did his chest finally unclench, tension dissolving into pride and relief for the first time all weekend.
Then came Monaco, with its narrow streets, a ribbon of unforgiving concrete walls. Oscar had told you not to come—“Too stressful, too cramped, stay in Nice, I’ll text you”—but you came anyway.
From the balcony overlooking Mirabeau, you saw the flash of his Prema dart through, and your heart lodged in your throat.
He’d qualified well, and when the checkered flag waved, he brought it home P2 in the Feature, champagne spraying down his fireproofs, curls sticking to his forehead.
Later, in the rented flat, you found him on the couch, staring at his phone.
“P2 in Monaco,” you said, flopping beside him. “You should be celebrating.”
He shrugged, jaw tight. “Could’ve been better.”
You bumped his shoulder. “You’re allowed to breathe, you know.”
He turned his head finally, met your eyes, and some of that steel cracked. “…Thanks for being here.”
You leaned your head on his. “Always.”
Baku followed.
Chaos. The word barely scratched the surface.
Two safety cars. Three restarts. Cars flying into barriers like dominoes.
You’d gripped the rail so tightly your palms hurt, eyes tracking the red and white car with desperate focus. Each restart, your stomach flipped; each lock-up made you flinch.
But he kept it clean, threading through the madness, and when the dust cleared, he’d taken his first Feature Race win of the season.
On the radio, his laugh crackled through, incredulous. “We actually did it.”
When he found you after, he didn’t even take his helmet off before sweeping you up in a hug.
“You’re sweaty and disgusting,” you laughed against his shoulder.
“Worth it,” he said, muffled through the helmet, holding on like he’d never let go.
Silverstone was different; the roar of the crowd dulled to a distant hum in Oscar’s ears. He sat in the cramped driver’s room, fireproofs still clinging damply to his skin, his helmet abandoned by the door. His hands itched to clench, to do something, but all he could do was sit there and watch the race replay looping across the TV.
The pole lap had been perfect. The kind of lap drivers dreamed of—smooth, precise, aggressive where it mattered. For once, he’d felt untouchable. And then… the lights went out.
A mediocre start. A lock-up in Turn 3. Tire degradation worse than they’d expected. A pit window that hadn’t gone his way. And suddenly, the perfect lap had dissolved into a P3 finish.
From the outside, third place was a podium, champagne, points. To him, it felt like failure.
He dragged both hands through his damp curls, tugging at the roots.
You found him like that twenty minutes later. The celebrations had already faded outside—the champagne dried on the podium, the photographers moved on to the main race weekend. You slipped into the room quietly, a lanyard swinging at your chest.
“You know,” you said softly, leaning against the doorframe, “most people would kill for third at Silverstone.”
He didn’t look up. “I’m not most people.”
You crossed the room, crouching in front of him so he couldn’t avoid your eyes. His were dark, stormy, locked on the floor.
“You were on pole,” you said gently.
He flinched. “Don’t remind me.”
“That’s a good thing, Oscar.”
“Not if you can’t hold it,” he snapped before he could stop himself. His voice cracked at the edges, raw and too loud in the small space. “Pole doesn’t mean anything if you screw it up. If you—” He cut himself off, shaking his head.
Your chest ached.
You lowered yourself to the floor beside him, shoulder brushing his. He tensed but didn’t move away.
“You didn’t screw it up,” you said firmly. “Racing isn’t… it isn’t math. It’s not clean and simple. There are a hundred things that can go wrong, and most of them aren’t your fault.”
He let out a bitter laugh. “Feels like it’s always my fault.”
“That’s because you care too much.” You tilted your head toward him. “If you didn’t, you wouldn’t be sitting here tearing yourself apart after still standing on the podium.”
Finally, his eyes flicked to yours. They were glassy, rimmed red—not from crying, but from holding it back.
“I had it,” he whispered, voice almost breaking. “I had it in my hands, and I—” He pressed his knuckles to his mouth, as though the words were dangerous. “What if I never get that chance again?”
The fear in his tone knocked the air from your lungs.
You reached out before you could think better of it, your hand covering his where it rested on his knee. Warmth seeped between your palms.
“You will,” you said quietly. “And when you do, you’ll take it. You always do. That’s who you are.”
For a long moment, he just stared at you, breathing shallow. Then, finally, he let out a long, shaky sigh, shoulders slumping.
“You always know what to say,” he muttered.
“Because I know you.”
The silence stretched. He turned his hand under yours, fingers intertwining, and squeezed.
Later, when he finally peeled himself out of the fireproofs and into a hoodie, you sat side by side on the edge of the hotel bed, takeaway containers between you. He still hadn’t found the energy to eat, but when you nudged a fork into his hand, he accepted it, grumbling half-heartedly.
“You’re allowed to be disappointed,” you said after a while, picking at your fries. “But don’t let it eat you alive. You’re more than one race. More than one weekend.”
He swallowed hard, then looked at you—really looked, the corners of his mouth twitching despite himself. “You know what’s unfair?”
“What?”
“You believe in me more than I believe in myself.”
You reached over and stole a fry from his container, smirking. “Good thing I’ve got enough belief for the both of us.”
He shook his head, finally letting out a laugh, soft and hoarse. The storm in his chest eased, just a little.
And as the Silverstone night stretched on, he found himself thinking—not about the race, not about pole or points—but about how your hand had fit against his, steady and sure.
Then Monza, the temple of speed, where slipstreams made kings and milliseconds decided everything .The Italian sun was sharp against the tarmac, the air vibrating with the hum of Formula 2 engines. Monza was chaos wrapped in history, the Temple of Speed. Oscar had told you a dozen times that a place like this didn’t forgive mistakes.
But that didn’t stop your heart from leaping every time his car flashed past on the main straight.
The Feature Race was ruthless—slipstreams, overtakes, lockups. Oscar fought tooth and nail, and when the checkered flag fell, he brought it home P1.
From the pit wall, you’d cheered so loud your throat ached. Watching him stand on the podium, trophy high, champagne dripping from his fireproofs, you felt the weight of it: how much he wanted this. How much you wanted it for him.
Back in the paddock, though, he found you with a grin that was half-proud, half-weary.
“You see that?” he said, eyes bright, curls sticking to his forehead.
You smiled, grabbing his hand despite the grease still on his gloves. “I saw everything.”
For a second, it didn’t matter that other drivers were still climbing—Theo, Guanyu, Robert. At Monza, Oscar looked untouchable.
Sochi arrived with its sweeping curves and cold air, a place that tested patience as much as pace. Rain hammered the paddock, cold and insistent, blurring the line between track and sky.
Oscar leaned against the pit wall, jaw tight. The weekend had been messy: delayed sessions, strategy gambles that hadn’t paid off, nerves buzzing like static. He wasn’t collapsing, but you could see the strain in the set of his shoulders, the clipped way he answered questions.
When the Feature Race finally unfolded, it was survival, not domination. Cars slid wide, pit stops piled pressure, and he wrestled the Prema across the line for P3.
The podium smile didn’t quite reach his eyes.
That night in the hotel, he stared at the ceiling while you sprawled across the other bed, scrolling idly through your phone.
“Do you ever feel like…” He trailed off.
You rolled onto your side, watching him. “Like what?”
“Like everyone’s waiting for me to crack.” His voice was quiet, almost drowned by the hum of the air conditioner.
You sat up, the mattress dipping under your weight. “You’re not going to crack, Oscar.”
He turned his head, eyes tired but searching. “And if I do?”
You reached over, brushing your fingers against his. “Then I’ll be here to pick you up. Every single time.”
Something in his chest softened. He exhaled, closing his eyes.
For the first time all weekend, his hand reached back for yours.
The first thing Oscar did when he came home was collapse face-first onto his childhood bed.
You stood in the doorway, arms crossed, watching as his gangly frame sprawled across the same mattress he’d slept on since he was twelve. The posters were still there — half Formula 1 legends, half peeling from the corners.
“You know, for someone who just podiumed in Sochi, you’re very dramatic,” you teased.
He turned his head, cheek smushed against the pillow. “I’m not dramatic. I’m exhausted.”
“You slept on the plane.”
“Not real sleep.” He cracked one eye open at you. “Come sit.”
You did, perched beside him. His hand immediately found your wrist, tugging until you toppled onto the bed with him. You let out a soft laugh, your hair spilling across the pillow next to his.
“Better,” he murmured, voice already sinking into that lazy rhythm he only carried at home. “Much better.”
The days blurred into something softer than either of you expected.
Mornings meant pancakes, because Nicole believed a proper breakfast was the cure for everything. You sat at the table with Hattie and Edie, listening to their chatter while Oscar staggered in late, curls still damp from his shower.
“You look like a zombie,” Edie would declare, handing him the syrup bottle.
“And yet,” Oscar replied, deadpan, “still prettier than you.”
The sisters shrieked; you laughed so hard your orange juice almost went up your nose.
Afternoons were slow, the kind of quiet you never got during race weeks. Sometimes you sat on the back porch with Oscar, sunlight painting everything gold. He’d stretch out on the deck chair, long legs bent awkwardly, while you leaned against the railing.
“What are you thinking about?” you asked once, catching the faraway look in his eyes.
He shrugged, fiddling with a loose thread on his t-shirt. “That this feels… normal. Too normal.”
“And that’s bad?”
“No. Just…” His lips curved into a smile, soft and small. “It makes me forget I’ve got a championship to finish.”
You nudged his foot with yours. “Forgetting isn’t always bad. You deserve to breathe.”
The look he gave you then lingered, warm, steady, like you were the anchor he didn’t realize he’d needed.
Evenings were your favorite. The house always seemed louder after dinner, with Hattie’s playlists echoing down the hall and Edie trying to out-sing her. Nicole laughed while Chris pretended to mind, though his grin betrayed him.
You and Oscar would slip upstairs, escaping into the safety of his room.
One night, you ended up on the floor with an old deck of cards between you. He insisted on teaching you poker, though you accused him of making up rules halfway through.
“You can’t just put down three queens and call it a win.”
“Yes, I can.”
“That’s cheating!”
“Or maybe,” he leaned closer, grin tugging at his mouth, “you’re just bad at poker.”
You threw a pillow at his head. He caught it effortlessly, then laughed when you scowled.
“Fine,” he said, voice softening as he reached over to ruffle your hair. “You win this round.”
The warmth of his touch lingered long after.
The night before he flew out again, you found yourselves lying side by side on his bed, the glow of his bedside lamp casting everything in amber.
“Do you ever wonder,” you whispered, “what life would be like if you didn’t race?” He turned his head, studying you. “I’d rather not. Because then I wouldn’t be me.”
You nodded, tracing patterns on the blanket with your finger. “I just… I don’t like seeing you wear yourself down.”
Oscar shifted, his hand brushing yours. “I won’t break, Y/N.” His voice was firm, but there was something underneath it, something that made your chest tighten. “Not when I’ve got you.”
The silence after that wasn’t awkward. It was full. Full of everything unsaid, everything building quietly between you.
For a while, neither of you moved. The house hummed with life around you, but in his room, the world had narrowed to just two heartbeats, steady and close.
And maybe that was what the summer break was about: not forgetting the championship, not erasing the pressure, but reminding him of the world outside of racing: the world that always, always had you in it.
The air in Saudi Arabia felt different. Heavy, humming. The first-ever race weekend on the brand-new Jeddah Corniche Circuit had everyone uneasy—the walls too close, the track too fast, the unknowns pressing down on every driver in the paddock.
Oscar, though, wore his usual calm. He tugged at the strap of his cap as he spotted you outside the PREMA garage, giving a small, reassuring grin that didn’t quite reach his eyes.
“You look tense,” you said.
“I’m fine.” He tilted his head, almost teasing. “You’re the one bouncing your leg like you’re about to race.”
You scowled, but it softened when he reached for your hand, squeezing once before ducking into the garage. That brief touch said more than words.
The feature race started with that usual burst of chaos—cars darting into Turn 1, the commentary a blur of excitement in your earpiece. You stood by the monitor wall, watching Oscar settle into his rhythm. Third. Not bad.
And then—
Screams across the radio. Brakes locking. A car stalling on the grid. Another slamming straight into it.
You saw it in real time on the monitors: Theo Pourchaire’s ART stuck motionless, Enzo Fittipaldi colliding at full speed. Carbon fiber everywhere. The impact was so violent that your stomach dropped.
The track went silent under the red flag.
No one breathed. Engineers froze. You stared at the screen, hands numb, until Oscar’s voice cut through on comms.
“Everyone okay?” His tone was clipped, controlled, but you could hear the edge underneath.
The pit wall reassured him, confirming both Theo and Enzo were conscious but injured, headed to the hospital. Relief came sharp and shaky, but the tension lingered—coiled tight in the air.
Five laps. That’s all it had been before the race was abandoned. No restart. No podiums. Just an unfinished chapter and the shadow of how dangerous this sport could be.
When Oscar climbed out of the car, you met him in the back corridor. His eyes were darker than usual, jaw tight.
“Hey,” you said quietly.
He looked at you for a long moment, then pulled you into him. Not a quick hug, but an all-encompassing hold, his forehead pressed into your shoulder.
“This isn’t supposed to happen,” he murmured.
You rubbed his back, whispering, “They’re alive. That’s what matters.”
But even as you said it, you knew: the image of that crash wouldn’t leave either of you soon.
The final race weekend felt heavier after Jeddah. The paddock was subdued, every driver carrying the reminder of fragility.
Yet when Oscar stepped into the garage on Friday, something had shifted. There was steel in his posture, determination burning under his calm. This was it. One last push. One last chance to prove himself.
You were right there, the way you always had been. Adjusting his cap before qualifying, straightening the collar of his fireproofs. Your fingers brushed against his neck, lingering just a second too long.
“You’ve got this,” you whispered.
His eyes softened. “Not without you.”
Qualifying came and went. Oscar planted himself firmly at the front, the kind of lap that made engineers exhale in disbelief. Watching him climb out of the car, grin flashing, you felt it in your chest: this was his.
The sprint races were messy, as they always were, but he navigated them with calculated patience. A podium here, solid points there. Enough to keep the championship lead safe.
But it was Sunday—the feature race—that held everything.
The night sky glowed over Yas Marina, floodlights bouncing off the newly modified layout. You stood on the pit wall, headset clamped tight, as the cars lined up.
Oscar’s breathing came through steady on the radio, but you knew better. His hands always betrayed him—small, subconscious flexes on the wheel whenever he was nervous.
Lights out.
Twenty drivers roared into Turn 1, and Oscar slotted perfectly into second. Not reckless. Not overreaching. Just enough to keep control.
Lap after lap, he kept the gap. You heard his engineer’s calm updates, the quiet affirmations. But you also heard the grit in Oscar’s replies—the razor-sharp focus of a driver who knew exactly what was at stake.
And then—final lap. You held your breath as he crossed the line, arms shooting skyward in the cockpit. The team erupted. Cheers, claps, hugs all around you.
Oscar Piastri. Formula 2 Champion.
You barely registered moving before you were running, weaving through mechanics and engineers until you reached him. He’d already climbed out of the car, helmet off, sweat plastering his curls to his forehead.
The moment his eyes found you, his grin widened into something breathtaking.
“Y/N!” he shouted, voice cracking with joy.
And then he was in your arms. You laughed and cried all at once, your feet leaving the ground as he lifted you, spinning once in pure disbelief.
“You did it,” you whispered against his ear, voice breaking. “You actually did it.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you, eyes glassy but shining. “We did it.”
The words sank deep, echoing louder than the celebrations around you. This wasn’t just his victory. It was yours too—for every race you’d sat through, every late-night phone call, every quiet reassurance.
And when the cameras swung your way, capturing the two of you wrapped up in each other, Oscar didn’t care. He pressed a kiss to your forehead, lingering, and whispered so only you could hear:
“I love you so much.”
The strangest part of being a reserve driver, Oscar decided, wasn’t the waiting. It was the pretending.
He’d sit in Alpine’s garage in his crisp blue kit, headset clamped to his ears, data scrolling across the screens in front of him. Cameras panned past him sometimes, and fans still snapped photos, but he wasn’t the one strapping into the car. He wasn’t the one with twenty laps to change a race. He was the backup plan.
You could tell it gnawed at him, even if he tried to hide it.
When you’d call after sessions, he’d sound steady, professional. “Yeah, the car looks good. Esteban’s happy, Fernando’s… well, Fernando.” He’d laugh a little, but the pause after was always heavy. He didn’t say what you knew he was thinking: It should be me in there.
So when he finally came home after long stretches of traveling but not racing, the weight of it all would show.
One evening, late spring, you found him on the couch with his head tipped back against the cushions, the TV flickering in front of him. The lights were dim, his socks mismatched, and his phone sat discarded on the coffee table.
“Long day?” you asked softly, setting a cup of tea down beside him.
“Long year,” he murmured, eyes fluttering shut.
You slid onto the couch beside him, tucking your legs underneath you. Without a word, he shifted until his head was in your lap, the way he had when he was sixteen and exhausted from karting weekends.
Your fingers found his curls instinctively. He let out a quiet sigh at the touch, his shoulders loosening.
“You know,” you said, “you’re allowed to be frustrated.”
His eyes cracked open, searching your face. “Frustrated doesn’t change anything.”
“No,” you agreed. “But bottling it up won’t either.”
He stared at you for a moment, then huffed a small laugh. “You’re annoyingly logical sometimes.”
“And yet you love me for it.”
That earned you the tiniest smile.
Domestic life suited him more than either of you expected.
He cooked breakfast with you most mornings, insisting on learning how to flip pancakes without making a mess. “It’s science, Y/N. A precise science.” You’d roll your eyes when he burned the first one, but by the third, he’d be grinning proudly, plate in hand.
Evenings meant movie nights. Sometimes it was old racing documentaries, sometimes just the dumbest rom-coms you could find. He’d claim he was only watching because you wanted to, but by halfway through, he’d be quoting the lines louder than you.
And on the rare days when he wasn’t jetting off to a simulator session in Enstone, you’d both wander around Melbourne like tourists in your own city, ice cream cones in hand, hands brushing as you walked.
One night, after a long dinner with both your families crammed into his parents’ dining room, the two of you slipped away into the backyard. The air was cool, stars blinking faintly above.
Oscar leaned against the fence, hands shoved in his hoodie pocket. You stood opposite him, close enough to touch but not quite.
“I feel stuck,” he admitted suddenly, voice low.
Your brows furrowed. “Stuck?”
“Like I’m… waiting for permission to do the thing I’ve wanted my whole life.” He kicked at the grass. “I know being reserve is important, I know I’m lucky, but—” He broke off, frustrated. “I didn’t come this far just to sit on the sidelines.”
You stepped closer, slipping your fingers into his. His grip tightened instantly, as if he needed the anchor.
“Then you won’t,” you said simply.
His eyes lifted to yours, something flickering there.
“You’ll get there, Osc. Whether it’s next year or the year after, you’ll be the one in that seat. And when it happens, I’ll be there, screaming louder than anyone else.”
The corner of his mouth twitched, the tension in his jaw easing. He squeezed your hand, leaning forward just enough that your foreheads touched.
“You promise?” he whispered.
“Always.”
And maybe that was the only thing keeping him steady that year, the knowledge that even when the waiting got unbearable, when his patience wore thin, he had someone who believed so fiercely in him that it almost made up for the ache.
Almost.
The news broke like wildfire: Oscar Piastri signs with McLaren.
You were at his side when his phone lit up with messages, the kind that didn’t stop buzzing for hours. Headlines splashed across every outlet: praise, shock, memes, the whole circus.
“Guess I made some people mad,” he muttered, scrolling. “Some?” you teased. “Osc, Alpine’s lawyers are probably throwing darts at your face right now.” He smirked, but you saw the tension in his shoulders. He’d fought for this seat, for the chance to finally race. It wasn’t just noise — it was everything.
The first time he pulled on the papaya race suit, he stood in front of the mirror longer than usual. “Looks good,” you said, leaning against the doorway.
“You think?”
“Definitely. Orange is your color.” He gave you a flat look, then cracked a grin. “Good thing, because I’ll be sweating in it for the next nine months.”
When Oscar walked into the McLaren headquarters for the first time as their official driver, he couldn’t stop the nervous energy buzzing through him. Cameras followed him, crew members waved, and Zak Brown clapped him on the back like a proud uncle.
But it wasn’t until he saw Lando Norris in the corner, sipping a coffee like he owned the place, that it hit him.
Lando grinned, setting his cup down. “Well, well, well. Look who decided to join the big leagues.” Oscar raised a brow. “You mean the team that drags its car through Q1 half the time?”
“Bold for a rookie,” Lando shot back, eyes twinkling.
The tension lasted all of three seconds before the two burst out laughing.
When you arrived at the first race weekend, Bahrain 2023, the reunion felt even more surreal. You spotted Lando in the paddock first, his sunglasses pushed into his curls. He caught sight of you and immediately broke into a grin.
“Y/N!” He pulled you into a quick hug, stepping back with mock suspicion. “So, still choosing Oscar, huh?”
You rolled your eyes. “We’re not in high school anymore, Norris.”
“Tell that to him,” he quipped, jerking his finger toward Oscar, who was making his way over, a lanyard swinging around his neck.
Oscar slid an arm around your waist instinctively, his smile small but proud. “Already trying to steal her again?”
Lando gasped, clutching his chest dramatically. “Again? Please. She never gave me a chance.”
“Because you never had one,” Oscar muttered under his breath, though the smug curve of his mouth gave him away.
You smacked his shoulder. “Be nice.”
But it didn’t take long before the three of you settled into a rhythm. Paddock strolls were filled with bickering, and press conferences turned chaotic if you sat in the media pen, because Oscar would glance at you mid-answer and Lando would immediately call him out for “losing his train of thought.”
At the end of his rookie year, Oscar finished strong. Rookie mistakes, sure, but flashes of brilliance too — enough to silence doubters.
And through it all, the trio never broke. You and Lando fell into the role of joint support system, equally invested in Oscar’s rise.
On nights when Oscar slumped back into the hotel room, frustrated at a lost point or a messy pit stop, you’d sit cross-legged on the bed while Lando called from down the hall, cracking jokes until Oscar cracked a smile.
“This is weird, isn’t it?” Oscar murmured once, after you hung up the phone with Lando.
“What is?”
He hesitated, then smirked. “That I used to think he was my biggest rival for you.”
Your brows rose. “And now?”
“Now he’s just the annoying third wheel.”
You swatted him with a pillow, but you couldn’t stop laughing.
The second year felt different.
Gone was the wide-eyed rookie aura. Oscar walked into the 2024 season with a quiet sharpness in his stride, the kind born from a year of trial, error, and proving himself. McLaren still wasn’t the fastest car on the grid, but it was better, sharper, more competitive. And so was he.
The first podium came early, in Japan, and you could still remember the way his helmet tilted toward the grandstand when he climbed out of the car, just the smallest acknowledgment that you were there. He never made it obvious, never put on theatrics, but you knew. You always knew.
Lando teased him relentlessly afterward. “Careful, mate, they’ll start thinking you’re romantic.”
“Let them,” Oscar had replied, a rare cheeky smirk tugging at his lips.
The season wasn’t perfect, though it never could be. Spain ended in heartbreak when a late pit stop shuffled him out of the points, and Austria had him clashing wheels with a Ferrari in Turn 3. You watched from the garage that day, heart in your throat, until his car limped back, battered but still running.
Later, in the hotel room, he’d flopped onto the bed, staring at the ceiling.
“You don’t have to cheer me up,” he murmured when you nudged his shoulder.
“I know,” you whispered back, lying down beside him. “I’m just here.”
That was enough.
Summer break came like a breath of air. For two weeks, it was just the two of you, tucked away from the chaos, beach mornings, late-night talks on balconies, laughter spilling over card games. Lando dropped by once, uninvited, and nearly got locked out for making one too many jokes about you and Oscar being “like an old married couple already.”
But the truth was, the time away made both of you realize something: racing wasn’t just about survival anymore. It was about building something. About chasing a dream not in isolation, but with someone waiting at the end of every race.
When the season wound toward its close, McLaren kept climbing. A second podium. Then another. By the time they reached the final rounds, whispers started floating about Oscar being the one to watch. Not for 2024, no. But for the years after.
On the final night in Abu Dhabi, you stood with him on the balcony of his hotel room, the Yas Marina lights reflecting off the water below. He leaned on the railing, quiet as always, but you could see the fire in his eyes.
“Next year,” he said simply.
It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t a dream.
It was a promise.
And you believed him.
Then came 2025, a new season, a new challenge, and Oscar’s shot at proving he wasn’t just a rising star, but one to beat.
Melbourne felt like a storm in your chest. The kind that rattled windows and left the air buzzing long after the thunder.
Oscar was back home, back where it started, and he was buzzing too — masking it under his usual calm, but you knew better. His knee bounced under the table at breakfast, fingers tapping against his coffee cup like he was already holding the steering wheel.
“You’re nervous,” you teased, leaning over to steal a piece of toast from his plate.
He barely glanced up from his phone. “No, I’m… focused.” But his ears betrayed him, turning the faintest shade of pink.
You grinned, leaning closer. “Focused doesn’t usually look like you trying to saw your knife through the plate.”
That got him, he laughed, shoulders loosening just enough to let you rest your head against him. “Okay, maybe a little nervous,” he admitted, voice low so only you could hear.
By the time the lights went out on Sunday, you were in the garage, headphones clamped tight, heart pounding in time with the engines. You’d never get used to this—the way the air shook, the way every lap felt like a gamble with fate. But when Oscar crossed the line in third, the garage erupted, and you were swept into the chaos.
Podium. Home race. First race of the season.
When he finally found you in the sea of papaya, his arms were around you before you could even speak, helmet still in his hand. “We did it,” he breathed, forehead pressed to yours like the cameras weren’t everywhere.
“We?” you laughed, even though your eyes stung.
“Yes, we.” His grin was boyish, unguarded, the one you always kept for yourself. “You think I’m doing this without you?”
A few races later, it hit harder. Monaco, the jewel of the calendar, the race Oscar had been dreaming about since karting days—and it went sideways. A lock-up in qualifying. Traffic. A strategy call that put him on the back foot. By the end, he was staring at the timing sheets like they’d betrayed him.
Third. In Monaco, third felt like last.
The garage was muted, papaya still moving but without its usual brightness. And Oscar—your Oscar—was stone-faced. Not angry, just… hollow.
You waited until the crowd thinned, until it was just him, the half-empty water bottle in his hand, and the weight pressing down on his shoulders.
“Hey.” Your voice was soft, the kind you only used when he was fraying at the edges.
He didn’t look up. “I threw it away.”
“You didn’t. That track…” You stepped closer, tugging gently at his sleeve. “It chews people up and spits them out. You still got a podium. You still finished.”
His jaw clenched. “That’s not enough.”
And maybe it wasn’t, not for him, not when he knew what he could do. But when his eyes finally lifted to yours, there was something raw there. Needing.
So you held his face, thumb brushing over the tense line of his jaw. “Then make it enough for now. You’ve got Spain next week. This doesn’t define you.”
He exhaled, shaky. Leaned into your touch like it was the only steady thing left.
Later that night, in the quiet of your hotel room, you caught him watching you as you scrolled mindlessly through your phone.
“What?” you asked, raising a brow.
“Nothing.” He shook his head, but a smile tugged at his lips. “Just… thanks. For not letting me drown in it.”
You set your phone aside, sliding closer until your head rested against his chest. His heartbeat was steady again, calmer now. “Always,” you whispered, and he kissed your hair, the weight of the world lifting — if only for a little while.
Home races always carried a different weight. The roar of the British crowd was unlike anything else — Union Jacks waving, papaya flooding the grandstands. It should’ve been perfect.
And then strategy happened. And pace. And suddenly, it was Lando in clean air, Lando crossing the line first, Lando soaking in the glory. Oscar came second.
From the garage, you could feel it radiating off him even before he pulled into parc fermé — the fury he masked behind a tight smile, the clipped congratulations to his teammate. Cameras caught the handshake, but you saw the stiffness in Oscar’s jaw, the way his knuckles whitened as he tugged off his gloves.
When he finally found you, his eyes were stormy. “That should’ve been mine.”
You reached for his hand, but he pulled it through his hair instead, pacing like he couldn’t burn off the adrenaline. “I had the pace. I had it. And then—” He cut himself off, voice cracking sharper than he meant to.
“Osc,” you stepped closer, catching his gaze. “They’ll say whatever makes headlines. But I know what I saw. You were brilliant. You were—” You hesitated, then let it out. “—unbelievable.”
He exhaled like he’d been holding his breath for hours, shoulders sagging as he finally let you in. His forehead dropped against yours, his voice barely audible under the crowd. “I just wanted one. Here. At home.”
Behind you, cheers erupted—Nico Hülkenberg, on the podium for the first time in his career. The garage went wild for him, and even Oscar cracked a smile when he caught sight of Nico holding the trophy up.
“Guess the old man still has it,” you teased, nudging him gently.
That earned a laugh, low and reluctant but real. “Yeah. He deserves it.” His hand finally found yours, fingers lacing tight. “Still doesn’t change that I’m pissed.”
“I know.” You squeezed his hand. “But it changes that you’re not alone in it.”
By the time Hungary rolled around, the season had worn him down. The tension, the travel, the endless questions about McLaren’s golden boys and who was leading the charge. He was still in the championship fight, but it felt like carrying a mountain.
After the race — another podium, but not a win — he sat slumped in the motorhome, still in his fireproofs, hair damp with sweat. His eyes were glassy, staring at the floor like it might give him answers.
You knelt in front of him, gently tugging at his gloves. “You don’t have to hold it all together right now.”
“I do,” he whispered, voice hoarse. “Because if I don’t, I’ll break.”
Your chest ached. “Then break. With me. Just for a little.”
His breath hitched, and then his hands were cupping your face, pulling you into him like you were the only thing tethering him to earth. His lips brushed yours — soft, desperate, more confession than kiss.
“I can’t lose this,” he murmured against your mouth. “Not you. Not this season. Not anything.”
“You won’t,” you promised, threading your fingers through his damp hair. “You’re right where you need to be. And I’m not going anywhere.”
He kissed you again, slower this time, steadier, until the weight on his shoulders felt just a little lighter. The world outside could wait — the break was coming, and for once, he could breathe with you.
“Osc,” you breathed, but it wasn’t protest — it was permission.
His eyes searched yours, dark and vulnerable. “You sure?”
You nodded, heart thundering. “Always.”
The rest was a blur — the door clicking shut, the world outside falling away, the weight of his body against yours as he finally let himself have something just for him. The whispers, the laughter, the way his name broke from your lips — it was all yours, private, untouchable.
And when it was over, tangled in sheets and exhaustion, he held you like he’d never let go. “You’re everything,” he whispered into your hair, voice wrecked but certain.
The break was coming. The championship fight would wait. But for tonight, for once, Oscar let himself simply love you.
The two of you disappeared into the quiet corners of life for a few weeks. No cameras, no races, no constant chatter about points and podiums, just late mornings tangled up in sheets, afternoons on sunlit drives with the windows down, and evenings spent cooking with music humming low in the background. It felt like you’d both been holding your breath since Bahrain, and finally, finally, you could exhale.
Oscar still trained religiously, his discipline unshaken, but there was a softness in the way he let you steal his water bottle mid-run, or how he’d break his own schedule to lie back beside you on the couch, eyes heavy but a small smile tugging at his lips. For once, he wasn’t Oscar Piastri, the championship contender; he was just Oscar, your Oscar, and it was everything.
And when the break finally ended, the goodbye was easier this time. Because you didn’t just know where you stood, you’d built something unshakable in the quiet.
After a few races, the Brazilian Grand Prix took place. You could always tell when a race weekend mattered more — when it wasn’t just another stop on the calendar, but a pivot point. Brazil was one of those. The paddock buzzed differently, the air charged with championship math, journalists whispering about how every point mattered now.
Oscar felt it too. You saw it in the set of his jaw during breakfast at the hotel, the way he toyed with his coffee cup but barely drank. “If I don’t nail this one, I make it harder on myself,” he said, not really to you, not really to anyone.
“You’ve been making it harder on yourself since Melbourne, and you’re still here, still leading fights you weren’t supposed to win,” you countered, nudging his foot under the table.
That finally pulled a smile from him. Small, tired, but real. “You always know how to twist it.”
“It’s not twisting,” you whispered. “It’s the truth.”
Interlagos roared as the lights went out. Oscar’s start was clean, sharp. He slotted into P3, stalking Lando and Max, his car practically glued to theirs.
You couldn’t sit. Couldn’t breathe properly. Every lap was a coin toss. Would his tires hold? Would he risk too much? Would Lando slam the door just a fraction too late?
Then came lap 43. The move. Oscar lunged, daring, late on the brakes into Turn 1. Lando defended hard — too hard — and for a heartbeat, you swore both cars would spin out.
They didn’t. Oscar made it stick.
The papaya garage exploded, half in cheers, half in gasps. You could hear Zak Brown swearing three rows down.
Oscar held it. Held it all the way to the flag.
P2. Ahead of Lando. Ahead of the whispers that said he was too green, too cautious.
The podium confetti still clung to his hair when he found you afterward. He didn’t say anything at first—just pressed his forehead to yours, the roar of São Paulo muffled by the way his chest heaved against yours.
“I thought I’d lost it when he closed the door,” he admitted finally, voice hoarse. “For a second, I thought I’d thrown it all away.”
“But you didn’t,” you whispered back. “You kept your head. That’s what makes you different.”
His hands tightened at your waist, grounding himself. “That’s what makes me yours.”
And when he kissed you, there was nothing cautious about it. It wasn’t the polished smile for cameras or the polite interviews for the press. It was raw, messy, teeth and heat and relief.
The title fight was alive. The championship dream is still breathing. And in the eye of the storm, he only wanted you.
Vegas didn’t feel real. Neon lights bled into the paddock, the glitz almost obscene when you knew how much weight Oscar carried into the weekend.
The race itself? Brutal. Cold track temps, messy strategies, and safety cars flipping everything upside down. Oscar wrung every ounce out of the McLaren, finishing P3, podium champagne sticky in his hair.
He called it “damage limitation.” You called it “a miracle.”
That night, back at the hotel, he sat on the edge of the bed, still in team-issued joggers, staring out at the Strip.
“You ever think about what happens if I don’t win this thing?” he asked softly. You climbed into his lap and forced him to look at you. “Yeah. You’ll still come home to me.”
Heat shimmered across the Losail circuit. Drivers wilted under the desert sun; the talk of the paddock was exhaustion and survival.
Oscar survived better than most—P2 again, fighting cramps in the last laps. When he climbed out of the car, sweat dripping, you pushed through PR handlers to reach him. He didn’t care about the cameras catching him clutching your hand like it was oxygen.
Later, half-asleep on the hotel balcony, he rasped, “One more. Just one. Abu Dhabi.”
The desert sun dipped behind the Yas Marina grandstands, painting the track violet and gold. Floodlights hummed above the asphalt, waiting to blaze when darkness fell. The world watched, but all you heard was your heartbeat, the garage's hum, and the voice of the man who'd carried you through every season of his career.
Oscar Piastri sat in his cockpit, helmet on, visor down, his gloved hands flexing around the steering wheel. His championship was on the line. Lando Norris, his teammate, sat two garages down, strapped into the other papaya machine. And Max Verstappen was just behind them.
It was McLaren’s fight. It was their fight. And it was Oscar’s moment to either seize or let slip.
You stood in the garage with the headset pressed tight, fingers white-knuckled around the band as the grid order lit up the screen. P1: Oscar. P2: Lando. P3: Max. The dream front row, but also a nightmare. One mistake, one twitch of hesitation, and everything could collapse.
“Alright mate,” came Tom Stallard’s calm voice through Oscar’s radio. “It’s been a long year, but this is it. Let’s execute clean. You know what you need to do.”
Oscar’s reply was clipped, steady, but you could hear the coil of tension underneath. “Copy.”
He didn’t need to say more. He’d been preparing for this moment his entire life. The five red lights lit up. The crowd rose like a single heartbeat.
Lights out.
Oscar launched off the line, his reaction time perfect, tires biting the asphalt. Lando’s getaway was sharp too, his McLaren pulling alongside into Turn 1. For a terrifying split second, you couldn’t breathe—two papayas, side by side, teammates threading a needle at 180 miles per hour.
Oscar held the inside line, braking late, forcing Lando wide. Verstappen loomed in their mirrors, waiting like a shark.
“They’re racing,” someone muttered in the garage, as though it wasn’t obvious, as though every person on the pit wall wasn’t living and dying with every twitch of the steering wheel.
Through the hotel section, Oscar managed to keep his nose ahead, cutting a tight line while Lando had to tuck back in behind. You exhaled shakily, hands trembling on your headset.
“Nice work, Oscar. Good hold.”
“Yeah, copy.”
But it was only lap one of fifty-eight.
The race settled into a rhythm—Oscar in P1, Lando just inside DRS range, Max hovering in third, never more than two seconds back. Every lap felt like a lifetime.
“Gap to Lando: 0.8,” Tom relayed.
Oscar’s jaw flexed behind his helmet. “Understood.”
You watched the telemetry flicker on the monitors. In Sector one, Oscar was faster. Sector three, Lando closed the gap. Every lap, the same pattern, the same breathless tension.
“Do you think they’ll let them race?” someone whispered in the garage. Of course they would. This was the championship. There were no team orders tonight.
By lap 12, the first round of pit stops loomed. Red Bull blinked early, pitting Max onto fresh hards. McLaren stayed out.
“Box, box. Box this lap,” came Tom’s calm call.
Oscar swung into the pits, the McLaren crew flawless — 2.1 seconds. But when he rejoined, Lando was right there. They were nose to tail, hammering into Turn 4 like it was lap one all over again.
Your breath caught.
“Lando’s attacking,” Tom warned. “I see him,” Oscar snapped back, voice low, eyes locked on the road.
The two papayas weaved down the back straight, Lando trying to use DRS, Oscar defending with every inch of the circuit. Into the braking zone, their wheels almost touched. Your heart seized, waiting for disaster.
But somehow, Oscar held him off again.
The garage erupted in shouts — half relief, half panic.
Your nails dug crescents into your palms. It wasn’t sustainable. They couldn’t keep fighting like this without one of them ending up in the wall.
“Nice defense. But keep looking forward, Oscar. Max is pushing.”
Oscar exhaled harshly into the mic. “Yeah. Copy.”
By lap 25, the sun had set. The track was alive with floodlights and shadows, sparks flickering under the cars as they grazed the kerbs. Oscar’s lead had stretched to just over a second, but it was fragile, flimsy, like spun glass.
And Lando wasn’t giving up.
From the garage, you could see Zak Brown pacing, arms crossed tight, muttering under his breath.
“They’re going to kill each other,” Andrea Stella said flatly into his mic, though his eyes never left the monitors.
“Gap to Lando: 1.1. Gap to Max: 2.2.” Oscar’s hands tightened around the wheel. Every lap felt heavier than the last. He could feel the tires wearing, the car sliding, the heat building in the cockpit.
And then came lap 28.
Lando made his move.
Down the back straight, DRS wide open, he lunged, his papaya streaking alongside. Oscar braked late, heart hammering, the cars side by side into Turn 9.
“Don’t you dare—” you whispered under your breath, as though he could hear you.
Somehow, some miracle, they both made it through. Oscar was ahead, by half a car length, but only just.
His voice came over the radio, strained. “He’s not backing off.”
Tom’s reply was maddeningly calm. “Neither are you. Keep it clean. Eyes forward.”
Lap 29.
Oscar’s knuckles were white inside his gloves, sweat soaking into the balaclava under his helmet. The McLaren jolted under him as he fought for every millimeter of track. His mirrors were full of papaya-orange — Lando’s front wing twitching, hunting.
“Gap to Lando: 0.4,” Tom’s voice filled his helmet.
“Copy,” Oscar breathed, though his jaw was clenched so tightly it ached.
From the garage, you couldn’t look away from the monitor. Every camera cut, every switch of angles felt like a knife’s edge. You had one hand gripping your headset, the other clenched in a fist against your chest.
On the main straight, Lando tried again, his DRS flap wide open, sucking him into Oscar’s slipstream. The roar of the engines merged with the roar of the crowd.
Oscar braked impossibly late into Turn 8. Lando swung wide, locking a wheel, smoke bursting off his front tire. The papaya behind him twitched but remained on the wall.
The garage gasped as one.
“Bloody hell,” someone muttered under their breath.
“Oscar, mind the tires,” Tom warned.
“I know,” Oscar snapped, voice sharp, before softening. “Car feels okay.”
You could hear the truth, though—the tension in his tone, the way he was carrying every ounce of weight on his shoulders.
By lap 32, Max Verstappen loomed again. He’d managed his tires better, Red Bull strategy inching him closer.
“Gap to Max: 1.6,” Tom updated.
“He’s coming,” Oscar muttered, eyes flicking to his mirrors for just a fraction of a second.
And that was the nightmare. Defending against Lando was one thing. But with Max Verstappen lurking, any mistake would mean losing not just the win, but the championship.
Your stomach churned, nausea from nerves more than anything else. You pressed your lips together, whispering under your breath like a prayer. “Come on, Osc.”
Lap 35. Second pit window.
Lando blinked first, diving into the pits for fresh mediums. The papaya crew was flawless, sending him out with barely two seconds lost.
“Oscar, box box. Push in-lap.”
Oscar gunned it, threading the circuit on burning rubber, every apex kissed with desperate precision.
The pitstop came—tires off, tires on, release.
He came outside side by side with Lando again.
And Max was right there.
Three cars thundered down into Turn 6, so close you could have thrown a blanket over them. The garage fell dead silent, the kind of silence that only came from terror.
Lando lunged down the inside, Oscar held the middle, Max swung wide.
For a heartbeat, three cars were abreast into the chicane.
“Don’t do this—” you whispered, breathless.
Oscar braked late, impossibly late, holding the line by sheer force of will. Max darted wide and had to yield. Lando tried to cut back, but Oscar’s car filled the space.
When they exited the corner, Oscar was still ahead. By inches.
“Lovely job, mate,” Tom said, voice tight but controlled. “Keep it tidy.”
Oscar’s reply was short, almost bitten off. “Yeah.”
Lap 40.
The desert air had cooled, but inside the cockpit, Oscar was boiling. His body screamed at him—muscles locked, fingers numb, vision tunneled under the halo. But none of that mattered.
“Gap to Lando: 0.9. Gap to Max: 1.2.”
The numbers meant nothing. All that mattered was keeping the car on track, keeping the dream alive.
Your chest hurt from how hard your heart was beating. Every lap ticked down like torture. You glanced at the faces around the garage—Zak, pale and pacing; Andrea Stella, stone-faced but with his hand flexing against his tablet; even the mechanics, who’d lived through countless races, biting their lips and bouncing on their heels.
Everyone was feeling it.
Lap 45.
Lando tried again. Down the back straight, DRS open, he swung out of the slipstream. The papayas were side by side again, McLaren vs. McLaren, orange streaks under the floodlights.
Your breath caught in your throat. Oscar braked at the last possible meter, tires squealing, car twitching. The two nearly touched wheels, sparks flying.
And then—Oscar held it.
He kept his nose ahead, just enough to force Lando to yield before the hotel section. Lando’s frustrated exhale was broadcast on the team radio before it cut. Oscar’s chest heaved inside the cockpit. “He’s not giving up.”
Tom’s voice was firm. “Neither are you. Five laps. Keep your head down.” The clock ticked toward lap 50.
Five laps to go. Five laps between Oscar and immortality. But Max was still there. Still pushing, still lurking in third, waiting for one mistake.
“Gap to Max: 1.0.”
The Red Bull loomed in his mirrors. The papaya behind was relentless. And Oscar had never been more alive, or more terrified.
“Stay with it, mate,” Tom urged. “Stay with it.”
You held your breath as they crossed the line, lap 50 flashing up on the monitors.
Eight laps left. Eight laps for everything.
On the pit wall, Zak Brown had his arms folded, jaw set, pacing with the same restless energy of a caged lion. Andrea Stella hadn’t moved an inch, but his eyes tracked every number on the screen, cold and sharp.
In the garage, you gripped your headset so tightly your fingertips had gone numb. Your throat was dry; your heart was lodged somewhere near your teeth.
Every time the camera panned to the back straight, you stopped breathing. DRS open. Lando is pulling closer. Max waits, watching.
Oscar defended, again and again, planting the car exactly where it needed to be.
“They’ll touch,” someone muttered behind you.
“They won’t,” you whispered, though you weren’t sure if you believed it.
Lap 57.
Second-to-last lap. The back straight loomed.
“Lando closing. DRS.” Oscar planted the McLaren dead center on the track. Lando swung left. Max sniffed at the right.
Three cars into Turn 6. Again.
Your nails dug crescents into your palm, eyes wide. Oscar braked last. He forced the papaya deep, somehow holding it. Max darted wide again. Lando tucked back in.
They made it out alive.
Barely.
“Last lap, mate. You know what this means. Eyes forward.”
Oscar didn’t reply. He couldn’t. He had no words left.
Through sector one, perfect lines. Sector two, holding the apex like his life depended on it. Sector three, one mistake, and it was gone.
The roar of the crowd thundered in his ears, even through the helmet. His hands trembled but held firm. His lungs screamed for air. His heart pounded like war drums.
And then—
The chequered flag.
Oscar crossed the line. P1. Champion of the world.
The garage exploded.
Shouts, cheers, fists slammed against walls. Mechanics leapt into each other’s arms. Zak Brown actually cried.
You didn’t even realize you were screaming until your throat hurt. Tears blurred your vision, your headset forgotten on the floor as you threw your hands over your mouth.
“Oscar Piastri,” the commentator’s voice boomed across Yas Marina, “wins the Abu Dhabi Grand Prix and is the 2025 Formula One World Champion!”
The words shook you to your core. He’d done it. He’d really done it.
“YES! YESSS!” Oscar’s voice cracked over the radio, a mix of raw joy and disbelief. “World Champion, baby! Thank you, thank you guys—thank you so much!”
You could hear him sob, just once, before the radio cut.
When he pulled into parc fermé, climbed out of the car, and stood on top of the papaya with his arms thrown wide, the floodlights turned his helmet into something golden, something mythic.
And when he ripped it off, you saw the tears. The grin. The relief etched into every line of his face.
He hugged mechanics, kissed the McLaren badge, and clapped Zak on the back. But when his eyes found you across the chaos, he froze.
And then he was running.
Through cameras and microphones, through mechanics and engineers, through noise and light. Straight to you.
You barely had time to open your arms before he crashed into them, helmet still in one hand, the other wrapping around you like he was afraid you’d vanish.
He buried his face in your shoulder. His breath came in sobs, ragged and uneven, hot against your skin.
You held him just as tightly, whispering against his hair. “You did it. You did it.”
He pulled back, just enough to press his forehead to yours, eyes wet, lips trembling. “Couldn’t have done it without you.”
And then he kissed you.
Right there, in the middle of Yas Marina, cameras flashing, world watching. He kissed you like he had been waiting for his whole life.
The crowd roared louder. The team whooped and whistled.
But none of that mattered.
It was just him. Just you. Just the promise you’d kept to each other all these years.
The podium came next, Oscar in the center, Lando to his left, Max to his right. Champagne sprayed, anthems blared. You watched from the floor, chest aching with pride.
But when it was over, when the fireworks faded and the crowd began to leave, that’s when the real night began.
The door to the hotel room clicked shut behind you, and the silence that followed was deafening compared to the chaos of Yas Marina just hours ago. No more engines, no more champagne-soaked shouting, no more media cameras flashing in Oscar’s face. Just the soft hum of the air conditioning and the faint sound of your shoes on the carpet as you both slipped inside.
Oscar leaned against the door, his championship cap still tucked backward on his head, his race suit tied at the waist, undershirt damp with the sweat of celebration. For the first time all day, his shoulders dropped. He let out a laugh — breathless, almost disbelieving — and rubbed a hand over his face.
“I actually did it,” he whispered. His voice cracked in the quiet. “I’m… a Formula One world champion.”
You stood across the room, watching him. The boy who once dragged you to local karting tracks, who once got nervous before school presentations, who once swore he’d never leave you behind — he was now holding the title every driver dreamed of. And yet, the way he looked at you right then, eyes glazed with adrenaline and exhaustion, he wasn’t Oscar Piastri, Formula One World Champion. He was just Oscar. Your Oscar.
“You did,” you whispered back, a smile tugging at your lips. “And I’m so proud of you, Osc.”
That broke something in him. His head tipped back against the door, eyes closing as his chest rose and fell in shaky breaths. When he opened them again, they were shining. He crossed the room in three long strides, wrapping his arms around you so tightly that you nearly stumbled back. His face buried into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin.
“Couldn’t have done it without you,” he murmured, voice muffled. “Not a single bit of it. You’ve been there since the beginning… since we were kids. Since—everything.”
You carded your fingers into his damp hair, tugging the cap off and letting it fall forgotten onto the bed. His curls were messy, sticking in every direction, and you threaded through them gently. “You did this,” you whispered against his ear. “This was all you, Osc. I just—” You broke off when he pulled back suddenly, just enough to look at you.
“Don’t say ‘just,’” he said, firm but soft. “You were there every step. The nights I wanted to quit, the races that broke me, when the media tore me apart… You were the one who kept me together.” His hand cupped your cheek, thumb brushing across your skin. “I love you. God, I love you so much it hurts.”
The words hit like a punch and a balm at the same time. Your heart thudded painfully, and then you were kissing him before you could think twice, hands tangling in his hair as his lips moved desperately against yours.
It started soft — almost reverent, as if he was afraid you’d vanish. But the longer you kissed, the more it grew into something hungrier, heavier. He backed you toward the bed without breaking contact, laughter escaping between stolen breaths when your knees hit the mattress and you both tumbled down together.
“Oscar—” you gasped when his lips trailed from your mouth down to your jaw, your throat. He chuckled against your skin, pressing a kiss to your collarbone before lifting his head.
“What?” he teased, voice low, almost hoarse. “I’ve waited all season for this. You can’t take it away from me now.”
Your laugh caught in your throat because his eyes were burning, not just with desire but with devotion. Like you were the trophy he’d been chasing all along.
“You’re ridiculous,” you managed, brushing a stray curl from his forehead.
“Yeah,” He grinned, leaning closer until his lips brushed yours again. “And you love me anyway.”
You did. God, you did.
The kisses deepened, slower now but weighted, full of everything left unsaid during the long season — the late nights apart, the tension after Silverstone, the relief of every podium, the longing glances across crowded paddocks. His hands slid around your waist, pulling you closer until there was no space left between you. Every movement felt natural, inevitable, like gravity itself had been pulling you to this moment.
Somewhere between laughter and sighs, between playful nips at your lip and whispered promises, clothes shifted, tangled sheets rustled. His touch was everywhere, gentle and steady, yet trembling at times with how much he wanted to memorize this, to memorize you.
“You’re it for me,” he whispered against your skin, voice ragged, words spilling out like a confession he couldn’t hold back. “Always have been. Always will be. Doesn’t matter if I win again or lose everything. You’re my everything.”
Your chest tightened, tears prickling behind your eyes even as your hands fisted in the fabric at his back. You kissed him hard, desperate, like that could say everything you didn’t have words for.
The world outside that hotel room ceased to exist. Here, there was only Oscar. His laughter against your mouth, his whispered “I love you”s, the warmth of his body pressed against yours, and the way his hands held you like he’d never let go.
And when the kisses grew slower again, softer, when he pulled back just to look at you, really look at you, it wasn’t victory reflected in his eyes. It was you.
The rest of the night blurred, but the implication was clear, inevitable. Between the tangled sheets, the breathless laughter, the whispered plans about futures you hadn’t dared to dream out loud before, you gave yourselves to each other completely. Not just as childhood friends, not just as lovers, but as partners.
Oscar Piastri had won the world championship that night. But the way he clung to you, the way he whispered your name like it was the sweetest prayer, told you the truth: you were his real victory.
kiki's note: good golly. thank you SO SO SOMUCH for 100+ followers and 1k+ notes on part one, i am beyond grateful. of course, this work is for all of you so i hope you enjoy reading!! i had way too much fun writing this so don't mind the word count kekeke,,, also im making a masterlist soon so send in some requests if you wantntn !!
summary: She was all sharp edges and lip gloss. He was all chaos and charm. Five years of bickering ends in one night, one ride home, and one morning that changes everything.
pairing: lando norris x reader
word count: 6.4k
contains: regina george!reader, loosely based off this tiktok but after writing i realized lando wasn't like rodrick at all so i scrapped that idea, banter, slowburn but not included (if that makes sense), title is from katseye's "mean girls"
The hallway smelled like overpriced perfume, chaos, and teenage delusion, just how you liked it. Your heels clicked against the tiles as you walked with your usual entourage: Gretchen and Karen, both clutching iced lattes and following your lead like it was a full-time job. You were late, but that didn’t matter. People moved for you.
“Did you see her shoes?” Gretchen whispered. You didn’t have to ask who. “Disaster,” you said, flipping your hair. “It’s giving bargain bin.”
You’d perfected this, being the kind of girl people whispered about, admired, and feared. You weren’t mean. You were honest. And if the truth hurt people’s feelings, that wasn’t your fault.
Everything in your little kingdom was going as it should, until he leaned against your locker like he owned it.
“Morning, sunshine,” Lando Norris said, grinning all dimples and trouble. His uniform shirt was untucked, tie half-off, hair sticking up like he’d lost a fight with gravity. “Didn’t think you’d grace us mortals this early.”
You crossed your arms, unimpressed. “Didn’t think you knew how to tell time, Norris.”
His grin widened. “Oh, I can tell the time. I just lose track whenever you walk in.”
Karen snorted behind you, choking on her latte. You didn’t turn to glare at her, because that would give him satisfaction.
“You’re blocking my locker,” you said smoothly. “Move.”
“Sure,” he said, pushing off the metal door, but only after leaning a little too close. “You smell nice, by the way. What is that? Expensive and unattainable?”
“Exactly. You wouldn’t get it.”
“I could, if you wrote it down for me.”
You rolled your eyes and shoved past him, but your pulse betrayed you, thudding faster than it should’ve. You could feel his eyes on your back as you opened your locker, pretending your hands weren’t slightly shaking. He was the only person who could get under your skin without even trying.
“Are you two, like… flirting?” Gretchen whispered, barely containing her grin.
“Absolutely not.”
“You totally were!” Karen giggled. “You were all ‘you smell nice’ and she was like ‘ew, you wouldn’t get it.’ That’s foreplay for you two.”
You shot them a withering look. “If I ever flirt with Lando Norris, commit me.”
“Noted,” Gretchen said, smirking. “But, um… You might need to be committed soon.”
You ignored her, slamming your locker shut. Lando was still there, chatting with some guy, laughing like he hadn’t just ruined your morning equilibrium. His laugh carried down the hall, loud, unbothered, golden.
And damn it, he was good-looking. Not in a polished way like the boys you usually entertained, but in that infuriating “just rolled out of bed and still looks like trouble” kind of way. You hated that your eyes lingered.
By lunch, the entire table knew about your “locker scene.”
“So, you and Lando,” said Aaron, your ex—emphasis on ex—twirling his fork. “Something brewing?”
You didn’t even look up from your salad. “Yeah. My nausea.”
Gretchen kicked you under the table. “Come on, you’ve got to admit, he’s funny.”
“Clowns are funny,” you said. “Doesn’t mean I want to date one.”
You were expecting that to end the conversation. It didn’t. Because halfway through lunch, Lando himself appeared, tray in hand, confidence like a weapon. He slid into the seat across from you before anyone could stop him.
“Hey, Queen Bee,” he said, stealing a fry from Aaron’s plate. “Didn’t realize this was the royal court.”
Aaron glared. “No one invited you, Norris.”
“Oh, don’t worry,” Lando said, glancing at you. “I came for her, not you.”
Your fork froze midair. You could hear Karen trying not to laugh. “In your dreams.”
“You are in most of them,” he said casually, taking another fry. “Usually yelling at me.”
The table erupted, half gasps, half laughter. You blinked, momentarily stunned, before snapping back, “You’re delusional.”
“Maybe. But you’re blushing.”
“I’m not.”
“You are,” he teased, resting his chin in his hand. “It’s cute.”
That did it. You stood, tossing your napkin onto the table. “Enjoy your little audience, Norris.”
And you walked away, head high, pretending you didn’t hear him call after you, “See you in chem, princess!”
Your friends caught up to you halfway down the hall, laughing so hard Karen nearly tripped.
“Y/N,” Gretchen said between giggles, “you were totally throwing your panties at him.”
“I was insulting him!”
“Same difference,” Karen said, wiping tears from her eyes. “God, you two are going to either date or kill each other.”
You rolled your eyes, ignoring the warm feeling crawling up your neck. “Over my dead body.”
“Don’t say that,” Gretchen said. “You’ll manifest it.”
By Monday morning, you’d convinced yourself that Lando Norris was a temporary glitch in your otherwise perfect life. You could ignore him, easily. You’d done harder things, like calculus.
But apparently, fate—and your math teacher—had other plans.
“Alright, class,” Mrs. Norbury announced. “We’ll be starting our new project on applied functions today. I’ll be assigning partners.”
You didn’t panic. You always worked with Gretchen. Gretchen always worked with you. You were the dream team, efficient, aesthetic, and mildly terrifying.
“Y/N,” Mrs. Norbury said. “You’ll be with… Norris.”
You blinked. “I’m sorry— what?”
Lando was already slouched in his chair, grinning like a cat who’d just eaten the canary. “Guess we’re partners, Princess.”
“No,” you said flatly.
“Yes,” the teacher said firmly. “You two balance each other out. She plans, he improvises. It’ll be good for both of you.”
Lando shot you a wink. You seriously considered dropping out.
When you sat next to him, you made sure there was an entire ruler’s length between your chairs. You weren’t going to let him charm his way into this project — or your sanity.
“So,” Lando said, spinning his pencil like it was a drumstick. “What’s our strategy, queen bee?”
“The strategy,” you said without looking at him, “is that I do the work and you don’t talk.”
He laughed softly. “That doesn’t sound very collaborative.”
“You failed the last quiz.”
“Yeah, because you distracted me.”
You turned to glare at him. “I wasn’t even talking to you.”
“Exactly,” he said with a smirk. “That’s what made it worse.”
You stared at him, torn between throttling him and dropping out of school entirely. “You’re insufferable.”
“And yet you’re still sitting here.”
You hated that your lips twitched. You didn’t smile. You absolutely did not smile.
By lunch, the entire school had somehow figured out that you were paired up.
Gretchen was the first to bring it up. “So, math boy.”
You groaned. “Don’t call him that.”
“Fine,” she said, smirking. “Lando.”
Karen gasped. “Oh my god, that’s so cute though. You two are, like, academic rivals turned power couple.”
You threw a grape at her. “He’s a distraction. A loud, annoying distraction.”
“Sure,” Aaron said from across the table. “And I’m the valedictorian.”
You ignored them all, but they weren’t wrong about one thing — Lando was loud. He filled every space he entered, talked like the world revolved around his voice, and somehow made even numbers sound like a joke.
And yet, when he leaned over your desk that afternoon, squinting at the problem set, his hair slightly messy, pencil tucked behind his ear — you hated how your stomach flipped.
“What’s the derivative of this again?” he asked, brow furrowed.
You sighed and wrote it out for him. “It’s not that hard.”
He watched you write, grinning. “You’re really smart, you know that?”
“Stop trying to flirt your way into passing.”
“I wasn’t flirting,” he said innocently. “Just observing.”
You swore he was going to be the death of you.
The next morning, there was a sticky note on your locker.
“Math genius. Heart thief. – L”
You stared at it, torn between laughter and homicide.
Gretchen peeked over your shoulder. “That’s adorable.”
“It’s harassment.”
“It’s romance,” she countered. “In a dumb teenage boy way.”
You ripped the note off and stuffed it into your bag, muttering, “He’s impossible.”
But you didn’t throw it away.
When presentation day came, Lando—shockingly—showed up prepared. His slides were neat, his explanation was actually good, and when he spoke, the class listened. You’d never seen him so focused.
Afterward, while everyone was packing up, he leaned in and whispered, “Told you we make a good team.”
And for the first time, you couldn’t even argue.
That night, your phone wouldn’t stop buzzing.
Your friends were merciless. Gretchen swore you were glowing after class, Karen insisted you were blushing, and Aaron declared he wanted front-row seats to your wedding.
You rolled onto your back, staring at the ceiling, telling them they were insane. Lando had just… walked with you. That was it. Nothing more. Nothing less.
But even as you typed out your denial, you could still hear his voice, soft, smug, and genuine: “Told you we make a good team.”
You told yourself you weren’t smiling. You weren’t thinking about him. You weren’t wondering what it would be like if he actually meant it.
You weren’t.
You weren’t.
You definitely weren’t.
You tell yourself you’re only here because of Gretchen.
That’s the first lie of the night.
The second is when you pretend not to scan the room for him the second you step inside.
It’s too hot, the lights are too loud, and someone has decided a smoke machine is an essential element of teenage chaos. The living room thrums like a heartbeat. You can taste cheap alcohol in the air. You hate it — obviously. You’re better than this, or at least you’ve spent your whole life convincing people you are.
“Relax,” Gretchen says, tugging at your sleeve as she sways to the bass. “It’s a party, not a pop quiz.”
You roll your eyes, clutching your cup like armor. “If it were a pop quiz, at least I’d pass.”
“Babe, you study for fun. You need this.”
You want to argue, but then you catch a flash of familiar brown curls near the kitchen, and the rest of her words dissolve.
Lando Norris.
Of course, he’s here.
You’d know that laugh anywhere — too bright, too boyish, the sound of someone who’s never once doubted he’d get what he wanted.
He’s leaning against the counter, one hand wrapped around a beer, talking animatedly to someone who looks like she might dissolve under the weight of his smile.
You hate the way your stomach twists. You call it irritation. It feels suspiciously like jealousy.
“Don’t look now,” Gretchen sing-songs. “But your favorite headache’s in the kitchen.”
You scowl. “He’s everyone’s headache.”
“Sure,” she says, already grinning. “But you’ve got the prescription.”
You don’t dignify that with a response. You down what’s left of your drink, grimace at the burn, and march toward the counter because if you’re going to suffer, you might as well do it up close.
He notices you instantly. Of course, he does, he always does.
“Well, well,” he drawls. “Didn’t think the queen of ‘ew, socializing’ would bless us with her presence.”
You snort. “I’m doing charity work.”
“Ah,” he says, pretending to consider. “You volunteering to make me fall in love with you, then?”
You arch a brow. “You’d need more than charity for that.”
His grin widens, dangerous, disarming. “See? You’re flirting already.”
“I’m threatening.”
“Tomato, to-mah-to.”
You hate that he’s good at this, pushing, teasing, pulling you into a rhythm that feels almost choreographed. You hate that you enjoy the rhythm.
He slides a red cup toward you. “You look like you need this.”
You glance inside. “What is it?”
“Liquid courage.”
“I already have that.”
“Then call it liquid denial.”
You take it just to prove you don’t care, sip it, wince at the taste. He laughs, the kind of laugh that curls around you like smoke.
“Strong?” he asks.
“Disgusting,” you answer. “Like you.”
“Then you’ll love it.”
It’s stupid, but the corner of your mouth twitches. You turn away quickly, pretending to check your phone.
He leans closer, voice dropping. “You know, you’re much nicer when you’re pretending not to like me.”
“And you’re much quieter when you’re not speaking.”
His smile doesn’t falter. If anything, it softens. “You have no idea how fun it is to make you talk to me.”
You hate that he’s right.
“God, you’re impossible.”
“I prefer irresistible.”
Your friends are watching from across the room, stifling giggles behind their cups. You can practically hear the group-chat notifications already. You send them a glare sharp enough to kill, but it only makes them laugh harder.
You need an escape. Any escape.
“I’m going to get air,” you mutter, shoving your cup at him.
He tilts his head, pretending to look wounded. “Running away? That’s not very Regina-of-you.”
You stop just long enough to toss over your shoulder, “Keep talking and I’ll make your GPA disappear.”
His laughter follows you out onto the porch, low, genuine, annoyingly warm.
The night air hits colder than you expected. It smells like rain and cigarette smoke and the kind of loneliness that creeps up when the music fades.
You sink onto the porch steps, tugging your jacket tighter. Inside, people are laughing, shouting, existing in a way you can’t quite figure out how to. You tell yourself you like control, that you prefer walls to vulnerability — but sitting here alone, you wonder if the walls are closing in.
The door creaks.
“Thought you’d ditched,” Lando says, stepping out. His tone is lighter than his expression.
“Wishful thinking.”
He sits beside you anyway, close enough that your knees almost touch. “You’re really bad at hiding when something’s wrong.”
“Nothing’s wrong.”
He hums, unconvinced. “Right. You just looked at your reflection in the punch bowl and realized even mirrors are scared of you.”
You bite back a laugh. “You think you’re funny.”
“I know I am.”
“Delusional.”
“Hot,” he corrects.
You roll your eyes, but the silence that follows isn’t hostile. It’s… quiet. The kind of quiet that fills in rather than empties out.
He kicks at a loose pebble. “You don’t have to keep the act on, you know.”
You glance at him. “What act?”
“The one where you pretend nothing ever gets to you.”
Something catches in your throat. You look away. “It’s not an act.”
“Sure,” he says softly. “Then why do you look like you’re about to cry every time someone says your name too gently?”
You blink hard. “Wow. That’s presumptuous.”
“Maybe,” he admits, “but I’m not wrong.”
You want to tell him to shut up. You want to insult his shoes, his face, his everything. But you can’t. Not when he’s looking at you like that, like he means it, like he’s not playing the same game you are.
You sigh, long and tired. “You really don’t know when to quit.”
“Not when it comes to you.”
The words hang between you, thin and electric. For a second, you can’t breathe.
He doesn’t touch you, doesn’t move closer, but somehow it feels like he’s everywhere, the sound of his breathing, the warmth radiating from his shoulder, the smell of clean laundry and faint cologne.
Your heart trips.
“I should go find my friends,” you whisper.
“Right,” he says, voice unreadable. “Wouldn’t want people thinking you actually like me.”
You manage a shaky laugh. “Exactly.”
He grins again, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “See you around, princess.”
And just like that, he’s gone, back into the noise, the lights, the crowd that always seems to part for him.
You watch him disappear, every smart retort dying on your tongue.
Because the worst part is, he’s right.
You don’t hate him. You hate that you don’t.
You don’t remember when you decided to leave.
One minute you were inside again, pretending to laugh at a joke that wasn’t funny, the next, you were outside, the bass fading behind you like a bad memory. The air smells like rain now—real rain this time—and the streetlights blur in the mist.
Your heels click against the pavement, steady and sharp. It feels like control. It feels like pretending you have somewhere to go, even though you don’t.
You told Gretchen you’d call a car. You didn’t. Your phone died twenty minutes ago, and you couldn’t bring yourself to admit it.
It’s not even that far home, you tell yourself. Just a few streets. You can handle it.
Except your vision swims a little when you look down at your feet. You’re not drunk—you’d never let yourself get that far—but you’re buzzed. Enough that the street feels longer, emptier, lonelier.
“Should’ve just stayed home,” you mutter, kicking at a puddle. Water splashes your ankle. Perfect.
The irony doesn’t escape you that for someone who prides herself on always being composed, you’ve never felt more unput-together.
You’re halfway through your internal scolding when a pair of headlights slows behind you.
You don’t look up until a voice calls out through the open window:
“Regina George, you planning to walk the whole city in those shoes?”
You stop. Turn.
Of course, it’s him.
Lando leans across the passenger seat, arm draped over the wheel, curls messy, eyes bright even in the dim glow of his car’s dashboard.
You groan. “Oh, for fuck’s sake.”
He grins. “You’re welcome.”
“I didn’t ask for anything.”
He nods toward the empty seat. “Get in, drama queen.”
You cross your arms. “I’m fine.”
“Sure,” he says easily, “because walking home alone at midnight in stilettos is a genius move.”
You open your mouth for a retort, but your foot slips slightly on the wet pavement and—goddammit—he has a point.
You glare at him anyway. “If you tell anyone about this—”
“Yeah, yeah. I’ll take it to my grave.” His tone softens. “C’mon. You’re freezing.”
You hesitate only a second before yanking the door open and sliding in. The car smells like pine and something faintly citrusy, like a summer you forgot to enjoy.
He starts driving without another word. The radio hums low, some indie song that sounds too emotional for two people pretending not to care.
The silence is thick.
“You didn’t have to,” you mutter finally, eyes fixed on the passing streetlights.
He shrugs, eyes on the road. “Didn’t want to wake up tomorrow and read about you getting kidnapped by a raccoon or something.”
You snort, despite yourself. “How noble.”
“I’m basically a hero.”
“You’re basically an idiot.”
He laughs, quiet but genuine. It’s unfair how good that sound feels.
You sneak a glance at him — the way his jaw flexes when he concentrates, the curve of his mouth when he tries not to smile. You look away quickly.
He catches it anyway. “What?”
“Nothing.”
He grins. “You were totally staring.”
You scoff. “In your dreams.”
“Every night, actually.”
You shove his shoulder lightly. “You’re unbearable.”
“And yet, you’re in my car.”
You want to say something scathing. You really do. But then he takes a turn a little too fast, and his arm instinctively goes out in front of you, protective, automatic.
Your breath catches.
He notices. “Sorry.”
You shake your head, voice smaller than you mean for it to be. “It’s fine.”
For a few minutes, the only sound is the rain beginning to tap against the windshield. You watch the wipers glide back and forth like a metronome keeping time for a song neither of you knows how to finish.
Then—quietly—he says, “You okay?”
You blink. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
He gives a half-smile, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. “You looked… sad. Back there.”
You swallow. “Maybe I just hate parties.”
“I don’t buy that.”
“Then maybe I just hate people.”
“Except me,” he says lightly.
You turn to him. “Who said that?”
He shrugs. “Wishful thinking.”
You bite the inside of your cheek, trying to keep the grin from slipping out. “You’re not my type.”
“Good thing I’m everyone’s type.”
You roll your eyes, but your pulse betrays you. You’re too aware of the way his fingers tap the steering wheel in rhythm with the music, the way his hair curls against the side of his neck, the way he’s looking at you like you’re not the person you’ve spent so long pretending to be.
“Lando,” you say finally, half-warning, half-plea.
“Yeah?”
“Don’t.”
He glances at you, brow furrowed. “Don’t what?”
“Make this weird.”
He chuckles softly. “Too late for that.”
You sigh, leaning your head against the window. The glass is cool against your skin.
The car slows as you reach your street. You point toward your house, but the words don’t come. For some reason, the thought of saying goodnight feels heavier than it should.
He pulls up to the curb, puts the car in park, but doesn’t move to unlock the doors. The rain has picked up now, soft and steady, filling the silence.
“You’re really not going to tell me what’s wrong?” he asks again, quieter this time.
You stare straight ahead. “Why do you care?”
He exhales, eyes flicking toward you. “Because you act like no one should.”
That hits harder than you expect. You want to deflect, to make a joke, but your throat’s too tight for it.
You reach for the handle. “Thanks for the ride.”
His hand shoots out, gently catching your wrist. “Hey. Don’t do that.”
“Do what?”
“Pretend you’re fine when you’re clearly not.”
You don’t mean for your voice to break when you say, “What do you want me to say, Lando? That I’m tired? That I hate how I feel around you? That I wish I didn’t care?”
He blinks, startled, not by the words, but by the crack in them.
The rain fills the silence again. Your pulse thunders in your ears.
Then, quietly, he says, “You can hate me tomorrow. Just… let me make sure you’re okay tonight.”
You look at him—really look—and for the first time, you don’t see the cocky grin or the teasing remarks. You see someone who actually means it.
It’s disarming. Terrifying.
You nod, just once.
He lets out a slow breath, relief flickering across his face. “C’mon. My house is closer. You can crash there. I’ll text Gretchen so she doesn’t freak out.”
You hesitate, but the exhaustion wins. You nod again, softer this time.
“Fine. But if you try anything—”
He smiles, pulling back onto the road. “Relax, princess. I’ll behave.”
You don’t believe him.
You also don’t care.
Because for the first time that night, the thought of not being alone feels like something you might actually need.
The first thing you notice is the light.
It’s soft, gold, and wrong; it filters through curtains that aren’t yours, landing across your face in a way your own bedroom never quite manages. It feels too gentle for your hangover and too kind for your brain, which is currently piecing itself back together like a shattered mirror.
The second thing you notice is the smell. Coffee. Soap. And something faintly citrusy, familiar in a way that makes your stomach twist.
You groan quietly, rolling onto your back. Your head throbs, a dull pulse behind your eyes. There’s a hoodie draped over your torso, heavy and warm, sleeves pooled around your hands. You don’t remember putting it on.
You blink up at the ceiling, confusion settling in. This isn’t your room.
The walls are lined with posters—cars, mostly. Racing ones. The desk is cluttered with notebooks and energy drink cans. There’s a gaming headset hanging off the chair, a stack of controllers on the nightstand, and a small photo frame turned facedown.
It hits you all at once, like an aftershock.
Oh, no.
You sit up too quickly, clutching your head. The room tilts, and you groan again, quieter this time. The blanket falls to your lap. You’re still in your clothes from last night, the sequined top, the black skirt, the mascara smudged under your eyes.
And the hoodie.
His hoodie.
It’s all coming back in slow motion: the rain, the headlights, the warmth of the passenger seat. The way he looked at you when you said you hate how I feel around you.
“Shit,” you whisper.
Because it’s not the first time Lando Norris has looked at you like that.
You glance around, half-expecting him to be sitting in a chair or leaning against the doorframe with that smug half-smile. But he’s not. The room is quiet. You can hear faint movement somewhere outside the door—a pan clattering, the low hum of a kettle.
He’s up.
You press your hands to your face, trying to breathe.
The night replays again, pieces clicking together, his hand catching your wrist in the car, his voice low and steady, saying you can hate me tomorrow.
Well. It’s tomorrow.
And you do hate him. At least, that’s what you tell yourself.
You hate that he’s always there. That he knows when to push and when to stop, when to make you laugh and when to leave you alone. You hate that for the last five years, he’s been the one constant in the background — never quite close enough to call yours, but always close enough to matter.
You remember it now, clearer than you want to.
You were fifteen the first time he asked you out. You’d laughed in his face, told him to “try someone in his league.”
He’d just grinned and said, “So, you’re admitting I’m aiming high?”
That was the start of it — this stupid, endless game.
He’d tease you in the halls, drop notes into your locker, sneak glances when he thought you weren’t looking. And every time you rolled your eyes, every time you told him to stop, he’d just say something ridiculous like, “One day, you’ll say yes.”
He wasn’t wrong. He just wasn’t right yet.
Because back then, it was easy to laugh him off. To act like you were untouchable. To keep your walls so high that no one could see over them.
But last night? Last night, for the first time, you let him in, even if it was just a crack.
And you remember everything.
The drive. His voice. The way his hoodie smelled when he draped it over your shoulders. The way he’d looked at you when you finally stopped pretending everything was fine.
You don’t know what scares you more: that you let yourself break in front of him, or that he didn’t take advantage of it.
He’d just… been there. Quiet. Kind.
No jokes, no teasing, no smug smile. Just steady.
It would’ve been easier if he’d made a move, if he’d flirted, if he’d said something infuriating. That’s what you expect from him. That’s the version of Lando you know how to handle.
But he didn’t. He covered you with a blanket and let you sleep.
And now, sitting here in his room, wearing his hoodie, you don’t know what to do with that version of him.
You look at your reflection in the small mirror by his desk, hair a mess, makeup smudged, eyes tired but soft in a way that doesn’t look like you. You look… human.
You hate it.
You pull the hoodie tighter around yourself anyway.
Because even though it’s too big, even though it smells like him, even though it’s every kind of dangerous, you feel warm.
There’s a quiet knock on the door. You jolt, spinning toward the sound.
“Hey,” his voice says softly through the wood. “You awake?”
You freeze. “...Yeah.”
“Coffee’s ready. You take sugar, right?”
You hesitate. “Uh, yeah.”
A pause. “Can I come in?”
You stare at the door, heart hammering. “I— yeah. Sure.”
It opens slowly, and there he is.
Hair still messy, hoodie swapped for a t-shirt that shouldn’t fit him as well as it does, a mug in each hand. He looks tired, but there’s that same small, crooked smile on his face, the one that always ruins your defenses.
“Morning,” he says quietly.
You open your mouth, but no sound comes out. You just stare.
He glances at the hoodie you’re wearing. “That looks better on you than it ever did on me.”
“Don’t start,” you mutter, pulling the sleeves over your hands.
He laughs under his breath and sets a mug on the nightstand beside you. “Didn’t think you’d remember much from last night.”
You look up at him, meeting his gaze. “I do.”
That wipes the smirk clean off his face.
You sip the coffee slowly, eyes never leaving his. “You really thought I’d forget?”
He shrugs, suddenly sheepish. “Would’ve made it easier.”
“For you or for me?”
He doesn’t answer. He just leans against the wall, watching you.
And in that quiet—between the hum of the rain outside and the steady beat of your heart—you realize something that makes your stomach twist.
He’s still looking at you the way he always has. Like he’s waiting.
And for the first time, you’re not sure you want him to stop.
You don’t realize how close he still is until you exhale, and the air catches on his collarbone. His hand—the one that had been tracing lazy circles over the duvet—stills, fingers curling slightly as if fighting the urge to reach for you again. You’re both frozen there, breathing the same air, trapped somewhere between last night’s chaos and the kind of silence that feels too intimate to break.
“Still tired?” he murmurs eventually, voice gravelly with sleep.
You hum, rolling onto your back, staring at the ceiling. “I’m trying to pretend this is a dream so I don’t have to deal with it later.”
Lando chuckles — that same stupid, boyish sound that used to make you want to throw a shoe at him. “If this were a dream, you’d be nicer to me.”
You turn your head, giving him a side-eye that’s more fond than you mean it to be. “You wish.”
He smiles — slow, lazy, utterly self-satisfied. “Yeah, kinda do.”
There’s a stretch of silence after that. It’s not awkward, exactly. It’s the kind that feels suspended, fragile, like any wrong word could break it. The morning light cuts through the blinds in stripes, falling over his face, over the sharp edge of his jaw, and the faint freckles that scatter across his nose. You hate how warm it makes you feel.
“You remember everything from last night, don’t you?” he asks softly.
You nod. “Every humiliating second.”
“Good.” He grins. “Would’ve been tragic if you forgot how you called me the ‘less annoying one’ between me and your ex.”
Your face burns. “Oh my god. You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he leans in slightly, voice dropping, “you still called me.”
You open your mouth, ready with some sharp, defensive comeback, but nothing comes out. Because he’s right. You did. You called him. Out of everyone. And even though you could justify it — he was the only one awake, you were lost, you were panicking — it doesn’t change what it means.
Your voice softens, betraying you. “You really stayed the whole night?”
“Of course I did.” He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world. “You think I’d just leave you like that?”
You stare at him, something tender curling in your chest. You want to look away, but his expression is so steady, so open, that you can’t. “You shouldn’t be this nice to me.”
He laughs quietly, shaking his head. “You say that like you don’t love it.”
“I don’t.”
“You do.”
“Lando—”
He cuts you off by tugging the edge of the blanket higher, brushing his knuckles against your arm. It’s a small, thoughtless movement, but your skin sparks where he touches you. You’re suddenly too aware of how close you are, how his breath fans over your cheek when he talks.
“You’re really bad at lying, you know that?” he says.
You glare at him half-heartedly, though the corner of your mouth betrays a twitch. “And you’re really bad at shutting up.”
He grins, wide and unbothered. “That’s fair.”
He shifts a little closer, his arm brushing yours again, deliberate this time. You feel the warmth of him, the quiet thrum under your skin that’s been there since last night. You should move. You don’t.
For a moment, neither of you says anything. The silence isn’t heavy anymore, it’s softer now, almost domestic. You can hear the faint hum of his phone charging on the nightstand, the distant noise of birds outside, and under it all, his steady breathing beside you.
When he finally speaks again, it’s quiet. “You know, I wasn’t kidding.”
You blink. “About what?”
He meets your gaze, unflinching. “I like you. I have for… a while.”
You swallow, throat dry. “You’ve been trying to get with me for years, Lando.”
“Yeah, but now you actually like me back,” he says, grin turning softer this time, more real. “Don’t even try to deny it.”
You groan, pressing your face into the pillow to hide the stupid smile spreading across your face. “You’re infuriating.”
“Cute way to say you’re falling for me.”
“Shut up.”
He laughs, the sound low and warm, and before you can react, he reaches over to gently pull the pillow away from your face. Your heart stutters. He doesn’t let go right away.
For a second, it feels like everything slows, like the world outside his window stops moving, just for you two. He’s still smiling, but there’s something softer behind it now, something that feels almost dangerous.
“Hey,” he says quietly, thumb brushing against your wrist, “I’m not gonna push you, okay? You can take all the time you want. I just… want you to know I’m not going anywhere.”
You look at him—really look—and it hits you how rare it is for him to sound like that. No teasing, no bravado. Just honest.
You breathe out slowly, and when you finally speak, your voice is small but sure. “You’re not as annoying as I thought.”
He grins, dimples flashing. “Careful, that almost sounded like a compliment.”
“Don’t ruin it.”
But you’re smiling now, and he sees it, the way your defenses are slipping, the way your shoulders relax, the way your hand doesn’t move when his fingers graze yours again.
He leans in, close enough that you can feel the warmth radiating off him. “So…” he murmurs, “do I get to say I won you over, or should I wait until after breakfast?”
You roll your eyes, laughing under your breath. “You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” he repeats with a smirk, “you’re still here.”
You don’t pull away this time.
Instead, you let the silence settle again—warm, gentle, familiar—as the morning stretches out between you. And for the first time, you stop trying to pretend you don’t want it.
The light has changed by the time either of you moves again, softer, warmer, the kind of morning that feels suspended in amber. It spills across the floor, across the crumpled blanket, across Lando’s face where he’s lying half-turned toward you, head propped on his hand like he’s been studying you for hours.
You blink up at him, groggy but oddly content. “You’re staring.”
He smiles, lazy and unashamed. “You’re finally quiet. It’s fascinating.”
You make a face, reaching for the pillow and smacking him lightly with it. He laughs, catches your wrist mid-swing, and suddenly your hand is caught between both of his, your pulse thudding against his palm. The laughter fades, replaced by something quieter, a steady, magnetic kind of calm.
“Careful,” he murmurs, thumb brushing the back of your hand, “you’ll make me think you actually like me.”
You snort, trying to sound unaffected, but your voice betrays you. “Maybe I just haven’t woken up enough to hate you yet.”
He grins. “That’s progress.”
He shifts closer, and it’s ridiculous how natural it feels, like you’ve been doing this for years instead of constantly throwing verbal knives at him. You can smell his cologne, faint and clean, something you recognize from every hallway argument you’ve ever had with him. The thought makes you laugh softly.
“What?” he asks, amused.
“Just… you,” you mumble. “You’re not supposed to smell this good.”
He laughs under his breath, the sound rumbling through the air between you. “You’re not supposed to admit that.”
You shrug, feigning indifference, but your cheeks are warm and you know he can see it. “Don’t get used to it.”
He leans in just a little, voice dropping low. “Too late.”
The words hang there, heavier than they should be. He’s close enough now that you can see the faint golden flecks in his eyes, the curl of his smile that’s somehow both smug and stupidly soft. You could pull away—you should—but the idea doesn’t even occur to you until it’s already too late.
You don’t kiss him. Not yet. You just lie there, barely a breath apart, the weight of it filling the space like static.
“Hey, Lando?” you whisper.
“Yeah?”
“You’re still annoying.”
He grins, dimples flashing. “And you still like me.”
You roll your eyes, but the smile breaks through anyway, unwilling, unstoppable. “I really hate that you’re right.”
He brushes a strand of hair from your face, fingers lingering against your cheek. “You can hate it later. Stay a little longer first.”
The suggestion sits between you, wrapped in the soft hum of the morning, half a dare, half a promise. You should get up. You should grab your shoes, make some snarky remark, and leave before this turns into something you can’t take back.
Instead, you sigh and sink deeper into the sheets. “Just for a bit,” you mutter.
Lando grins, victorious but gentle, pulling the blanket higher around both of you. “Just for a bit,” he echoes.
You rest your head against his shoulder, pretending it’s because the pillow’s too far away, and he pretends not to notice. The silence that follows isn’t sharp or uncertain anymore. It’s warm, the kind that wraps around you like sunlight through a window you forgot to close.
“Lando?” you murmur after a moment.
“Yeah?”
“If you ever tell anyone about this, I’ll ruin your life.”
He laughs, quiet and easy. “Deal.”
And when he leans in just a fraction closer—close enough that his breath skims your skin, close enough that the morning slows to a hum—you let it happen. Because maybe you’re tired of pretending you don’t want him. Maybe, for once, it’s okay to let yourself fall.
⟢ summary: a perfectionist ballerina on the brink of burnout and a formula one driver who sees her before the world does.
⟢ pairing: alex albon x ballerina!reader
⟢ contains: perfectionist & stubborn!reader, injury, tooth-rotting fluff, established relationship, tiny argument, named background characters
⟢ word count: 7.4k
⟢ note: this was requested by @clarenciago but i accidentally lost the request because my dumbass pressed ctrl+enter!!
The studio has that familiar scent of rosin and sweat. There’s something faintly metallic, like old mirrors that have watched too many people bleed ambition into the floor.
You arrive before the sun rises, like you always do.
The security guard downstairs barely looks up when you swipe in. He just gives you the same nod he’s given you every morning for the past three years. He knows the sound of your shoes, the way you move fast and precisely, already thinking ten steps ahead. By the time the elevator doors close, you’re rolling your shoulders, warming your ankles, stretching your neck.
There is no wasted movement. There never is.
The studio lights flicker on one by one, harsh and unforgiving. You like it that way. You like seeing everything: every flaw, every imperfection, every angle that isn’t good enough yet.
Your reflection stares back at you from the wall-length mirror.
Hair pulled tight into a bun. Jaw set. Eyes already sharp with focus.
You don’t smile at yourself. There’s no time.
Music fills the room, soft at first, then louder as you turn the dial. You place your bag down carefully, lining up your water bottle, towel, toe pads, and spare ribbons. Everything has a place. Everything must be exactly right.
Barre work begins.
Plié. Relevé. Tendu.
Your body knows the sequence better than your mind does. Muscle memory takes over, carrying you through repetition after repetition. You count quietly under your breath, numbers grounding you, keeping the world small and manageable.
Eight counts. Again. And again.
Your calves burn early today. You ignore it.
They always burn.
The problem with ballet—one of many—is that pain is not a reliable warning sign. It’s just information. Something to catalog and move past. You learned that years ago, the first time you danced through blisters until your shoes were stained pink.
Pain means you’re working.
Pain means you care.
You push harder.
Hours pass without you noticing. Dancers come and go, the studio filling with murmured greetings, the soft thud of landings, the scrape of shoes against marley. You barely register them. You’re in your own world—one measured in counts and corrections and impossible standards.
Your phone buzzes in your bag.
You ignore it.
It buzzes again.
Still nothing.
By the third time, you sigh and step away from the mirror, already annoyed. You wipe sweat from your brow and fish the phone out, expecting a reminder you forgot to turn off or a group chat you muted too late.
Alex: I’m outside.
You blink. Outside…?
Before you can respond, another message pops up.
Alex: With food. Don’t argue.
Your heart does something annoying, something warm and sudden and entirely inconvenient.
You glance at the clock.
Late morning. Of course it is. Of course you forgot to eat again.
“Dammit,” you mutter, even as your lips curve despite yourself.
Alex Albon has always had impeccable timing when it comes to you not taking care of yourself.
You type quickly.
You: I’m in rehearsal.
The response is instant.
Alex: I know.
Which means he asked. Or guessed. Or just knew you well enough to show up anyway.
You hesitate.
You don’t like interruptions. You don’t like breaking momentum. You especially don’t like being reminded that there’s a world outside the studio, one where people eat lunch and sit down and don’t punish their bodies for a living.
But you also know Alex.
Know that he won’t leave.
Know that if you don’t go now, he’ll wait.
So you grab your hoodie, tug it on over your leotard, and slip out of the studio.
He’s leaning against the wall near the entrance, baseball cap pulled low, sunglasses perched on his nose despite being indoors. He looks out of place and perfectly comfortable at the same time—like he always does. There’s a paper bag in his hands, the smell of warm food already reaching you.
When he spots you, his face lights up immediately.
“There you are,” he says, smiling like he’s been waiting all day—which, honestly, he probably has.
You cross your arms. “You can’t just ambush me at work.”
“I absolutely can,” he replies easily. “I’m your boyfriend.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no heat in it. “I told you I’d eat later.”
Alex hums, unconvinced. “You also told me that last week. And the week before.”
He offers you the bag as if it were a peace offering.
“Chicken and rice,” he adds. “And the soup you like. The one with the ginger.”
Your resolve crumbles instantly.
You sigh, defeated. “You’re impossible.”
“I prefer thoughtful,” he says, grinning.
You take the bag, your fingers brushing his. The contact is brief but grounding, like a reminder that you exist outside of counts and mirrors.
“Come sit,” he says gently, nodding toward the bench near the windows. “Five minutes. That’s all I’m asking.”
Five minutes feels like a lifetime.
But you sit anyway.
Alex watches you carefully as you eat, pretending not to, while doing it very obviously. He notices the way your hands tremble slightly when you lift the spoon, the tension still coiled in your shoulders, the faint wince you try—and fail—to hide when you shift your weight.
“You’ve been pushing too hard again,” he says softly.
You bristle immediately. “I’m fine.”
He doesn’t argue. Alex rarely does, not directly. Instead, he leans back, crossing his arms.
“You say that a lot,” he replies.
You stare down at your food. “I have a run-through tomorrow. I can’t afford to fall behind.”
He exhales slowly. “You say that too.”
Silence stretches between you, comfortable and heavy all at once.
Alex reaches out, fingers brushing your wrist. His touch is warm, steady. Real.
“You don’t have to earn rest,” he says quietly. “You know that, right?”
You swallow.
You nod, but deep down, you’re not sure you believe it.
Not yet.
And as you stand to head back into rehearsal, already planning how much more you can squeeze out of your body before the day ends, Alex watches you go with a frown he doesn’t let you see.
Because he knows something you don’t want to admit.
This pace? It’s not sustainable. However, pain, you’ve learned, is negotiable.
It’s a language your body speaks fluently, one you stopped translating years ago. Tightness becomes warmth. Warmth becomes pressure. Pressure becomes background noise. By the time something truly hurts, you’re already too far gone to stop.
You finish your soup because Alex is watching.
Not because you’re hungry.
Hunger is a concept you’ve trained yourself to misunderstand. Hunger is weakness. Hunger is a distraction. Hunger is something you satisfy later, after the work is done.
But Alex doesn’t look away, not until you scrape the bottom of the container and fold the napkin neatly on top like proof. He smiles then—small, relieved—and presses a kiss to your temple.
“Good,” he murmurs. “Proud of you.”
The words settle in your chest, heavier than they should.
Proud of you.
You’re not sure when praise started to feel like pressure instead of comfort.
You head back into rehearsal with the taste of ginger still on your tongue and Alex’s concern trailing after you like a shadow. The music starts again. The mirrors reflect you endlessly—angles upon angles, each one demanding more.
You dance, and dance, and dance.
By mid-afternoon, your body is no longer whispering. It’s speaking clearly now, insistently, but you refuse to listen. Your ankle aches when you land, a sharp, unwelcome reminder that you’ve been favoring one side without realizing it. Your knees feel swollen, stiff in a way that makes pliés deeper than they should be feel dangerous.
You adjust.
You always do.
Your inner monologue becomes a negotiation: One more run. Just get through this section. You can ice it later. You’ve danced through worse.
You remember being sixteen, crying in a locker room because your feet were bleeding through your tights, and your instructor telling you that if you wanted this life, pain would have to stop being personal.
You wanted this life.
You still do.
Across the room, Alex sits quietly, laptop closed, pretending to scroll through his phone while watching you out of the corner of his eye. He knows better than to interrupt rehearsal. He knows better than to pull you aside mid-focus.
But he also knows you.
He notices the hitch in your landing before you do. The way your jaw tightens when you mask it. The way your shoulders rise closer to your ears as the hours wear on, like your body is bracing for something you won’t name.
When rehearsal finally ends, you’re drenched in sweat, legs trembling, adrenaline the only thing keeping you upright.
You laugh it off.
“See?” you say brightly, grabbing your towel. “All good.”
Alex doesn’t smile back.
“Come sit,” he says instead.
You hesitate, then obey, lowering yourself onto the floor with a wince you don’t quite hide in time.
Alex kneels in front of you, careful, reverent. He doesn’t touch you yet. He just looks—really looks—like he’s studying something fragile.
“You’re hurting,” he says softly.
It’s not a question.
You open your mouth to deny it out of reflex, but the words catch. Because something about the way he’s looking at you makes lying feel cruel.
“It’s nothing,” you settle on. “Just tired.”
Alex’s thumb brushes over the outside of your ankle, feather-light.
You flinch. There it is.
His expression changes, not dramatic, not angry. Just…sad. Deeply, quietly sad.
“Baby,” he murmurs. “That wasn’t nothing.”
You pull your leg back instinctively, wrapping your arms around your knees. Defensive. Ashamed.
“I can’t stop,” you say, too quickly. “Not now. I have too much riding on this.”
Alex shifts closer, sitting beside you on the floor. His shoulder presses into yours, grounding.
“You always have too much riding on this,” he says gently. “That’s the problem.”
You stare at the mirrored wall, at the girl staring back at you with sweat-slicked skin and exhaustion in her eyes.
“If I stop,” you whisper, “I lose momentum. And if I lose momentum—”
“You rest,” Alex interrupts softly.
You laugh, sharp and humorless. “You don’t understand.”
He turns to face you fully now.
“I understand more than you think,” he says. “I just don’t think hurting yourself should be the cost of wanting something.”
That hits somewhere deep.
You think of him—of Alex pushing through pain of his own, races where his hands trembled from adrenaline long after the car stopped, interviews where he smiled through disappointment because the world was watching.
“You push too,” you say quietly.
“Yes,” he admits. “But not like this.”
You glance at him.
“When I push, it’s because I want to be better,” he continues. “When you push… It’s because you’re scared to stop.”
The words steal the air from your lungs.
You look away.
“That’s not fair,” you murmur.
Alex reaches for your hand, threading his fingers through yours, grounding you again.
“Hey,” he says softly. “I’m not judging you. I’m worried about you.”
Silence stretches between you, heavy and intimate. You don’t tell him that the idea of stopping terrifies you more than pain ever could.
Because ballet has always been the one thing that made sense. The one thing that gave structure to your chaos. Without it, you’re not sure who you are.
Later that evening, you insist you’re fine.
Of course you do.
You shower, change, and pack up your things with practiced efficiency. The ache in your ankle has dulled into something deeper now—a throbbing presence you feel with every step—but adrenaline keeps it manageable.
Alex drives you home.
The city lights blur past the windows, and exhaustion settles into your bones like gravity. You lean your head against the seat, eyes half-closed.
Alex glances over at you at a red light.
“You don’t have to be strong all the time,” he says quietly.
You smile faintly. “Someone does.”
He exhales. “You let me do it sometimes. That’s what I’m here for.”
The words wrap around you like a promise.
At home, you ice your ankle as you promised you would. Alex sits on the floor with you, back against the couch, your leg draped carefully over his lap. He’s gentle, reverent, like your body is something sacred.
“Does it hurt?” he asks.
“Less,” you lie.
He knows.
But he doesn’t call you out.
Instead, he presses a kiss to your knee, right over one of the faint bruises you pretend not to notice.
“You’re allowed to rest,” he murmurs against your skin. “Even if your brain tells you otherwise.”
You close your eyes, leaning into him.
For a moment—just a moment—you let yourself believe him.
But when you wake the next morning, your ankle is swollen. Angry and unforgiving.
And when you try to stand, pain lances up your leg sharp enough to steal your breath.
You sit back down hard, heart pounding.
No.
You test it again.
Worse.
Panic rises fast and hot, clawing at your throat.
This can’t happen. Not now.
Alex appears in the doorway, already dressed, concern written all over his face.
“What’s wrong?” he asks.
You look up at him, fear cracking through your composure for the first time.
“I think,” you whisper, “I think I really hurt myself.”
He crosses the room in two steps, kneeling in front of you, hands steady even as his eyes darken with worry.
“Okay,” he says calmly. “Then we’re going to take care of you.”
You shake your head, tears threatening. “Alex, I can’t—”
He cups your face gently, forcing you to meet his gaze.
“Listen to me,” he says, voice firm but soft. “You are more than what your body can give. And I love you whether you dance today or not.”
The tears spill then, hot and helpless.
And for the first time, you don’t try to hide them.
Hospitals have a way of shrinking the world.
Everything becomes smaller there—voices lowered to murmurs, movements softened, time stretching and folding in on itself. Even you feel smaller, perched on the edge of the examination bed, your leg elevated, ice pack pressed to your ankle like a fragile truce between you and your own body.
Alex stands beside you the entire time.
Not pacing. Not hovering. Just there—one hand resting lightly on your knee, grounding, steady, like he’s anchoring you to the present so you don’t float away into panic. His thumb traces slow, absent-minded circles against your skin, and it’s the only thing keeping your breathing even.
You hate how much you need it.
The doctor talks. Words float around the room—strain, overuse, rest, weeks, not days—and each one lands like a quiet catastrophe. You nod, you listen, and you don’t cry. At least not yet.
Alex asks questions. Calm ones. Practical ones. He’s good at this, you realize—absorbing stress and translating it into action. He thanks the doctor sincerely, helps you down from the bed carefully, as if you might shatter if he’s too rough.
When you’re finally alone again, sitting on a bench in the hallway while he fetches paperwork, the silence closes in.
This is the part where your brain betrays you.
You think of rehearsal schedules, of muscle memory cooling, of roles slipping through fingers that have given everything. You think of mirrors and music and the way your body knows exactly what to do—except now, it doesn’t.
You swallow hard.
When Alex comes back, he finds you staring at nothing.
“Hey,” he murmurs, crouching in front of you so you have to look at him. His hands settle over yours, warm and reassuring. “Talk to me.”
“I’m fine,” you say automatically.
He smiles gently, sadly. “You don’t have to be.”
That’s all it takes.
Your shoulders sag, the tension finally snapping, and suddenly the tears are there—quiet, relentless, humiliating. You clamp your lips together, embarrassed, but Alex shakes his head softly and pulls you into his chest without hesitation.
It’s not rushed. It’s not dramatic.
It’s solid.
You cry into his hoodie, fists fisting the fabric like it might disappear if you let go. Alex’s arms wrap around you completely, one hand cradling the back of your head, the other rubbing slow circles into your spine.
“I’m scared,” you admit, voice breaking. “What if I lose everything because I stopped for a second?”
Alex presses a kiss to your hair, lingering.
“You won’t,” he says quietly. “And even if something changes—everything isn’t everything.”
You sniff, pulling back just enough to look at him. “That’s easy for you to say.”
He meets your gaze, unflinching.
“I’ve lost things,” he says softly. “I’ve lost races. Opportunities. Versions of myself I thought were permanent.” His thumb wipes a tear from your cheek. “And I’m still here. You will be too.”
The conviction in his voice makes your chest ache.
The drive home is slow and careful. Alex insists on helping you into the car, adjusting the seat so your ankle stays supported. He drives one-handed so the other can rest on your thigh, grounding you through every turn.
You lean your head against the window, watching the city blur past, exhaustion settling deep into your bones.
“I hate this,” you murmur eventually.
“I know,” he replies gently.
“I feel useless.”
Alex squeezes your leg softly. “You’re not.”
“I don’t know how to stop thinking about what I’m missing.”
At the red light, he turns to you fully.
“Then let me think for you,” he says. “Just for a while.”
At home, he moves around you as this has always been his role. He kicks off his shoes, helps you settle on the couch, and arranges pillows and blankets with meticulous care. He brings you water, painkillers, a heating pad for your lower back—things you didn’t even realize you needed.
You watch him from the couch, heart swelling painfully.
“You don’t have to do all this,” you say weakly.
He looks at you over his shoulder. “I want to.”
Dinner is simple. Comforting. He makes something warm and easy, cutting everything into smaller pieces so you don’t have to strain. He eats beside you, matching your pace, refusing to rush.
When your mind starts spiraling again—What if they replace me? What if I fall behind?—Alex seems to sense it instantly.
“Hey,” he murmurs, setting his fork down. “Look at me.”
You do.
“You are allowed to rest,” he repeats, like a vow. “Your worth doesn’t disappear when you stop moving.”
The words sink in slowly.
Later, when the pain medication makes your eyelids heavy, Alex helps you to bed. He removes your brace carefully, massages your calf with gentle, practiced hands, like he’s memorizing every inch of you.
You sigh, melting into the mattress.
“Stay?” you ask quietly.
He doesn’t even hesitate. “Always.”
He lies beside you, careful not to jostle your ankle, one arm wrapped around your waist. You curl into him instinctively, forehead pressing into his chest, listening to his heartbeat.
It’s steady.
Reassuring.
Safe.
“I don’t know who I am without ballet,” you whisper into the dark.
Alex kisses your forehead.
“You’re you,” he says. “You’re kind. You’re stubborn. You’re brilliant. You’re the woman I love. Ballet is something you do—not the only thing you are.”
The words loosen something tight in your chest.
You fall asleep like that—wrapped in him, held together by love instead of discipline.
And for the first time in a long time, your body rests.
The first morning you wake up without rehearsal feels wrong.
Your body stirs before your mind does, muscles bracing for movement that never comes. Habit is a cruel thing; it wakes you with phantom schedules and imaginary counts, your brain already racing through warm-ups you won’t do, combinations you won’t repeat, corrections you won’t receive.
You lie there, staring at the ceiling, heart thudding with a low-grade panic that settles somewhere behind your ribs.
I should be up. I’m wasting time. Everyone else is moving forward.
Beside you, Alex breathes slowly, deeply—one arm slung over your waist like an anchor. His thumb twitches absently against your side, a sleepy, unconscious reassurance.
You exhale.
Carefully, you shift, testing your ankle. It’s stiff, sore, but calmer than yesterday. The pain isn’t screaming now—it’s waiting. Patient. Watching.
Alex stirs as you sit up.
“Hey,” he murmurs, eyes still closed. “Where’re you going?”
“Nowhere,” you whisper, guilt already curling in your stomach. “Just… awake.”
He opens one eye, squints at you, then reaches for your hand, tugging you gently back down.
“Come here,” he says softly.
You hesitate. You shouldn’t need this. You should be stronger than this. But Alex’s arms are warm, and the world feels safer tucked against his chest.
So you go.
He presses a sleepy kiss into your hair. “You don’t have to be productive today,” he murmurs. “You don’t even have to be okay.”
Your throat tightens.
“Alex,” you say quietly, “what if I forget how it feels? To dance?”
He’s awake now.
He shifts, propping himself up on one elbow so he can look at you properly. His gaze is gentle but unwavering, like he’s searching your face for something deeper than words.
“You won’t,” he says simply. “Your body remembers things your fear tries to erase.”
You swallow. “What if I come back worse?”
“Then we deal with that,” he replies without missing a beat. “Together.”
The certainty in his voice settles something restless inside you.
Later, he insists on making breakfast.
You watch from the kitchen table as he moves around with careful efficiency, glancing back at you every few seconds like he’s checking you’re still real. He plates everything neatly, cuts your toast into smaller pieces, and slides your coffee toward you at the exact temperature you like.
“You’re hovering,” you tease weakly.
“I’m attentive,” he corrects, smiling.
You eat slowly. Mindfully. It feels unnatural, like you’re breaking some unspoken rule.
Afterward, Alex pulls out a blanket and settles you on the couch, propping your ankle up just right. He queues up something soft on TV—nothing demanding, nothing that requires you to think too hard.
He sits on the floor instead of the couch, leaning back against your legs, one hand resting on your shin.
“You don’t have to keep watching if you don’t want to,” he says. “You can just… be.”
You blink at him. “I don’t know how to do that.”
“I’ll teach you,” he says lightly. “I’m very patient.”
Time stretches in strange ways when you stop measuring it by effort.
The hours blur—naps you don’t remember falling into, conversations that drift from nothing to everything. Alex talks about racing, about the pressure of expectations, about learning the difference between pushing and punishing yourself.
You listen, really listen, realizing how similar you are beneath the surface. Two people who learned early that love often came with conditions. Two people who thought rest had to be earned.
In the afternoon, he helps you shower, careful and reverent, hands steady as he supports you. He never rushes. Never looks annoyed. Never makes you feel like a burden.
When you flinch apologetically, he notices.
“Don’t,” he says quietly.
“I’m sorry,” you whisper. “I hate being like this.”
Alex cups your face gently, forehead resting against yours.
“I don’t,” he says. “I get to take care of you. That’s not a chore. That’s a privilege.”
The words sink deep.
That night, when the overthinking creeps back in—rehearsals replaying in your mind, imaginary conversations spiraling—you curl into Alex’s chest and let him talk you through it.
“You are allowed to heal,” he murmurs, fingers threading through your hair. “You are allowed to pause. The world won’t end because you took a breath.”
Your breathing evens out, syncing with his.
For the first time since the injury, you don’t feel like you’re losing ground.
You feel like you’re being held.
And maybe, just maybe, that’s enough for now.
Your friends arrive on a Sunday afternoon, and for the first time since the injury, the apartment feels alive in a way that doesn’t exhaust you.
There’s a knock at the door—three short raps followed by a muffled laugh—and before Alex can even stand up from the couch, you already know who it is.
“I’ll get it,” you say, instinctively shifting forward.
Alex raises an eyebrow. “You’ll supervise it,” he corrects gently, already moving past you. “I’ll get it.”
You roll your eyes but smile anyway, settling back against the cushions with your ankle propped carefully on a pillow. You hear voices immediately when the door opens—familiar ones, warm ones, overlapping in the way that only people who’ve spent years sweating and bleeding together know how to do.
“There she is!” someone calls out as they spill into the living room.
Mila is first, dropping her bag by the door and crossing the room in two quick strides before you can protest. She crouches in front of you, eyes scanning your face like she’s checking alignment.
“You look… softer,” she says thoughtfully. “In a good way.”
“Is that ballerina code for ‘unemployed’?” you tease weakly.
She snorts. “Please. You could be bedridden and still intimidate half the corps.”
Behind her, Lena and Joan follow, arms full of snacks and flowers and the kind of casual chaos you didn’t realize you missed so badly. They talk all at once—about rehearsal drama, about who cried during which correction, about the understudy who keeps rushing the music.
You laugh. Really laugh. It surprises you.
Alex hangs back near the kitchen, pretending to busy himself with drinks while watching the scene unfold like it’s something sacred. He’s seen you disciplined, focused, and relentless. But this—this version of you, relaxed and surrounded by people who know exactly what it cost you to be here—this is something else entirely.
He catches Mila glancing at him.
She raises an eyebrow, subtle but knowing.
“Good one,” she mouths.
Alex flushes faintly and ducks his head, suddenly very invested in lining up glasses.
Your friends settle in around you, perching on armrests and the floor, instinctively adjusting so no one bumps your ankle. No one asks you when you’re going back. No one questions your rest. They talk around it, through it, like this pause is just another variation, not a failure.
At one point, Lena reaches over and squeezes your hand.
“We miss you,” she says simply. “But don’t rush back for us, okay?”
Something in your chest loosens.
Later, after they’ve gone—after the hugs and promises and whispered text me if you spiral—the apartment quiets again.
You sit there for a moment, absorbing the afterglow.
Alex joins you on the couch, draping an arm over your shoulders.
“You were glowing,” he says softly.
You hum. “I felt… normal.”
He presses a kiss to your temple. “You are.”
Physical therapy starts the next day.
It’s humbling in a way you weren’t prepared for.
The room is bright and sterile, the movements small and deliberate. Your therapist speaks in careful increments—five more degrees, hold for ten seconds—and you nod, swallowing frustration as your body trembles doing things that used to be effortless.
You bite your lip, tears stinging your eyes.
“This is pathetic,” you mutter.
Alex, seated nearby, looks up sharply.
“Don’t,” he says gently but firmly. “This is progress.”
You glare at him. “I used to—”
“I know,” he interrupts, crossing the room to kneel in front of you. He takes your hand, grounding you. “But this isn’t about what you used to be. It’s about what you’re becoming.”
You hate how much that helps.
The days that follow are uneven. Some mornings you wake up hopeful, energized by tiny wins—an extra stretch, less pain, a smoother step. Other days, the frustration crashes over you without warning, and you snap at Alex for hovering too much or not enough.
He takes it all with quiet grace.
When you apologize, he just smiles and says, “Healing isn’t linear. Neither are emotions.”
One afternoon, after a particularly rough session, you collapse onto the couch in tears.
“I’m scared,” you admit, voice breaking. “What if I come back and I’m not enough anymore?”
Alex sits beside you, pulling you into his chest.
“Then we’ll redefine ‘enough,’” he says softly. “Together.”
You breathe him in—his warmth, his steadiness—and let yourself believe it.
That night, as you fall asleep with your ankle resting against his thigh, you realize something quietly monumental.
You’re not trapped.
You’re held.
And for now, that’s more than enough.
The studio smells the same.
That’s the first thing you notice when Alex opens the door for you and helps you inside—rosin and sweat and old wood warmed by years of music. It hits you all at once, sharp and familiar, and your chest tightens before you can stop it.
Your body reacts before your brain does.
Your shoulders square. Your spine lengthens. Your weight shifts instinctively, like you’re preparing for a count that never comes.
Alex notices.
His hand tightens slightly around yours. Not to stop you—just to remind you where you are.
“You okay?” he murmurs.
You nod too quickly. “Yeah. I’m just… happy to be here.”
It’s not a lie. Not entirely.
The receptionist smiles when she sees you, her expression softening with something like relief. “Hey, stranger,” she says gently. “We’ve missed you.”
You smile back, the kind of smile that takes effort. “Missed you too.”
Alex stays close as you move through the hallway, your steps careful, measured. You’re acutely aware of the brace under your pants, of the way your body feels slightly wrong in a space that used to feel like home.
When you reach the doorway of the main studio, you stop.
Music spills out—piano, steady and demanding. The dancers are already moving, bodies cutting through space with precision and hunger. You recognize them all. The way Mila tilts her head before a turn. The slight delay in Lena’s landing somehow makes her look airborne longer.
You swallow.
Alex doesn’t rush you. He waits until you’re ready, then guides you to a bench along the wall, helping you sit carefully. He crouches in front of you, adjusting your ankle, making sure you’re comfortable.
“I’ll be right here,” he says softly.
You nod, eyes already glued to the mirror.
Watching is harder than you expected.
Your fingers twitch with phantom counts. Your muscles ache in sympathy with every grand jeté, every sharp landing. You can feel the choreography in your bones, your body begging to join in, to remember itself fully.
I could do that, your brain whispers cruelly. I should be doing that.
A familiar voice breaks through your thoughts.
“You’re not allowed to critique,” Mila says quietly, appearing beside you with a grin. “Doctor’s orders.”
You laugh weakly. “I don’t know how not to.”
She sits on the floor at your feet, stretching lazily. “We know. But it’s nice knowing you’re watching.”
The rehearsal continues. Corrections are given. Music stops and starts. Time moves in strange, uneven pulses.
At one point, the understudy for your usual role steps into your spot.
It shouldn’t hurt like this.
You tell yourself that over and over as your chest tightens, as something hot and ugly coils in your stomach. She’s good. Talented. Earned her place here just as much as you did.
Still.
Your nails dig into your palm.
Alex notices immediately.
He shifts closer, his knee brushing yours. “Hey,” he murmurs. “Breathe.”
You do. Shakily.
“I hate this,” you whisper, eyes still fixed on the mirror. “I hate that I want it so badly.”
Alex watches the dancers for a moment before looking back at you.
“Wanting it doesn’t mean you’re doing something wrong,” he says quietly. “It just means it matters.”
You glance at him. “What if I never stop wanting it like this?”
“Then we learn how to want without hurting yourself,” he replies. “You’re allowed to want things gently too.”
The thought feels foreign. Radical.
The rehearsal eventually ends. The dancers disperse, laughter and chatter filling the room. A few of them come over to hug you carefully, to tell you they’re glad you came, that they miss you.
You soak it all in, even as it aches.
On the way out, you pause one last time to look back at the studio.
Alex squeezes your hand. “Ready?”
You nod. “Yeah.”
Outside, the air feels cooler, lighter. You sit in the car for a moment before Alex starts the engine, staring straight ahead.
“I was jealous,” you admit suddenly. “And I feel awful about it.”
Alex doesn’t hesitate. “You’re human.”
“I don’t want to be bitter,” you say. “I don’t want to be that person.”
“You won’t be,” he says firmly. “Because you’re honest about it.”
At home, exhaustion hits you like a wave. Emotional fatigue settles deeper than physical pain ever did. Alex helps you onto the couch, tucks a blanket around you, and brings you tea without being asked.
You watch him move around the apartment, heart swelling.
“Hey,” you call softly.
He looks up. “Yeah?”
“Thank you,” you say. “For not letting me disappear.”
He crosses the room, kneeling in front of you, resting his forehead against yours.
“You could never disappear,” he murmurs. “Not from me.”
That night, you dream of dancing—not perfectly, not endlessly—but gently. Carefully. With patience.
And when you wake, the ache is still there.
But so is the hope.
The setback comes on a Tuesday.
It’s the kind of day that starts deceptively well: your ankle feels loose when you wake, the pain manageable, the air outside bright and forgiving. You let yourself hope. Just a little. Enough to be dangerous.
Physical therapy goes fine at first. You push through the exercises with quiet determination, jaw clenched, sweat beading at your temples. The therapist nods approvingly, increases the difficulty by a fraction, and for a moment—just a moment—you feel like yourself again.
Then your ankle gives.
Not dramatically. Not with a snap or a fall. Just a sharp, sudden pain that shoots up your leg and steals the breath from your lungs.
You freeze.
The room tilts.
Your vision blurs with unshed tears you refuse to let fall.
“I’m okay,” you say immediately, too fast. “I can keep going.”
The therapist gently but firmly stops you. “No. We’re done for today.”
The word done lands like a verdict.
By the time Alex picks you up, you’re quiet in a way he recognizes instantly.
You stare out the window on the drive home, fingers digging into your jacket sleeves, replaying the moment over and over in your head. What you did wrong. What you pushed too hard. How stupid you were to think—
“This isn’t failure,” Alex says softly, eyes still on the road.
You laugh under your breath, brittle. “It feels like it.”
He pulls into a parking spot instead of continuing home.
When he turns to face you, his expression is calm, but serious. Present.
“You don’t get to decide that alone,” he says. “Not when you’re hurting.”
You snap before you can stop yourself. “You don’t understand what this feels like.”
The words hang between you, sharp and ugly.
Alex doesn’t flinch—but something tightens in his jaw.
“You’re right,” he says quietly. “I don’t know what it feels like to lose ballet.” He pauses, then adds, “But I do know what it feels like to tie your entire worth to performance.”
That hits harder than you expect.
You look away.
“I don’t know who I am if I can’t do this,” you whisper.
Alex exhales slowly. “Then maybe this is the part where you find out.”
The rest of the day passes in a fog.
You ice. You rest. You scroll through old videos of yourself dancing and hate yourself for it. When Alex suggests dinner, you shrug. When he asks what you need, you say nothing and mean everything.
That night, you cry alone in the bathroom, sitting on the floor with your ankle wrapped, forehead pressed to your knees. The tears come hot and fast, fueled by fear more than pain.
Alex finds you there.
He doesn’t ask what’s wrong. He just sits behind you, pulling you gently back against his chest, arms wrapping around you like a quiet shield.
“You don’t have to be brave tonight,” he murmurs into your hair.
Something in you breaks open.
“I’m so tired,” you sob. “I’ve spent my whole life earning rest. I don’t know how to stop.”
Alex rocks you slowly, grounding you in the moment.
“Then don’t stop,” he says. “Just… change how you move.”
The next day, you don’t go to physical therapy.
You panic about it all morning—about losing progress, about falling behind—but when Alex suggests it, something in you agrees before your fear can protest.
Instead, he takes you somewhere unexpected.
A small park on the edge of the city. Quiet. Empty. Green in a way that feels almost intrusive after weeks of sterile rooms and mirrored walls.
He helps you onto a bench, hands careful, familiar.
“We’re not here to fix anything,” he says. “Just to exist.”
You scoff weakly. “I’m terrible at that.”
“I know,” he smiles. “I love you anyway.”
You sit in silence for a while, watching people pass, kids on bikes, an older couple walking slowly, hand in hand. No mirrors. No music. No counts.
Your foot rests on the ground. Not working. Not pushing. Just there.
For the first time, you don’t feel like you’re wasting time.
“You know,” you say quietly, “I thought strength was about endurance.”
Alex tilts his head. “What do you think it is now?”
You think about it. Really think.
“Choice,” you say finally. “Choosing not to destroy yourself for the thing you love.”
He smiles—not proud, exactly. Relieved.
That night, you write an email to your director. Not an apology, not a promise, but honesty. You tell her about where you are, and about what you need.
When you hit send, your hands shake.
But the world doesn’t end.
Weeks later, your ankle is stronger. Not perfect. But better.
More importantly, you are different.
You still want ballet. You still ache for it. But now, when your body whispers enough, you listen.
Alex notices the change before you do.
“You’re lighter,” he says one evening, watching you stretch carefully in the living room. “Not physically. Just… here.”
You smile. “I think I finally stopped running.”
He pulls you into a hug, careful of your ankle, chin resting on the top of your head.
“I’m really proud of you,” he murmurs.
And this time, the praise doesn’t feel like pressure.
It feels like love.
Your first real day back doesn’t feel like a victory.
It feels small.
That’s what surprises you most.
There’s no rush of adrenaline when you wake up, no electric buzz humming under your skin like there used to be before big rehearsals. Instead, there’s a steady calm, a careful awareness of your body as you sit up in bed and test your ankle.
It holds.
Not perfectly. Not effortlessly. But it holds.
Alex watches you from the doorway, coffee mug in hand, trying very hard not to look like he’s holding his breath.
“How does it feel?” he asks.
You tilt your foot experimentally, slow and deliberate. “Like it knows what it’s doing again.”
He smiles, soft and proud, and you feel it in your chest like a warm bloom.
The studio greets you differently this time.
People smile, yes—but they don’t crowd you. They don’t clap. They don’t make a moment out of it. They simply make space.
You appreciate that more than you can articulate.
You change slowly, deliberately, every movement intentional. When you step onto the floor, your heart stutters—not with fear, but with reverence. This place still holds you. Still knows you.
The music starts.
Not loud. Not fast. Just enough.
You begin with pliés.
Simple. Foundational. You let your weight sink into the floor, feel the grounding, the support. Your ankle responds—not with protest, but with cautious cooperation.
You don’t push.
You don’t force.
You move like you’re listening instead of commanding.
And something extraordinary happens.
You feel joy.
Not the frantic, desperate joy of proving yourself. Not the sharp high of perfection narrowly achieved. But something softer. Deeper. Like relief.
Across the room, Alex stands quietly near the wall, hands folded loosely in front of him. He doesn’t record. He doesn’t distract. He just watches, eyes shining with something dangerously close to tears.
He sees the difference immediately.
You’re not fighting your body anymore.
You’re dancing with it.
Afterward, when you’re flushed and breathless, you sit beside him on the bench, ankle elevated, heart steady.
“How was it?” he asks.
You think about it for a moment.
“Different,” you say. “Better.”
He nods, like he already knew.
Later, at home, you curl up beside him on the couch, exhaustion settling in—not painful, not punishing. Just earned.
“I was scared,” you admit quietly. “That coming back would feel like starting over.”
“And?” he prompts gently.
“And it feels like continuing,” you say. “Just… more honest.”
Alex turns toward you, brushing his thumb along your jaw.
“I love watching you dance,” he says. “But I love this version of you even more.”
You smile, pressing a kiss to his shoulder.
For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel like something you have to chase.
It feels like something you can walk toward.
Together.
The evening settles around you without ceremony.
No grand plans, no countdown. Just the low hum of the city outside the windows and the familiar comfort of being home. Alex cooks—nothing complicated, something warm—and you sit at the counter, ankle propped up, watching him move around the kitchen as he belongs there.
Because he does.
There’s something grounding about watching him exist in the mundane. The way he tastes the sauce and frowns in concentration. The way he nudges your knee gently when he passes, like he needs to remind himself you’re real.
You eat slowly.
Not because you’re tired, but because you don’t feel the need to rush anymore.
After dinner, you shower first. The water is warm, soothing, sliding over muscles that worked today—not to breaking, not to exhaustion, but to expression. You take your time drying off, lotioning your ankle carefully, reverently.
When you step back into the bedroom, Alex looks up from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed, and his breath visibly stutters.
Not hunger.
Not urgency.
Just love.
“You okay?” he asks, soft.
You nod. “Yeah. Just… calm.”
He smiles at that like it’s the best thing you could have said.
You crawl onto the bed beside him, curling into his side instinctively. His arm wraps around you without thought, hand resting warm and solid against your back.
The quiet stretches.
It isn’t awkward. It’s full.
“I used to think,” you say eventually, voice barely louder than the room, “that if I stopped pushing myself, everything would fall apart.”
Alex presses his lips to your temple. “And now?”
“And now I think… I was just afraid of what would happen if I slowed down enough to feel things.”
His thumb moves in slow, absent circles against your skin. “What do you feel now?”
You turn toward him, meeting his eyes.
“Safe,” you say. “Wanted. Like I don’t have to earn being loved.”
Something in his expression breaks open—quietly, beautifully.
“You never did,” he murmurs.
You kiss him then.
Not desperate. Not consuming.
Just honest.
It starts slow, lips brushing, breaths mingling. A kiss that asks instead of takes. His hand comes up to your jaw, cradling your face like something precious. You melt into him, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.
The world narrows.
There’s no pain, no fear, no pressure. Just the gentle language of touch, the way he pauses when you shift, checking in without words. The way you lean closer when you want more.
You lie back together, limbs tangling naturally. His forehead rests against yours, noses brushing.
“I love you,” he says, like it’s the simplest truth in the world.
Your chest tightens—not painfully. Right.
“I love you too.”
The kisses deepen, still unhurried. The room grows warmer, quieter. His touch is careful, worshipful, like he’s memorizing you. Like this moment matters.
And it does.
When he pulls you closer, when you let yourself sink fully into the intimacy of it, there’s no performance. No perfection to chase. Just connection.
Just love.
The night closes around you gently, holding the sound of soft laughter, whispered reassurances, the steady rhythm of two hearts choosing each other again and again.
if it's meant to be, then it will be , lando norris & oscar piastri x reader
summary: Three years, countless almosts, and every chance that slipped away. You kept waiting for him to choose you. But he never did.
word count: 12.1k
contains: PURE ANGST, based on a true story, y/n is lowk insufferable (IM SORRY), no happy ending, mixed signals, hurt/no comfort, no part 2, alex albon and lily muni he cameo, bittersweet ending, set in senior high (k-12), mentions of drinking/being drunk, drunken confessions, lando is kind of a jerk; he kinda leads y/n on and entertains her without meaning to, by year 12, oscar is no longer y/n's classmate that's why he kinda disappeared from that point forward, title is from ethel cain's song "sun bleached flies" (because i love that quote so much)
You always thought Year 10 would blur into the next, another loop of uniforms and rushed lunches, the kind of monotony that felt endless. But that was the year Oscar Piastri sat next to you in homeroom, and the endless days suddenly had a shape.
Oscar wasn’t loud. He wasn’t the type who announced himself with bravado or filled the silence with chatter. He was quiet, observant, and his humor came dry and sharp when it slipped through. It was easy to be his friend — almost too easy. You didn’t have to try; things just clicked into place like puzzle pieces that had always belonged.
By mid-year, he was the one you studied with at the library, the one who nudged your foot under the desk when you started zoning out in math, the one who saved you a seat when you were late. It wasn’t grand, it wasn’t dramatic, but it was steady. Reliable. You trusted him without ever having to say why.
You thought you’d stay that way forever — comfortable, untouchable in the simplicity of it.
Year 11 shook things up.
You’d walked into your new classroom with Oscar at your side, ready for another year of easy familiarity, when the teacher announced new seating. You barely had time to groan before someone slid into the chair diagonally from yours, dropping his bag with a grin like he already belonged.
“Hi. I’m Lando,” he said, extending a hand.
The accent threw you for half a second — sharper, brighter, a little foreign. But his smile disarmed you.
You shook his hand. “Y/N.”
By the end of the day, he’d already made a mess of your quiet.
Lando was loud where Oscar was quiet, messy where Oscar was neat. He cracked jokes under his breath during lectures, borrowed your pens without asking, and doodled in the corner of your notebook just because he was bored. You wanted to be annoyed, but you weren’t. He had this way of pulling you in, like he already knew you’d forgive him before you even realized you wanted to.
And then, somewhere between late-night calls that stretched until sunrise and afternoons huddled over group projects, Lando carved himself into your life the same way Oscar had — but different. Lively. Electric.
The three of you formed an odd triangle: Oscar, steady as always; you, caught in the middle; Lando, unpredictable, magnetic.
At first, it was innocent. Game nights where you and Lando stayed on call long after Oscar logged off. Study sessions where you barely studied because he kept distracting you with dumb impressions. Walking home side by side, laughing at nothing.
Then one night, you caught yourself staring at the way his hair fell into his eyes as he concentrated on the game screen, his laughter warm in your ear through the headset. Something in your chest shifted.
Oh, no.
You liked him.
The realization hit you like a poorly aimed dodgeball. You hadn’t seen it coming.
The problem was, you weren’t blind.
Lando had his eyes on someone else.
It was the way he lit up when certain people walked into the room, the subtle way he angled his chair to follow them with his gaze, the unspoken attention he gave that wasn’t yours. You weren’t stupid. You saw it. You hated that you saw it.
So, you buried the crush under layers of laughter and study notes, convincing yourself it would fade away.
And maybe it would have. Maybe it could have, if not for Oscar.
It was late one evening in October, the sky already black, the school day long behind you. You and Oscar were lingering by the bike racks, waiting out the traffic before heading home.
He was quiet — quieter than usual — staring at his shoes instead of cracking jokes about how miserable exams would be.
You nudged him lightly with your shoulder. “What’s up with you?”
He hesitated. Swallowed. Then, with a breath that sounded like surrender, he said, “I like you.”
The words hung in the air, fragile and sharp at once.
You blinked. “What?”
Oscar’s lips pressed into a thin line. His gaze flicked to you, then away. “I’ve liked you for a while. Since… I don’t know. Last year, probably.”
The world tilted. Oscar, your safe place, your constant — saying this.
You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. You weren’t ready. You weren’t expecting it. You didn’t know what to do with the truth.
So when he looked at you, eyes uncertain but hopeful, you panicked.
“I…” you started, faltered, then forced the words out because his silence begged for something. “I like you too.”
It wasn’t a lie. You did like him — just not the way he liked you. Not the way you liked Lando.
But the desperation in your chest, the fear of losing Oscar, the ache of knowing Lando would never look at you that way — it all tangled into a mess. And before you could untangle it, Oscar’s smile spread slowly and carefully, relief softening the edges of his face.
He reached for your hand, tentative. You let him.
That night, walking home with Oscar’s hand warm in yours, you told yourself it could work. Those feelings grew, and that love wasn’t always fireworks. That maybe, the safe choice was the right one.
You told yourself a lot of things.
And maybe you almost believed them.
At first, it wasn’t so bad.
You convinced yourself that saying yes to Oscar was the right choice. He was good to you — kind in ways that didn’t scream for attention but stayed with you anyway. He carried your bag when you looked tired, remembered the little things you said in passing, and waited by your locker even when you didn’t ask.
And it wasn’t like you hated being with him. You liked the warmth of his hand brushing against yours in the hallway, the way he tilted his head toward you during group conversations, and the soft smiles that were just for you.
Two months. That’s how long it lasted. Two months of shared notes and quiet walks, of sitting too close at lunch, of trying to mold your heart into something it wasn’t.
But the truth was, you were pretending. Pretending that the flutter in your chest when Oscar leaned in was enough. Pretending that the ache you felt whenever Lando’s laugh filled the room wasn’t tearing holes in your resolve.
You wanted it to work. You wanted to love Oscar the way he deserved.
But it’s hard to fake a spark when your heart’s already burning elsewhere.
Winter break arrived too quickly, and with it, distance.
In the first few days, you told yourself it was fine. That the silence between you and Oscar was just the natural lull of holidays. You’d texted him here and there, the usual Merry Christmas messages, the casual how’s your day? But every time you stared at his replies, polite and steady, you felt a pit in your stomach.
It wasn’t him. It was you.
You were avoiding him, though you’d never admit it out loud. You made excuses when he asked to call. You left his texts on read longer than you should have. You scrolled past his name in your notifications like it didn’t sting to see it.
Because every time he reached out, you were reminded of the lie you’d told — the yes you’d given when your heart was somewhere else.
You hated yourself for it.
Worse, you hated how much easier it felt to open Discord and see Lando’s green dot glowing.
You’d tell yourself it was innocent. Just games. Just calls. Just laughter that stretched until you forgot you were supposed to feel guilty. But when you hung up, the guilt would crash down, heavy and suffocating.
And Oscar, unknowingly, was left waiting in the cold.
By the time school started again, you could feel the fracture.
Oscar’s eyes found you the second you walked into homeroom, relief softening his features, but all you felt was dread. The way he smiled at you — open, sure, like he’d missed you — made your stomach twist. Because you hadn’t missed him the way he’d missed you.
You’d spent the break pulling away, brick by brick, until the distance between you was unbridgeable.
It showed in the way you flinched when he brushed his hand against yours in the hallway. The way you reply to his texts shrank into short sentences. The way your eyes slid past him during lunch, landing anywhere but his.
He noticed. Of course, he noticed.
One afternoon, after a week of forced smiles and awkward silences, he finally cornered you outside the library.
“Y/N.” His voice was steady, but his eyes gave him away. They searched yours like they were begging for something — an answer, an explanation, anything.
You froze, clutching your books tighter. “Yeah?”
He hesitated, then asked the question you’d been avoiding. “Did I do something wrong?”
It was like a knife to the gut. You wanted to say no, wanted to reassure him, wanted to take his hand and tell him he was perfect, because he was. He was steady and kind and patient, everything anyone should want.
But he wasn’t Lando.
And that truth burned on your tongue, cruel and unrelenting.
“No.” You shook your head, words tangled in your throat. “It’s not you. I just… I don’t think I can do this anymore.”
Oscar blinked. Once. Twice. As if trying to process the words. “Do what?”
“This.” You gestured vaguely between you. Your hands trembled. “Us.”
For a second, he just stared at you, the silence pressing in like a weight. Then his jaw tightened, his shoulders stiffening as if bracing himself against a blow.
“I see,” he said finally, voice clipped.
You hated yourself for the way his eyes dimmed, for the way the light drained from his face.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered, but the words felt useless.
He nodded, swallowing hard. “Yeah. Right. Don’t worry about it.”
But the way he walked away — rigid, fast, like he couldn’t stand still any longer — told you everything you didn’t want to hear.
The weeks after were a blur of guilt.
Oscar stopped waiting for you after class. He stopped sitting next to you at lunch. He didn’t laugh at your jokes anymore, didn’t look for you in a crowd. You still saw him, of course — same classes, same hallways, same space. But he felt further away than ever.
And Lando — Lando was still there, bright and relentless, filling the gaps Oscar left behind. Which only twisted the knife deeper. Because the more you leaned into Lando, the more you knew the truth: you’d never been fair to Oscar. You’d never even given him a chance.
You’d been chasing someone else the whole time.
And you hated yourself for it.
That night, lying awake in bed, you replayed everything in your head. The way Oscar had confessed — quiet, vulnerable, honest. The way you’d said yes out of fear and desperation, not love. The way you’d broken his heart without even meaning to.
You buried your face into your pillow, tears hot against your skin.
Because for all the laughter and games and late-night calls with Lando, you couldn’t shake the image of Oscar’s eyes when you said it was over.
You’d been his safe place, too. And you destroyed it.
The announcement came on a Tuesday morning, tucked between the usual chaos of homeroom chatter and the teacher’s half-hearted attempt at roll call.
“Reminder,” Your advisor said, tapping her clipboard, “each class will be preparing a group dance for the upcoming winter prom. You’ll practice during P.E. periods this month. Partners will be assigned tomorrow.”
The room buzzed instantly.
Across the row, your friend Lily groaned. “A dance? Seriously? What is this, the Yule Ball?”
You tried to laugh with her, but your stomach tightened. Because you knew what dances meant: closeness, touching, pretending at romance for the sake of choreography. And as much as you tried to bury it, you couldn’t help but wonder who you’d be paired with.
Would it be some random classmate you barely spoke to? Someone safe, someone forgettable?
Or would fate twist the knife?
The next day, fate obliged.
“Okay, pairings are on the board.” Your advisor, Ms. Evans, smacked a sheet of paper onto the wall, already moving on to instructions about gym uniforms while the class surged forward.
You didn’t move at first, preferring the safety of distance. But you didn’t have to — because Lily leaned over, eyes wide.
“Oh my god,” she whispered, half scandalized, half thrilled. “You’re with Lando.”
Your head snapped up. “What?”
She shoved the paper toward you, finger jabbing at the list. And there it was, in black and white:
Lando Norris — Y/N L/N
Your heart stumbled in your chest, clumsy and uneven. For a second, you just stared at the names as if squinting might change them. But no. It was there. Permanent.
And then, like clockwork, you felt his gaze on you.
Lando leaned against the far wall, arms crossed, his usual half-smirk playing on his lips. When your eyes met, he lifted his brows, as if to say, Guess it’s you and me.
Heat rushed to your cheeks, and you quickly looked away, pretending to be fascinated by the floor tiles.
Of course, it had to be him. Of course.
Practice started that afternoon.
The gym was loud, sneakers squeaking against the floor as pairs scattered across the space. Ms. Evans clapped her hands, barking out the basics: “Step together, step apart, spin. Keep it simple. Remember, prom is about presence, not perfection!”
You stood stiffly in front of Lando, your palms already clammy.
He noticed. Of course he did. He always noticed.
“You look like you’re about to be executed,” he teased, eyes gleaming.
You rolled your eyes, trying for casual. “I just don’t want to trip over you.”
“Over me?” He chuckled, offering his hand like a mock gentleman. “Please. You should be worried about me tripping over you.”
The words were light, easy, but the way his fingers brushed yours when you took his hand sent sparks straight to your chest. It was stupid. It was nothing. It was everything.
“Ready?” he asked.
No. Not even close. But you nodded anyway.
The first few steps were clumsy, as expected. You both laughed when you stumbled, but your laughter was nervous, thin at the edges. His hand pressed lightly against your waist to guide you through a turn, and you felt the imprint of it long after he pulled away.
“You’re tense,” he observed.
“I’m fine,” you lied, forcing your shoulders to loosen.
“Sure,” he said, smirking. “Totally fine. Not shaking like a leaf or anything.”
You smacked his arm, but the contact only made things worse. His skin was warm through the fabric of his uniform, and your fingers tingled after.
You hated how easy it was for him. How he could grin, tease, spin you around without a second thought, while you were over here cataloging every brush of his fingers, every glance, every laugh.
By the end of practice, your heart felt like it had run a marathon.
Walking home that day, you replayed every second in your head. The way his hand had steadied you when you tripped. The way he’d leaned in close to correct your footwork, his breath brushing your ear. The way he’d grinned when you finally managed a clean spin, eyes crinkling at the corners like you’d just scored a victory together.
It was too much. Too close. Too dangerous.
Because no matter how many times you reminded yourself that he didn’t see you that way — that he never would — your heart refused to listen.
And when your friend group’s group chat lit up that night with memes about who was the “hottest dance pair,” your chest ached seeing his name alongside yours.
Because everyone else might have thought it was a joke. But for you, it was the cruelest truth: no matter how perfect the chemistry looked from the outside, it would never be real.
Practice became a routine — twice a week, every week, for a month. And somehow, despite all your efforts to guard yourself, you started to look forward to them.
It was in the little things, at first.
The way Lando would always linger near the back of the gym, waiting until you spotted him before raising his brows, as if to say, Ready, partner? The way he’d steal your water bottle between rounds, grinning when you swatted at him. The way he’d hum quietly to himself when the teacher played the track on repeat, mouthing lyrics dramatically until you laughed.
He made it impossible not to.
And then there were the moments that weren’t funny — the ones that caught you off guard, that stuck under your skin long after practice ended.
Like the way his hand fit at your waist during the turns, steady and sure, like he was built to guide you. The way he’d occasionally brush a strand of hair out of your face without even thinking. The way his eyes softened when you nailed a step, pride flickering there as if your victories were his too.
It should’ve been harmless. A school dance practice. A simple partnership. Nothing more.
But every step, every laugh, every casual touch only deepened the ache inside you — the ache of wanting something you couldn’t have.
One evening, after a particularly exhausting round of spins and lifts, you collapsed onto the bleachers, chest heaving. Lando flopped beside you, hair damp with sweat, a crooked grin on his lips.
“You’re getting good,” he said, nudging your shoulder.
You rolled your eyes. “Translation: I don’t step on your feet every time anymore.”
“Exactly.” He laughed, head tilting back against the wall. For a moment, the sound filled the empty gym, light and warm, and you hated how much you loved it.
Then he glanced at you, and something about his gaze lingered — soft, unreadable, almost searching. Your breath caught.
But just as quickly, he looked away, pushing up from the bench. “C’mon. Coach’ll kill us if we don’t practice the lift again.”
The moment dissolved, and you followed him back onto the floor, pretending your heart wasn’t still racing.
By the third week, rumors had started circulating. Not mean ones, not really — but whispers of how good you and Lando looked together on the dance floor, how natural your chemistry seemed.
You brushed them off, but you noticed the shift. The way your classmates’ eyes lingered when you practiced. The smirks, the knowing looks.
And then one afternoon, it happened.
You weren’t there to hear it, but Lily told you later.
One of Lando’s close friends — Alex, the loudmouth who’d known him since childhood — had cornered him during lunch.
“So, Norris,” Alex had said, voice carrying enough for nearby tables to catch. “You and Y/N. Be real — anything there?”
Apparently, Lando had nearly choked on his sandwich. “What? No. She’s just my dance partner.”
But Alex had pressed. “C’mon, man. You’re telling me you’ve never thought about it? She’s… well, she’s her. And you two look like a couple half the time already.”
And Lando’s reply — the one Lily repeated to you with a careful look — was a dagger wrapped in velvet.
“No. I can’t. She dated Oscar, remember? Bro code. Besides… she’s just a friend. That’s all she is.”
When Lily told you, you smiled, nodded, pretended you were fine. What else could you do?
But that night, lying in bed, the words looped in your head. Just a friend. That’s all she is.
It didn’t matter that your and Oscar’s relationship had been brief, messy, and over months ago. It didn’t matter that your feelings for Lando had nothing to do with anyone else. In his eyes, the line was drawn — permanent, unmovable.
And no matter how hard you tried to convince yourself otherwise, a part of you broke hearing it.
The night of prom arrived in a blur of dresses and suits, hairspray and nervous laughter. The gym had been transformed, fairy lights strung across the ceiling, the floor polished to a mirror shine.
You should’ve been excited. You should’ve been caught up in the thrill of it all — the music, the glitter, the promise of a night you’d remember for years.
But instead, your stomach churned with dread.
Because tonight meant the dance. Tonight meant standing under the lights, every eye on you, with the boy you couldn’t stop loving and couldn’t ever have.
You arrived early, slipping into the decorated hall with your heart pounding. And there, near the refreshment table, was Oscar.
For the first time in weeks, maybe months, you locked eyes.
He looked… older, somehow. Still the same warm smile, the same quiet presence, but there was a weight behind it now, a shadow of something unsaid.
“Hey,” he said softly when you approached.
“Hey.”
For a moment, silence stretched, heavy with everything you hadn’t said since the breakup. The awkwardness, the regret, the distance.
Finally, Oscar sighed. “You look nice.”
You smiled faintly. “You too.”
Another pause. And then, before you could lose your nerve, you asked, “Can we… talk? Just for a minute?”
He nodded, leading you toward a quieter corner of the hall.
And there, under the soft glow of fairy lights, you finally said the words you’d been carrying for too long.
“I’m sorry,” you whispered. “For how I treated you. For pushing you away, for… for everything. You didn’t deserve that.”
Oscar’s gaze softened, but there was sadness in it too. “I know. And I get it, Y/N. Really, I do. You never loved me. Not the way I wanted you to.”
The truth stung, even though you’d both known it.
“I cared about you,” you said, voice breaking.
“I know.” He gave a small, bittersweet smile. “But caring isn’t the same. And that’s okay.”
You blinked back tears, the weight of guilt pressing down on you. “I wish I could’ve been what you needed.”
“And I wish I could’ve been who you wanted.”
For a moment, you both just stood there, two people bound by what-ifs and could-have-beens.
Then Oscar straightened, forcing a lighter tone. “But hey. Prom’s not the night for regrets, right? Go. Dance. Live it up.”
You nodded, but as you turned back toward the dance floor, your chest ached. Because you knew, deep down, that goodbyes came in many forms. And this — this quiet acceptance, this final letting go — was yours with him.
When the music started and the spotlight hit the polished floor, Lando was there, hand extended toward you, smile easy and effortless.
“Ready?” he asked.
No. Not at all.
But you took his hand anyway.
And as the crowd watched, as the music swelled, you let him spin you, lift you, guide you — your body moving with his like it was the most natural thing in the world.
For everyone else, it was a performance. A school dance routine, polished and sweet.
But for you, every step was a confession. Every glance, every touch, every laugh you couldn’t suppress — all of it screamed what your lips never could:
I love you. I love you. I love you.
And the cruelest part was, he never noticed.
Not really.
To him, it was just a dance.
To you, it was everything.
The letter burned a hole in your pocket all day.
Folded neatly, sealed shut with a sliver of tape, its presence was impossible to ignore. Every time you shifted in your seat, you felt it pressing against your thigh, heavy with the weight of everything you’d written.
You’d rewritten it three times the night before. Scribbled, scratched out, crumpled, rewritten again. No matter how hard you tried, the words never seemed enough — or maybe they were too much. But in the end, you forced yourself to settle on something honest, raw, unpolished.
Because if you were going to confess, it had to be real.
Classes dragged, each tick of the clock stretching into eternity. You barely heard the teachers, barely registered your friends’ chatter. All you could think about was the moment to come — dismissal, the final bell, handing the letter over to Lando, and watching his reaction.
Would he smile? Be surprised? Awkward? Would he already know?
The questions churned in your chest until you thought you might explode.
And then the bell rang.
The sound jolted you upright. Around you, the classroom erupted in the usual end-of-day chaos — bags zipping, chairs scraping, voices rising in laughter and chatter.
You swallowed hard, staring at Lando across the room. He was stuffing his books into his bag, humming under his breath, utterly unaware of the hurricane inside you.
Now or never.
Your legs carried you forward before your brain could talk you out of it. You stopped at his desk, clutching the letter so tightly the paper wrinkled in your hand.
“Hey, Lando,” you said, trying to sound casual, steady. You failed. Your voice cracked on the second syllable.
He looked up, brows raised, smile easy. “Hey. What’s up?”
For a second, you almost chickened out. Almost shoved the letter back in your bag and pretended you’d just come to say goodbye. But the words were already bubbling at your lips, and your hands were already extending the folded paper toward him.
“I, um—this is for you,” you said.
His eyes flicked to the letter, then back to you, curiosity sparking. “What is it?”
You forced a laugh, shaky and weak. “Just… something I wanted to say. You can read it later.”
He studied you for a moment, like he could see straight through your skin to the trembling heart beneath. But then he smiled again, easy, oblivious. “Alright. Thanks.” He slipped the letter into his bag without another thought.
And that was it.
No dramatic music. No world-stopping revelation. Just him tucking away the most vulnerable piece of you, like it was homework.
You walked out of the classroom with your chest hollow, your breath shallow.
Now all you could do was wait.
The waiting was worse than anything.
Hours stretched into eternities. You checked your phone every few minutes, each buzz of a notification making your pulse spike, only to crash again when it wasn’t him.
Dinner came and went, tasteless in your mouth. The evening dragged. You sat at your desk, staring at the blank page of your notebook, every second a reminder that he hadn’t replied.
And then, just past nine, your phone lit up.
Lando Norris
Your heart leapt into your throat. Hands shaking, you opened the message.
“I read the letter that you gave me earlier. I really didn't expect that, but I'll be straight to the point. I don't want to hurt you, because that's not my intention. But we're not on the same page. Sorry, but I only see you as a friend, and it won't go beyond that. I appreciate you so much. Thank you for admiring me, but I really don't feel the same. You are a great, great, great person inside and out. And I'm sure there are more deserving people than you. It really means a lot to me. I hope we don't avoid each other after this, and that we still remain friends. I'm sure that you will find someone who will love you as pure as how you loved me.”
The words blurred on the screen as tears stung your eyes.
Friend.
Not the same page.
Never beyond that.
You pressed your fist to your mouth, biting back a sob. You’d prepared yourself for rejection — or at least you thought you had. But nothing could’ve prepared you for the finality of it, the kindness laced with cruelty, the way he ended it so cleanly, so politely.
You didn’t want polite. You didn’t want kind. You wanted him.
And now you knew you’d never have him.
The next morning, the world carried on as if nothing had changed.
Sunlight streamed through the classroom windows. Students joked and laughed, the air buzzing with the same easy rhythm as always.
But for you, everything was off-kilter.
When Lando walked in, you froze. He glanced your way, smiled — that same friendly, effortless smile he gave everyone. And that hurt most of all.
Because for him, nothing was different.
He’d read your heart laid bare, rejected it, and gone on like normal. Like it hadn’t even mattered.
You forced yourself to smile back, throat tight. You dropped your gaze quickly, pretending to scribble in your notebook, pretending not to feel the tears pricking at the corners of your eyes.
Class was torture.
Every brush of his arm against yours, every casual joke, every time he leaned over to whisper something only you could hear — all of it twisted like a knife.
Before, those moments had been butterflies. Now, they were salt in the wound.
And yet, you couldn’t stop yourself from responding, from laughing when he teased, from leaning in when he pointed out something funny in the textbook. Because to do otherwise would give you away — and you couldn’t bear for him to know how much you were breaking.
So you played along. You pretended.
And when the bell finally rang, you rushed out of the classroom, holding yourself together just long enough to make it to the bathroom before the dam burst.
You slid down against the cold tile wall, sobs tearing from your throat, muffled into your sleeve.
He didn’t love you.
He never would.
And you still loved him anyway.
The thing about rejection was that life didn’t pause for it.
Assignments still needed to be passed. Group projects still required coordination. Friends still pulled you into conversations, laughter bubbling around you like nothing had happened. And Lando still acted like the same boy who used to call you at midnight to complain about homework or ask if you’d eaten.
Except you weren’t the same anymore.
Every time he leaned across the desk to poke fun at your handwriting, every time his knee brushed yours under the table, every time he turned that blinding grin on you, you had to swallow the lump in your throat and remind yourself: He doesn’t feel the same.
You clung to his words in that text like they were lifelines.
I hope we don’t avoid each other.
I only see you as a friend.
Fine. A friend. You could be that. You would be that.
But it didn’t make the ache go away.
Weeks passed. The air between you two settled into something resembling normalcy — at least on the surface. You laughed at his jokes, shared notes when he forgot his, and asked about his weekend. He did the same.
But you felt the shift in ways no one else could see.
Where once you would’ve lingered on his voice, now you caught yourself tuning out. Where once you would’ve leaned into the warmth of his shoulder, now you subtly shifted just enough to create space.
And sometimes, when you thought he wasn’t looking, you caught him glancing at you with a furrow in his brow, as if he could sense the distance but couldn’t name it.
One afternoon, your friend group stayed behind after class to plan for the upcoming school fair. You were all crammed around a cluster of desks, tossing out ideas between laughter and chaos.
At one point, someone cracked a joke about who would make the best “couple mascot” for your class booth. Teasing voices flew — names paired together, laughter echoing through the room.
And then, someone said it:
“Y/N and Lando, obviously.”
The room erupted in whoops and giggles. You felt your stomach drop, heat creeping up your neck.
Lando laughed too, rubbing the back of his neck. “Nah, not us.” He said it so casually, so easily, the dismissal sharp as glass. “We’re just friends.”
Just friends.
The words rang in your ears, louder than the chatter that followed. You forced a smile, tried to laugh along, but your chest tightened like a vice.
Later that night, lying in bed, you replayed the scene over and over. His laugh. His tone. It didn’t even take him a second to draw that line in the sand.
Just friends.
The thing was — you could live with the rejection. You could live with being “just friends.”
What you couldn’t live with was the gnawing hope that refused to die.
Because even as he said it, even as he made it clear, your heart betrayed you.
When he walked you to the gate after school, when he offered you the last piece of candy from his pocket, when he called you late at night to ask if you’d finished the project — every little thing still felt like a possibility.
And the possibility kept you tethered.
The end of the semester crept closer, and with it, the exhaustion of exams. Study groups formed, classmates camped out in the library, and you found yourself once again sitting side by side with Lando, books spread between you.
He yawned, stretching his arms over his head before leaning forward again, his shoulder brushing yours. “I swear, if I see one more math problem, I’m going to throw my notebook out the window.”
You chuckled, trying to focus on your notes. “Then you’ll fail the exam and regret it forever.”
He grinned, tilting his head toward you. “That’s why I have you. You’ll save me.”
The words sent a pang straight through your chest. You forced a smile, circling another formula on the page. “Don’t rely on me too much.”
But the truth was, you wanted him to. You wanted to be the one he leaned on, the one he turned to — not just in academics, but in everything.
And that want was dangerous.
The day after exams, the atmosphere in school was electric, relief buzzing through the halls. Students chattered about plans for the break, voices carrying laughter and excitement.
You, on the other hand, felt weighed down by something heavier.
Because no matter how hard you tried to bury it, your feelings hadn’t gone away. They’d grown. They’d deepened. And the longer you stayed by his side, the harder it was to hide.
So when dismissal came, when the halls thinned and your classmates drifted off, you found yourself once again clutching a folded piece of paper.
Another letter.
Your heart pounded as you slipped it onto his desk, your hand shaking. He looked up, surprised. “Another one?”
You forced a laugh, cheeks burning. “Just… yeah. Don’t read it now.”
He raised a brow but nodded, slipping it into his bag. “Alright.”
And as you walked out of the classroom, your chest tightened with both hope and dread.
Because you already knew how this story might end.
The next morning, you waited.
All through your first class, your hand brushed over your phone every few minutes, screen lighting up with nothing more than random group chats and teacher announcements.
All through lunch, you picked at your food, laughter from your friends echoing around you while your stomach churned with dread and hope.
All through dismissal, you told yourself: He’ll text. He always texts.
But he didn’t.
When you finally saw him the next day, he acted as if nothing had changed. He slung his bag over one shoulder, greeted you with a grin, and walked beside you toward your classroom like it was any other morning.
And then, when you thought maybe — maybe — he was about to bring it up, he glanced at you and said, almost offhandedly:
“Thanks for the letter.”
Just that.
Your heart stuttered. “Oh. Um. Sure.”
He smiled, the easy, lopsided one that used to melt you. Then he changed the subject, asking if you’d finished your homework for history.
And that was it.
No rejection this time. No acceptance. Just… a thank you, like you’d handed him an extra pen or saved him a seat.
The ambiguity ate you alive.
Days blurred together, each one a fresh sting. He didn’t avoid you, not once. If anything, he was kinder, softer, as though he knew you were hurting and wanted to ease it without ever addressing the wound.
But that made it worse.
Because when he shared his snacks with you in class, when he offered to walk you home, when his laugh cracked through the air, and you were the first person he looked at, your heart still believed.
And your head hated you for it.
By the time the birthday party rolled around, the semester had ended, and everyone was ready to blow off steam. The group chat buzzed with excitement all week, plans for food, playlists, and who would bring what.
You told yourself it would be fine. That it was just one night. That maybe, in the dim glow of string lights and the chaos of laughter, you could forget.
But forgetting wasn’t what happened.
The bass hit you first, deep and heavy, rattling the walls of the two-story house before you even stepped inside.
It wasn’t the first time you’d been to one of these birthday parties, a blur of music, laughter, and too many people crammed into too small a space, but tonight felt different. Maybe because the semester had finally ended, maybe because it was one of your close friends hosting, or maybe because you were already on edge before you’d even left your room.
You tugged at the hem of your top, adjusted your hair in your phone screen one last time, and told yourself it didn’t matter if he noticed. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t matter.
Of course, it did.
“Y/N!”
The call of your name was swallowed by the music as soon as you stepped through the door, but you still caught it, still saw the blur of familiar faces rushing toward you. You were pulled into a hug, then another, your friends already buzzing with energy and cheap alcohol.
Somewhere in the crowd, you knew he was here.
And sure enough, when the group shifted and the laughter rose, your eyes found him.
Lando.
Backwards cap. Loose hoodie. Cup in hand. He was leaning against the wall with that stupidly relaxed posture he always had, like the chaos around him bent to his pace, not the other way around. And when he laughed, loud, unrestrained, head tipped back, you hated how your chest squeezed.
He saw you before you could look away.
A grin spread across his face. Not the polite one he wore with teachers or acquaintances, but the one he saved for the people he was genuinely happy to see. For you.
You waved, too quickly, too awkwardly, and immediately grabbed the nearest drink someone shoved in your hand.
The first drink went down fast. Too fast.
So did the second.
By the third, the edges of the night softened. The music felt less overwhelming, the conversations easier, your laughter louder. You could stand in the same circle as him without your pulse hammering in your throat, and you could talk to others without scanning for his reaction every five seconds.
And yet — you couldn’t escape him.
Even when you weren’t looking, you knew where he was.
Sitting on the armrest of the couch, pretending to argue with one of the guys.
Cutting through the crowd to grab another drink.
Leaning in close to hear what someone said, a smile tugging at his lips.
Always there. Always just a little too close, a little too present.
At one point, you caught his eye across the room. He tilted his chin up in a silent hello, the kind that only people who knew each other well shared. Your stomach flipped. You looked away.
“Loosen up, Y/N,” someone teased, pressing another cup into your hand.
“I’m fine,” you laughed, but you took it anyway.
By now, the house was hot, air thick with sweat and perfume and the faint burn of alcohol. Lights flickered in the corner, the music cycling between nostalgic pop hits and bass-heavy anthems that had everyone screaming lyrics at the top of their lungs.
You found yourself swaying with the crowd, bumping shoulders, laughing so hard your stomach hurt. For a while, you almost forgot.
Almost.
Until you felt a hand on your arm.
“Hey.”
His voice cut through the noise like it always did.
You turned, and there he was — closer than you expected, eyes bright, grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. He had that look, the one that said I’m about to tease you, but you’re going to laugh anyway.
“You’re actually having fun?” he said, mock surprise lacing his tone.
You rolled your eyes. “Don’t sound so shocked.”
He laughed, and the sound went straight to your chest. “Guess I owe you an apology. I thought you’d be glued to the couch all night.”
“Shows what you know,” you shot back, and maybe it was the alcohol, maybe it was the way his knee brushed yours when he leaned closer, but you didn’t move away.
He didn’t either.
The night stretched on.
You lost track of how many drinks you’d had — enough that the buzzing warmth under your skin never quite faded, not enough that you couldn’t walk straight.
You danced. You laughed. You found yourself in the kitchen with your friends, then back in the living room, then out on the porch, where the air was cooler. And everywhere you went, somehow, he was there too.
Sometimes with others, sometimes with you.
A shoulder bump in the hallway.
A joke whispered in your ear that made you laugh harder than you should have.
A glance held a second too long before he looked away.
If you hadn’t known better, if you hadn’t already lived through months of his silence and half-answers, you would have thought—
No. You couldn’t go there.
By midnight, the party had hit its peak. People were sprawled across couches, voices hoarse from singing, laughter spilling out the open windows. Someone turned the volume up even higher, and you couldn’t hear yourself think.
Maybe that’s why you didn’t notice him sitting next to you until his shoulder brushed yours.
“Having fun?” he asked again, softer this time.
You looked at him. Really looked. His cheeks were flushed from the heat, his hair messy under his cap, his eyes crinkling at the corners.
God, he was beautiful.
“Yeah,” you said, but your voice cracked on the word.
He tilted his head, studying you. “You sure?”
You nodded too quickly. “Totally.”
But the truth sat heavy in your chest, pressing against your ribs, begging to be let out.
Because you weren’t fine. Not even close.
And the more you looked at him, the more the drinks blurred your restraint, the more you knew it was only a matter of time before the words spilled out.
You excused yourself, stumbling toward the bathroom. Cold water on your face didn’t help. Neither did staring at your reflection, eyes glassy, cheeks warm.
Don’t say it. Don’t ruin everything. Don’t—
But when you stepped back into the chaos, the first person you saw was him.
And that was when you knew.
The dam was going to break.
The bass was still pounding when you came back from the bathroom, but now everything felt louder, sharper. Like the music had crawled under your skin, and your heartbeat couldn’t catch up.
You weaved back into the crowd, trying to find air, trying to find stability. But the alcohol was heavier now, pulling at your limbs, fogging your thoughts.
And then you saw him.
Lando.
Leaning against the couch, laughing at something one of the guys had said, his smile so bright it made your stomach twist.
Something inside you cracked.
You moved toward him before you could stop yourself, feet dragging you like you were tethered. By the time you reached him, your cup was nearly empty, your throat burning, your heart thrumming too fast.
“Hey,” you said, louder than you meant to.
He turned, eyes flicking to your face, and the grin softened into something gentler. “Hey. You good?”
You weren’t. God, you weren’t. But his voice was kind, and his eyes were steady, and you wanted — no, needed — to believe that if you spoke the truth, just this once, he wouldn’t shatter you.
You sat down beside him, the room spinning just a little. “Do you ever think about it?”
He blinked. “Think about what?”
“About us.” The words tumbled out, slurred but sharp. “About what it would be like. If you and me—” You cut yourself off with a shaky laugh, pressing a hand to your face. “God, I sound insane.”
He froze. “Y/N—”
But you weren’t finished.
“I hate this,” you said, voice cracking. “I hate that I love you.”
Silence.
The kind that made your ears ring, even above the music.
You laughed again, bitter and broken. “Do you know what it’s like? To wait and wait and wait for someone who’ll never choose you? To be everyone’s friend, everyone’s second choice, but never—” Your throat closed up. “Never the one they actually want?”
He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
And suddenly, all the weeks, all the months of bottled-up feelings came spilling out, unstoppable.
“I hate that no matter how much I try, I can’t move on. I hate that I tell myself I’m fine with being your friend, but then you smile at me like that, and I’m right back where I started. I hate—” Your voice broke completely. “I hate that I can’t stop loving you, even when it’s killing me.”
People had gone quiet around you. Not everyone, not the whole room — but enough. A few glances, a few whispers. The sound of your heart tearing itself apart was louder than the bass now.
Lando’s hand twitched, like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t know if he should. His mouth opened, closed, opened again.
“Y/N,” he said finally, voice low, urgent. “You’re drunk. Let’s… let’s talk tomorrow, okay?”
But that was the problem. There was never a tomorrow. Always silence, always avoidance, always the safe smile, and the subject change.
And suddenly, you were so tired.
“Forget it,” you whispered, pushing yourself to your feet. Your vision swayed, and someone caught your arm, guiding you toward the couch. Another friend pressed water into your hand, murmuring something you didn’t hear.
You buried your face in your hands, hot tears spilling between your fingers.
Lando didn’t follow.
The night dissolved into fragments after that. A blur of voices you couldn’t separate, the thud of footsteps upstairs, laughter from the kitchen. Someone covered you with a jacket that wasn’t yours. You closed your eyes and begged yourself to forget.
Morning came with a headache that split your skull in two. The sunlight stabbed through the blinds, and your mouth was dry, your body heavy.
Bits and pieces of the night clung to you — the music, the heat, the way the room tilted when you stood. But the rest was fog.
You scrolled through your phone, searching for clues. No texts from him. Nothing out of the ordinary.
When you finally dragged yourself to class the next day, your heart jumped at the sight of him.
He was already there, chatting with a group of friends, laughter spilling out of him like always. He looked at you, and his smile didn’t falter, didn’t crack, didn’t reveal anything at all.
“Morning,” he said, casual, easy.
“Morning,” you managed.
And that was it.
No mention of the words you couldn’t remember saying. No flicker of recognition in his eyes.
Like it had never happened.
And maybe, you thought, maybe it hadn’t.
But deep down, in the pit of your stomach, you knew.
It had.
And he was choosing silence.
The day of the graduation ball carried a weight you couldn’t quite name.
Your dress hung from your shoulders like a promise, soft fabric brushing against your legs as you paced your room. Makeup perfectly set, hair curled in neat waves, everything about you screamed ready. But your heart wasn’t.
Because ready meant seeing him.
Ready meant one more night of pretending you could stand beside him without falling apart.
When you arrived at the venue, a hotel ballroom glittering with chandeliers and polished floors, the air hummed with nerves and anticipation. Everyone looked older tonight, somehow. Like the formality of the event had pulled your class into a new version of themselves, one step closer to leaving this chapter behind.
And then there was him.
Lando.
A suit that fit him too well, hair styled just enough to look effortless. He laughed with friends near the entrance, hands in his pockets, eyes crinkling at something someone said. He looked every bit the boy you had loved for too long.
You forced yourself to look away, heading for your table.
The program started — speeches, dinner, group photos. Everything blurred into background noise. All you could think about was the looming moment: the dance.
Because, of course, the universe had its cruel sense of humor. Out of every possible pairing, it had been him. Again.
When the music finally shifted and the host announced the first round of dances, your pulse spiked.
You stood. So did he.
And for a moment, the noise faded.
You walked toward each other across the glossy floor, every step heavy, every memory rushing back: prom practices, stolen glances, his hands brushing yours by accident.
“Hey,” he said, voice low when you reached him.
“Hey,” you echoed, trying not to let your throat close up.
The song was slow, melodic, the kind of track meant for sentiment. His hand found yours, warm, familiar, sending lightning down your arm. His other hand rested lightly at your waist, careful but steady.
And then you were moving.
One step, two. The rhythm pulled you together, his eyes flicking down to meet yours for a second too long. You couldn’t breathe.
This wasn’t fair.
Because your body fit against his like it was the most natural thing in the world. Because his laugh — soft, almost nervous — made your chest ache. Because everyone around you disappeared when he looked at you like that.
And yet, it was all an illusion. A dance. Nothing more.
“You look nice tonight,” he said quietly, gaze flicking away as if he hadn’t meant to admit it.
Your heart stuttered. “Thanks. You too.”
For a few minutes, it was just the two of you. Like maybe, if you squinted, this could be the version of your story where he wanted you back. Where this dance meant something more than choreography.
But then the music ended, and the spell broke.
Applause filled the room. You stepped back, forcing a smile, hands slipping from his.
Later, when the awards were announced, you barely heard your name at first.
“Best On-Stage Chemistry,” the host declared, laughter rippling through the crowd.
You froze.
And then they were calling you and him forward, shoving you back into the spotlight together.
The room cheered as you stood side by side on stage, trophy in hand, faces burning. Someone shouted, “Kiss!” and the laughter grew louder.
Lando chuckled awkwardly, scratching the back of his neck. You laughed too, but it was brittle, sharp around the edges.
When the host teased that the winners should “prove it” with one last dance, you wanted the floor to swallow you whole.
But the crowd clapped and whistled, and there was no way out.
The music started again.
You found yourself back in his arms, this time with the entire class watching.
And it was worse now — or maybe better. His hand steadied you like he’d done this a hundred times, his touch grounding even as it burned. Your chest pressed against his, your fingers curled into his shoulder.
For a moment, it was perfect.
And for that very reason, it hurt more than anything else in the world.
When the song ended, you smiled for the cameras, for the audience, for him. Pretending you weren’t bleeding inside.
But as you walked off stage, heart racing, you knew.
This was it.
Your last chance.
And if you didn’t say it tonight, you never would.
The ballroom hummed with energy after the awards, but you felt like a ghost drifting through it all. Your classmates laughed, clinked glasses, and posed for photos. Music pulsed in the background, a medley of upbeat tracks to draw everyone to the dance floor.
But you couldn’t focus on any of it.
You could still feel the ghost of his hand on your waist. Still hear his low laugh when the crowd had teased. Still see the way his eyes had softened, like he was caught between embarrassment and something else you couldn’t name.
Something you wanted so badly to believe in.
Your friends pulled you into a circle dance, and for a while, you let them. Jumping, laughing, shouting lyrics you didn’t even care to remember. But then you caught sight of him across the room — standing with his group, one hand tucked in his pocket, the other holding a glass.
And just like that, the noise faded again.
This wasn’t how you wanted the night to end.
Not with you laughing on one side of the ballroom and him smiling on the other. Not with another unspoken confession lodged in your throat.
Not with the same old story.
You made up your mind.
He was at the refreshments table when you finally gathered the courage to approach, sipping from a glass of water. His suit jacket hung loosely now, tie slightly loosened. Casual, relaxed, as if he wasn’t the center of every storm inside you.
“Hey,” you said, voice soft but steady.
He turned, surprised. “Hey. You okay? You kinda disappeared for a bit.”
You nodded, though your chest was caving in. “Can we talk? Somewhere quieter?”
His brows lifted slightly, but he didn’t hesitate. “Sure.”
You slipped out together, weaving past clusters of students until you found a hallway just outside the ballroom. The music dulled into a muffled beat, the air cooler, calmer.
And suddenly, it was just the two of you.
You faced him, heart in your throat. He shoved his hands into his pockets, watching you with that easy, patient look that always made you feel seen.
And that was what made it unbearable.
Because he was here. He was listening. He always had been.
But not in the way you needed him to be.
Still, you couldn’t stop yourself.
“I…” You exhaled shakily. “I need to say this before the night ends.”
He tilted his head, silent, waiting.
You stared at the floor, words tumbling out before you could stop them. “I like you. I’ve liked you for so long, and I’ve tried so hard to get over it. I thought I did, but then—” Your breath hitched. “Then we danced again tonight, and it felt like nothing had changed. It feels like everything is still the same. And I’m tired of pretending it’s not.”
When you finally looked up, his expression was unreadable. Not cold, not mocking, just… quiet.
Your chest tightened.
“I know I’ve said this before,” you continued, voice trembling. “And I know you don’t feel the same. But I can’t keep carrying it without saying it. I can’t leave tonight without you knowing that I still—” You broke off, swallowing hard. “That I still love you.”
The silence stretched.
Your hands shook at your sides. The hallway suddenly felt too big, the air too sharp.
“Please,” you whispered, almost desperate. “Just… say something.”
His lips parted, but no words came. His gaze darted away, jaw tightening. He rubbed the back of his neck, a nervous habit you knew by heart.
But he didn’t speak.
Didn’t reject you. Didn’t comfort you.
Didn’t give you anything.
Just silence.
And that silence was worse than a thousand rejections.
Because it left you hanging, dangling on the edge of hope and despair, unable to move forward, unable to let go.
You waited. One second. Two. Five.
Nothing.
A brittle laugh escaped your lips, though it sounded more like a sob. “Right. Of course.”
You turned before he could see the tears gathering in your eyes.
“Y/N—” he started, finally, but you were already walking back toward the ballroom.
The rest of the night blurred.
You sat at your table, smiling when you had to, nodding when someone spoke. But your body was numb, your mind replaying the silence over and over until it drowned out everything else.
When the final song played, you stayed seated. You watched your classmates sway under the chandeliers, watched him laughing with his friends, watched your story crumble into dust.
And when the lights brightened, signaling the end of the ball, you stood quietly, slipped out, and didn’t look back.
That night, lying in bed in your gown still half-zipped, mascara smudged on your cheeks, you realized it wasn’t the rejection that broke you.
It was the absence of an answer.
The way he left you waiting, again.
The way he gave you nothing to hold onto, nothing to let go of.
And maybe that was the cruelest thing of all.
The semester ended with the weight of exams, deadlines, and final projects pressing down on everyone, but for you, none of that compared to the pressure sitting on your chest.
You hadn’t spoken much to Lando since the graduation ball. He hadn’t brought up the hallway conversation. He hadn’t acknowledged your confession. He hadn’t even tried.
It was as if nothing had happened.
But everything had.
You carried it with you through every group hangout, every forced smile, every time your friends dragged you into a booth at the café or onto a park bench. And always, he was there. Laughing, bantering, acting like the same friend he’d always been to you — as though he hadn’t left you hanging in the middle of the most vulnerable words you’d ever said.
And you had taken it. Quietly. Patiently. Telling yourself maybe he’d needed time. Maybe he’d been too shocked. Maybe he’d circle back, just… not yet.
But “not yet” had stretched into weeks.
And then into months.
And now, here you were: standing at the edge of another semester, with nothing but silence between you.
It was too much.
It happened after class one afternoon. The hallways buzzed with chatter, but you stormed out of your classroom without a thought, clutching your bag strap like it was the only thing tethering you to the earth. And of course, he was there. Just outside, leaning against the railing, scrolling on his phone like he had all the time in the world.
Your chest tightened, anger finally boiling over.
“Lando.”
He looked up immediately, his face lighting up the way it always did when he saw you. And God, that smile still wrecked you. Still made your heart stutter even when you hated it.
“Hey,” he said easily. “Long day?”
The normalcy in his tone snapped something inside you.
You laughed, sharp and bitter. “Are you serious right now?”
His brows furrowed. “What do you mean?”
You took a step closer, heat rising in your cheeks. “I mean, how are you acting like nothing happened? Like I didn’t stand in front of you and tell you I loved you, and you just—just stood there. And then what? We go back to being friends like nothing ever happened?”
His mouth opened, closed. “Y/N—”
“No!” Your voice cracked, and heads turned, but you didn’t care. For once, you didn’t care who heard. “You don’t get to say my name like that. You don’t get to act like I didn’t bare my entire soul to you and you gave me nothing in return.”
He straightened, guilt flashing in his eyes, but still — no words.
And that infuriated you more.
“You know what hurts the most?” you continued, voice trembling but loud. “It’s not even that you don’t like me back. It’s that you couldn’t even give me the decency of a straight answer. You left me hanging. Again. You’ve been leaving me hanging for months, for years, like I’m just supposed to wait around until you decide what you want.”
His jaw tightened. “That’s not fair.”
“Not fair?” You laughed again, hollow. “You want to talk about fair? I’ve been waiting for you since year eleven, Lando. Waiting while you had crushes on other girls, waiting while I dated Oscar just to distract myself, waiting while you told everyone you only saw me as a friend. I’ve waited through every ‘almost’ moment, every stupid dance where it felt like maybe, just maybe, you felt it too. And then I find out the truth in a hallway with you staring at me like I’m nothing more than a problem you don’t know how to solve.”
“Y/N—” he tried again, but you cut him off.
“No, don’t.” Tears blurred your vision, but you blinked them back furiously. “You don’t get to soothe me with half-hearted words anymore. I don’t need your pity. I don’t need you to tell me I’m a great person or that someone out there will love me. I didn’t want someone out there. I wanted you.”
The words ripped out of you like a confession and a curse all at once.
And for the first time, you saw him falter.
He swallowed, glanced away, then back at you, his own face tight with something you couldn’t read. “I never wanted to hurt you.”
“Then why did you?” Your voice cracked, finally breaking. “Why did you let me wait? Why did you keep me close when you knew how I felt? Why didn’t you just say no the first time and end it there? You could’ve saved me so much pain, Lando. But instead, you kept me dangling on a thread while you decided how much of me you wanted.”
His silence was the answer.
It always was.
You laughed again, broken this time, and wiped angrily at your face. “That’s it, isn’t it? You don’t want me. You never did. You just didn’t want to lose me. So you kept me around, let me believe there was a chance, because it was easier than telling me the truth.”
He flinched, but didn’t deny it.
And that was worse than any rejection.
The words you threw at him seemed to hang in the air, suspended, sharp enough to cut both of you. He didn’t move, didn’t argue. His eyes flickered with something — regret, guilt, maybe even sadness — but his silence screamed louder than anything he could’ve said.
And that silence was unbearable.
You shook your head, laughing bitterly. “God, do you even realize what this feels like? To stand here pouring my heart out, and you just… look at me? Like you’re sorry, but not sorry enough to actually do anything?”
“Y/N…” His voice was low, careful. Too careful.
“What?” Your voice cracked, anger and heartbreak colliding. “What are you gonna say this time? That you’re sorry? That you didn’t mean to hurt me? That I’m such a good person, and someone out there will love me the way I deserve?”
He winced, and you knew you’d hit the mark.
“That’s all you ever do,” you said, softer now, but no less sharp. “Apologize without fixing anything. You feel guilty, but you don’t change. You make me feel like I’m asking for too much, when all I ever wanted was a straight answer.”
His eyes dropped to the ground, shoulders slumping. He looked small, almost boyish, like the weight of what you were saying was pressing down on him. But still, he didn’t say what you needed.
Didn’t say no. Didn’t say yes.
Didn’t say anything that mattered.
And suddenly, the ache inside you turned into exhaustion.
You let out a shaky breath, tears spilling freely now. “I can’t keep doing this. I can’t keep waiting for you to choose me when you never will. It’s killing me, Lando.”
His head shot up at that, eyes wide, like he wanted to protest, but no words came.
Of course they didn’t.
You forced a smile, broken but resolute. “You don’t have to say it. I get it now. I’m not what you want. I never was.”
“Y/N, that’s not—”
“Don’t.” You held up a hand, stopping him. “Don’t feed me half-truths or soft rejections anymore. Don’t string me along with your silence. If you cared, you would’ve said it years ago. But you didn’t. And I can’t keep begging for scraps of your attention.”
The lump in your throat nearly choked you, but you pushed the words out anyway. “So I’m done. I’m done loving you. I’m done waiting. And I’m done letting you hold me back from moving on.”
His lips parted, like he wanted to stop you, but all that came out was a broken whisper: “I never wanted to lose you.”
That was it. That was all he had.
And it was too little, too late.
You swallowed hard, tears blurring your vision. “You already did.”
With that, you turned on your heel and walked away.
This time, he didn’t follow.
The campus grounds were buzzing with joy that morning. Caps tilted at odd angles, gowns rustling with every step, cameras flashing in the sunlight. Laughter echoed across the courtyard, and pockets of students clustered together to capture the moment.
But you felt like a shadow moving through it all.
Your smile stayed glued on for the photos, for your parents, for your classmates, tugging you into group shots. But the ache in your chest never lifted. Every laugh felt like an echo, every congratulations hollow.
And of course, you saw him.
Lando stood a few paces away with his friends, laughing at something one of them said. His tassel swung in the breeze, his grin wide, careless. From a distance, he looked like the boy everyone knew — charming, lighthearted, untouchable.
But when his gaze accidentally flicked to yours across the courtyard, you froze.
He did too.
And for a moment, the noise around you dulled.
You told yourself you could ignore it. Just turn away, keep walking, disappear into the crowd. But your feet betrayed you, carrying you closer until you were standing only a few steps apart, the air between you charged with everything left unsaid.
“Hey,” he said finally, voice tentative.
You swallowed. “Hey.”
It should’ve been enough. A greeting, a nod, and then walk away. But the weight of months pressed down, dragging more out of you than you meant to give.
“This is it,” you said, gesturing vaguely to the stage, the caps, the whole celebration. “We’re done.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah. We made it.”
Silence again.
You bit your lip, heart racing. “Are you ever going to give me an answer?”
His brows furrowed, but you didn’t flinch. “All those times I told you how I felt. All the times I waited. You never said no. You never said yes. Just… silence. And now we’re graduating, and I’m leaving, and I still don’t know what the hell I was to you.”
His throat bobbed, eyes flicking down before meeting yours again. For once, the easy charm was gone, replaced by something heavier.
“You were my best friend,” he said quietly.
The words hit harder than you expected.
“Best friend?” you echoed, bitter laugh escaping. “That’s it?”
His jaw tightened, guilt flashing across his face. “I didn’t want to lie to you. I didn’t want to give you hope when I couldn’t…” He trailed off, shaking his head. “I care about you, Y/N. More than you think. But not the way you wanted. And I didn’t know how to say that without losing you.”
The honesty stung worse than silence.
Tears pricked your eyes, but you forced yourself to meet his gaze. “You lost me anyway.”
The words trembled in the air between you. His lips parted, like he wanted to reach for you, but his hands stayed buried in the folds of his gown.
“I’m sorry,” he whispered.
You nodded, swallowing the lump in your throat. “Me too.”
For a moment, you both just stood there — two parallel lines that had come so close but never touched.
The announcer’s voice boomed across the courtyard, calling the next set of names. Students cheered, caps flew, the world spun on.
And you turned, finally walking away.
This time, you didn’t look back.
Graduation ended the way all endings do, with noise, with laughter, with people holding onto moments because they didn’t know how to let go.
But for you, the ceremony blurred together. The photos, the cheers, the sea of caps in the air — none of it stuck. The only thing that lingered was the look in his eyes when you walked away.
Sorry.
Best friend.
Too little, too late.
By the time you got home, you already knew.
You couldn’t stay here anymore.
The weeks that followed were a haze of packing and goodbyes. Your room slowly emptied: books stacked in boxes, posters peeled off the walls, clothes folded into suitcases. Each object felt like a relic of the years you’d spent waiting, hoping, hurting.
Sometimes you caught yourself staring at the little things — the friendship bracelet Oscar had once made you in Year 10, the polaroids from late-night study sessions with your friends, the notebook filled with doodles and inside jokes you and Lando had scrawled during boring classes.
You almost left them behind. But in the end, you packed them anyway. Not as treasures, not as wounds — just pieces of a past you were finally ready to let rest.
On your last night, you sat by the window, watching the familiar skyline glow under the streetlights. The city had been everything to you — the backdrop of every crush, every heartbreak, every reckless teenage dream.
But it wasn’t yours anymore.
Your phone buzzed on the desk. A few messages from friends wishing you luck, promising to call. A long voice note from Oscar, who you hadn’t spoken to in ages, saying he hoped you’d finally find peace.
And one unread text from Lando.
You didn’t open it.
Not because you didn’t want to. But because you already knew what it would say.
Take care. I’ll miss you. Stay friends.
Half-answers. Half-truths. Half-love.
You couldn’t carry that with you anymore.
The airport was crowded the next morning, the usual chaos of luggage wheels and echoing announcements. Your parents flitted around, making sure you had everything: passport, boarding pass, snacks for the flight.
But you kept scanning the crowd, half-expecting to see him there.
He wasn’t.
And maybe that was the closure you needed.
Because if he’d shown up, if he’d given you one last smile or hug, you might’ve faltered. You might’ve believed there was still something left to save.
Instead, it was just you.
You, and the life you were finally choosing for yourself.
As you sat by the gate, you pulled out your phone one last time. The message notification from him still lingered. Your thumb hovered over it, trembling, before you sighed and swiped it away.
Delete.
You opened a blank note instead. Typed out the words you’d never send:
I loved you. God, I loved you more than I should have. But I can’t keep breaking myself for someone who will never choose me. So I’m choosing me now. Goodbye, Lando.
You read it once, twice, then closed the app.
No tears this time. No breakdown. Just silence — the kind that felt like peace instead of punishment.
When the boarding call echoed through the terminal, you stood, clutching your carry-on. You took one last look at the city beyond the windows — the skyline of every memory, every mistake, every version of you that had loved him.
And then you walked forward, steady, leaving it all behind.
The plane lifted into the sky, engines roaring, clouds swallowing the view of the ground below.
For the first time in years, your heart felt light. Not because you’d stopped loving him. But because you’d finally stopped waiting.
And somewhere down there, he was still standing still.
But you weren’t.
You were gone.
kiki's note: took a trip down memory lane for this one. dw guys im ok after all of it. thank you so much for 200 followers and 2.5k likes, i am absolutely thankful to each and every kind of support. ANYWAY lmk what u guys think and as always i hope you enjoyed!!!!
