hi, everyone! nice to meet you. i can't really say that i'm new to tumblr (i've been here since the 2010s but i've only decided to post regularly like.. recently). also i just graduated from uni and i'm gna be working as a general physician soon! (yay to adulting!)
i'm in multiple fandoms but this particular blog of mine is mainly for f1 (for reading & reblogging fics and interacting with my fav writers). my fav drivers are op81, mv33, ob87, and ka12. 🏎️
hope we can be friends! don't be shy to drop by my dms or comments!
✦ genre: medical au, strangers to fake dating (kind of) to lovers, angst, comedy, hurt, comfort, fluff
✦ warnings: mild post-op delirium, extreme second-hand embarrassment, medical jargon accuracy played fast and loose for the plot, accidental domesticity
✦ wc: ~30K+
When a near-fatal car crash lands her in the Melbourne trauma bay, she wakes up to find her life in the hands of Dr. Oscar Piastri—a brilliant, intensely stoic neurosurgeon. Stricken with a severe case of postoperative cognitive disinhibition, she becomes entirely convinced that the cold, clinical doctor is actually her devoted boyfriend. Showering him with awkward affection, refusing to eat without him, and leaving the entire hospital staff in stitches. As her real memories slowly return and she realizes the full, mortifying extent of her delirium, what started as a hilarious neurological misunderstanding spirals into a deeper, life-altering connection that no amount of professional distance can fix.
Wipers are slapping against the windshield like they’re trying to keep a rhythm, but you’re just too drained to care. Your head is throbbing—the kind of dull, persistent ache that comes from pulling a double shift—and all you want is to sink into your couch with some takeout and absolutely zero brain power required. You’re navigating the slick Melbourne streets, hands light on the wheel, eyes half-lidded, just counting down the minutes until you can finally kill the engine and stop pretending you’re a functioning human being.
Then, everything goes loud.
There’s this flash of headlights—way too bright, way too close—and the screech of tires that sounds like a banshee screaming in your ear. You barely have time to suck in a breath before the world just… folds. The impact is a sickening, metal-crunching jolt that spins your car like a top. Glass sprays everywhere, a glittery, sharp rain inside your own vehicle, and for a split second, you feel weightless. Then gravity catches up, slamming you back into the seat as the car grinds to a final, jolting halt.
Everything stops.
Silence follows the chaos, heavy and ringing, before it’s punctured by the distant, rising wail of sirens. Your vision is swimming, blurring at the edges until the streetlights turn into long, smeary streaks of neon. You try to move your hand, but it’s like it belongs to someone else. Darkness creeps in from the corners, hungry and fast, swallowing the dashboard, the steering wheel, and the last shred of your consciousness.
"BP is crashing! Systolic is eighty and dropping."
"Get the fluids going. I need a line in now."
Voices. They’re frantic, tight-edged, bouncing off the hard surfaces of the trauma bay. You’re a passenger in your own body, floating somewhere near the ceiling, watching them rush around with your limbs. There’s the smell of antiseptic and ozone—so sharp it burns—and the rhythmic, annoying *beep-beep-beep* of the monitor that’s somehow the loudest thing in the room.
"CT's up. Look at that displacement."
The door swings open, the hinges hissing. Someone walks in, and the energy in the room shifts instantly. It’s that weird, heavy calm that only happens when someone who actually knows exactly what they’re doing shows up.
Dr. Piastri glides. He’s still in his theatre blues, his cap slightly askew, looking like he just finished performing a miracle on someone else and was ready to do it again for you. He doesn't look stressed, he doesn't look hurried, even though every second counts. He moves with this annoying, enviable precision, his eyes locked onto the screen of the monitors.
He leans in, his brow furrowed just enough to let you know he’s concentrating, those cool, clinical eyes scanning the grayscale map of your own skull. He’s seen a hundred of these, maybe a thousand. To him, you’re not a person right now; you’re a puzzle, a series of physiological problems that need a solution before the clock runs out.
He turns, and for a fleeting moment, he looks straight at you—or, well, through you. His voice is steady, low-pitched, and completely devoid of panic.
"Prep OR One," he commands, already stripping off his gloves and reaching for a fresh pair. "We don't have time."
— ✦
Lights in the OR are blinding, humming with a frequency that vibrates right behind your eyes—or where your eyes would be if you weren't essentially off the grid. You are a series of vitals on a screen, a jagged mountain range of heart rate spikes and dips that Oscar is trying desperately to level out.
Time doesn't exist in here. There’s just the rhythmic hiss-clack of the ventilator, the wet sounds of surgical instruments, and the low, steady murmur of the team. Oscar is a machine. He hasn't moved from his spot in hours, his posture rigid, his hands—those insanely steady, infuriatingly precise hands—dancing through the mess that used to be your brain.
"BP is dipping again, Dr. Piastri. Forty over twenty," a resident stammers, their voice cracking.
"Increase the pressors. Keep her MAP above sixty," Oscar barks back, not even looking up. He’s deep in the trenches now, staring into the cavernous opening of your skull, navigating around delicate tissue like he’s threading a needle in a hurricane. "Suction. No, the smaller tip. Watch the bleeders."
You’re a project, a high-stakes bet he’s playing with, and he’s holding all the cards. Sweat is beading on his forehead, catching in his eyelashes, but he doesn't blink. He can’t afford to. Every time your pressure drops, the room freezes. You can practically feel the oxygen levels in the air thinning out, the way everyone holds their breath, waiting for the monitor to either stabilize or flatline. He’s the anchor. If he slips, you're gone.
Twelve hours later, the constant beep of the monitor settles into a steady, rhythmic pulse. The sharp, metallic tang of blood finally starts to fade, replaced by the sterile, biting smell of closing sutures.
"Bleeding is controlled. I've got the hematoma evacuated," Oscar says, his voice raspy, sounding like he’s been shouting for days. He pulls his hands back, finally breaking the trance, his shoulders dropping about three inches. He looks wrecked, honestly, but in that quiet, intense way that makes you think he’d do it all over again without a single complaint.
Dr. Norris, standing near the head of the bed, lets out a long, shuddering exhale. He wipes his own brow, his eyes crinkling behind his mask as he glances at the monitor. "Nice save, mate. She’s stable."
Oscar doesn't smile. He doesn't even look like he’s heard the praise. He’s already turning away, starting to peel off the layers of gore-covered plastic and latex. He grabs a fresh gauze pad and begins wiping his brow, his gaze still fixed on the heart monitor as if he’s trying to telepathically command your brain to start firing again.
"It's not over," Oscar mutters, staring at you—really looking at your unconscious face—with a focus that’s almost terrifying. "She’s not out of the woods until she wakes up. Keep her sedated, monitor the swelling, and if the ICP rises by even a single point, you wake me up. Don't call the resident. Call me."
He walks toward the scrub sinks, his steps heavy, looking like he’s carried the weight of the world—or at least your life—on his shoulders for the last half-day. You’re just a patient, a collection of variables, yet as he turns the corner out of the room, he keeps glancing back at the monitor, just to make sure the rhythm doesn't break.
— ✦
Sunlight is aggressively poking through the ICU blinds, turning the room into a weird, dusty orange. You’re somewhere between "nothingness" and "the worst headache of your life."
Oscar walks in with that same focused energy as before. He’s traded his blood-streaked scrubs for fresh ones, his hair looking slightly more ruffled than yesterday. He leans over the bed, checking the ventilator settings and reading the charts with a frown. He’s efficient, cold, and entirely focused on the data points shifting across your chart.
"She’s still stable," he says to the nurse, his voice low and devoid of any extra fluff. "If she shows any signs of agitation, adjust the sedation. I’ve got rounds to finish."
He doesn’t linger. He doesn’t reach out to smooth your hair or check your pulse manually unless he has to. You’re a success story in the making, a patient who didn’t crash, and he’s already moving on to the next one. He turns on his heel and disappears into the corridor.
Four hours later, things change.
You’re fighting through a thick, syrupy fog. Your limbs feel like they’re filled with lead, and your chest feels heavy, but your fingers—they’re twitching. A nurse notices it immediately, tapping the call button.
"Dr. Piastri, please report to the ICU. Patient is waking up," she says, her voice echoing in the small room.
He’s there before the nurse has even finished hanging up the phone. He’s got that same calm, unbothered expression, stepping to your bedside like he’s just checking the weather. His eyes lock onto yours, and he immediately shines a penlight in them, checking for pupillary response.
"Can you hear me?" he asks, his tone clinical. "I need you to tell me your name. What’s your name?"
You blink, the harsh light of the ICU stinging, but when your vision clears, you see him. Him. Your heart does this weird, fluttery thing, like it’s trying to jump out of your ribs. A huge, goofy, incredibly relieved smile stretches across your face, making your cheeks hurt.
"You stayed," you whisper, your voice sounding like you’ve been swallowing gravel. You reach out, your fingers shaking, and manage to hook your hand around his. "I knew you wouldn't leave."
The nurse standing by the monitor exchanges a worried look with Oscar. Anesthesia, definitely, she whispers.
Oscar doesn’t even blink. He gently pries his hand away from yours, placing it back on the railing of the bed with a cool, detached efficiency. "I’m your surgeon," he says, repeating the line like he’s reading a script. "You were in an accident. You’re in the ICU. Can you tell me your name?"
You let out a laugh, but it turns into a wet cough, so you just settle for shaking your head, your smile widening. "No, you’re not."
He pauses, just for a second. His brow furrows, that tiny, precise line of annoyance appearing between his eyes. He’s a guy who likes facts, and right now, you’re not giving him any.
"I’m Dr. Piastri," he says firmly, his voice dropping an octave as he moves to check your reflexes with a reflex hammer. "I operated on you. You need to focus. What is your name?"
"Stop being so serious, baby," you giggle, ignoring the way he’s tapping at your knees to check your nervous system. You aren't even sure where you are, or why your head feels like it’s been hit by a truck, but you’re certain of one thing: he’s yours. "You look so cute when you’re pretending to be a doctor."
Oscar stops mid-tap. He looks at you, then at the monitor, then back at you. He doesn’t laugh. He doesn’t blush. He just sighs, a short, sharp intake of breath, and scribbles something on your chart.
"She’s disoriented," he says to the nurse, not even looking at you anymore. "Likely post-traumatic confusion mixed with residual anesthesia. Let's run a blood panel. I need to be sure the pressure hasn't spiked again."
He goes back to poking and prodding, completely ignoring your attempts to grab his sleeve. He’s all business, and he’s clearly not playing your game.
— ✦
Hours crawl by, each one marked by the rhythmic, soul-crushing drip of IV fluids and the incessant, mechanical chatter of machines that seem to have more to say than you do. You’re floating in a sea of static, your brain feeling like a scrambled radio frequency, trying to tune into a channel that keeps cutting out. Every time a nurse glides in to check your vitals—adjusting the drip, poking at your IV line, or checking the dressing wrapped tight around your skull—you’re searching. Your eyes dart toward the doorway, desperate for that one specific silhouette.
"Where's my boyfriend?" you ask, your voice raspy and thin. The nurse, a woman with kind eyes and a tired expression, stops mid-task. She looks at you, then at the monitor, then slowly toward the door.
"Honey, you need to focus on resting," she says softly, smoothing the sheets. "Your brain has been through a lot. Just breathe."
Before you can protest, a man in a white coat breezes into the room. He’s got an easy, almost breezy confidence about him, his hair perfectly styled, a clipboard tucked under one arm. Dr. Russell. He offers a friendly, practiced smile, stepping toward the foot of your bed.
"Morning. How are we feeling today?" he asks, reaching for the chart clipped to the railing. "Any headaches? Sensitivity to light? Let's just run through a few simple tests."
You squint at him, your brow knitting together as you try to reconcile this person with the image currently burned into your retinas—the image of someone much more stoic, someone who looks at you like you’re the most important puzzle he’s ever had to solve.
"No," you say, pushing his hand away when he reaches for your pupils with a penlight. "Not you."
George stops, his eyebrows arching in surprise. "Pardon?"
"I want him," you insist, your voice gaining a bit of impatient edge. "The one who was here. Why did you send him away? He was just here, he was checking on me, and then you just walked in like you own the place. Where is he?"
The nurse and George exchange a look—one of those silent, professional conversations that feels like a heavy door slamming shut in your face. It’s patronizing, really. You know what you saw. You remember the way he leaned over you, the way his cool fingers felt against your skin, that intense, quiet focus he held you with.
George clears his throat, his professional mask slipping back into place. "Alright. Let's just try to track my finger, okay? Follow it with your eyes. Don't move your head."
He does his little dance—tracing circles in the air, asking you to name colors, asking you to count backward from a hundred. You do it, mostly because you’re bored and exhausted, but you don't take your eyes off the door. You’re waiting for Oscar. You’re waiting for the only person in this sterile, echoing building who makes sense.
Once George is done, he scribbles a few final notes and retreats from the room, looking significantly more grave than when he entered. You hear the muffled murmur of voices in the hallway—George’s quick, rapid-fire tone, and a lower, more clipped response that makes your pulse jump. That’s him. That’s his voice.
Out in the corridor, George leans against the nurses' station, lowering his voice. "She’s not tracking the logic, Oscar. She’s completely convinced you’re her partner. It’s classic post-op agitation, but the facial recognition is shot to hell. She sees you as her safety anchor because you were the first thing she focused on when she came to."
Oscar stands there, hands buried deep in the pockets of his lab coat. He’s listening, his head tilted slightly, his face completely unreadable. He’s not laughing, he’s not brushing it off—he’s processing the data. "Is it purely associative?"
"Seems like it," George replies, gesturing toward your room. "The trauma to the temporal lobe is likely disrupting her ability to categorize people correctly. She’s mapping 'safety' and 'familiarity' directly onto you. It’s a temporary synaptic misfire."
Oscar stays silent for a long moment, staring through the glass at your prone form. He’s a man of science, a man who relies on the absolute predictability of neural pathways, and the idea that your brain is malfunctioning so spectacularly—and so specifically—seems to irritate him as much as it intrigues him. He doesn't see a "boyfriend." He sees a misfiring neuron, a broken circuit that needs him to bridge the gap.
"Right," Oscar says finally, his voice clipped. "I’ll handle the next assessment. If she can't distinguish me from a significant other after another twenty-four hours, we'll need to schedule a follow-up MRI to check for secondary swelling."
He turns back toward your room, his walk steady and purposeful. He knows what’s going on now—the "why" of your weird, desperate attachment—and he’s decided to tackle it with the same clinical, detached precision he used to crack your skull open and fix your brain. He’s not your boyfriend, and he’s clearly determined to remind you of that, one diagnostic question at a time.
—
Plastic tray sits on your bedside table, the hospital-grade porridge looking like sad, grey paste. You stare at it with genuine hostility. A nurse tries to nudge it closer to you, her expression hopeful, but you just cross your arms over your chest and lean back into the pillows, pointedly ignoring the steaming cup of tea.
"Not happening," you say, your voice firm despite the headache that still pulses behind your temples.
"You need your strength, honey," the nurse sighs, adjusting the monitor cables near your shoulder. "The doctors need you eating if we're going to get you out of this unit."
"I'm not eating until he gets here," you reply, keeping your eyes glued to the doorway. "He knows I like my eggs a certain way. If I eat this, he’ll think I’m settling."
"Who? Dr. Russell?"
You roll your eyes so hard it makes your head spin. "Don't be dense. You know who. My boyfriend. The guy who saved me. Tell him I’m waiting."
The nurse bites her lip, looking toward the hallway. She’s dealt with head trauma patients before, but this specific brand of stubborn delusion—paired with your absolute conviction—is making everyone on the floor twitchy. She eventually gives up and slips out into the hall, and you hear her soft, hurried footsteps clicking away toward the main station.
Five minutes later, she returns, looking slightly frazzled. She picks up the phone on the wall and dials a sequence of numbers, her voice dropping to a near whisper as she explains the situation.
Across the hospital, in the bustling neuro-trauma lounge, Oscar is currently staring down a wall of monitors. He’s already pushed through rounds for a dozen people, and he’s staring at a daunting list of twenty-three other patients who all need him for something different—a post-op check, a scan review, a shunt adjustment. He rubs the back of his neck, his thumb digging into the muscle, feeling the weight of the day pressing into his shoulders.
The phone rings, and he snatches it up, his tone already weary. “Piastri.”
"Dr. Piastri, I’m so sorry to bother you," the nurse starts, her voice tight with apology. "It’s the patient in room 412. The subdural hematoma."
Oscar’s grip on the phone tightens. "I just saw her four hours ago. Has the pressure spiked? Is she showing signs of neurological decline?"
"No, nothing like that, she’s physically stable," the nurse says, pausing. "But she’s refusing to eat. She won’t touch a single thing unless you’re here. She says you’re her boyfriend and she’s waiting for you to supervise her meal."
Oscar lets out a long, slow exhale that sounds more like a growl of frustration than a sigh. He leans against the counter, staring at the list of twenty-three names still waiting for his attention. "You’ve got to be kidding me. I have twenty-three other patients in various stages of critical care, and she’s holding her breakfast hostage for a social visit?"
"I know, Doctor, I’m sorry," she whispers. "But she’s stubborn. She’s not moving."
Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes for a split second as he tries to summon the patience that usually defines him. He’s a surgeon; he deals with trauma, with blood, with the cold, hard reality of biology. He doesn't do "emotional support," and he certainly doesn't do "boyfriend."
"Fine," he snaps, though there’s a flicker of something else beneath the irritation—maybe a begrudging realization that if you’re stubborn enough to refuse food after a brain bleed, you’re just stubborn enough to cause yourself secondary harm through sheer force of will. "Tell her I’m coming. And for god’s sake, make sure her charts are updated. If she gets dehydrated, that’s on you."
He slams the phone down, grabs his tablet, and starts walking. He’s not going because he wants to play along. He’s going to make sure your brain doesn’t decide to swell up just because you’re being impossible.
When he pushes through your door a few minutes later, he looks every bit the busy, annoyed professional. His lab coat is crisp, his stride long and purposeful, and he doesn't even bother with a greeting. He walks straight to the foot of your bed, checks the monitor, and then crosses his arms, looking down at you with a brow arched so high it’s almost mocking.
"I’m told there’s a hunger strike," he says, his voice flat. "Do you have any idea how much work I have to do right now, or are you just trying to see how much of my time you can waste?"
The grin spreading across your face is wide enough to make your jaw ache, but you don't care. Seeing him standing there—all sharp lines, no-nonsense posture, and that infuriatingly stoic expression—is exactly what you needed to snap out of the fog. You don't see a neurosurgeon with a list of twenty-three other patients; you see the guy who’s supposed to be holding your hand, not a chart.
"You came," you say, your voice bright and airy, completely ignoring the fact that you’ve got a catheter taped to your arm and your skull feels like it’s being held together by hope and surgical glue. You reach out, fingers splayed, and lean toward him. "You look exhausted, though. Have you been sleeping, baby? Even with those dark circles, your eyes are still ridiculous. Is it part of the job requirement to be this handsome, or are you just showing off for me?"
Oscar doesn’t even blink. He doesn't soften. He stands there like he’s made of granite, his hands tucked firmly into the pockets of his coat. Behind him, a small cluster of interns—mostly young, eager-looking faces hiding behind clipboards—hover in the doorway. They’re watching you with a mix of morbid curiosity and professional terror.
"Focus," Oscar says, his voice dropping into that low, dangerous register he uses when he’s trying to keep a situation from spiraling. "You are not here to critique my appearance. You are here to demonstrate adequate cognitive recovery, which, so far, you are failing."
You ignore the lecture, shifting your hand until your fingers catch his sleeve. "I’m focused. I’m focusing on you. I mean, look at you—scrubs, coat, that little furrow in your brow. It’s a lot, honestly. How do you keep it together? Is it hard being the best-looking guy in the entire hospital?"
You try to drag his hand toward yours, your fingers brushing against his skin, warm and insistent. You want the contact. You need it. It’s the only thing that makes the world feel solid again.
He reacts instantly, but it’s not the reaction you’re hoping for. He doesn't recoil, he doesn't flinch—he just gently, methodically peels your fingers off his sleeve and places his hands back at his sides, out of your reach. The move is practiced, surgical, and utterly devoid of warmth. It’s the kind of rejection that would hurt if you weren't so convinced he’s just playing hard to get.
"I’m your doctor," he says, the words clipped and flat. He turns to the intern standing closest to the door, gesturing toward your IV line with a sharp flick of his chin. "Increase the saline drip; she’s bordering on dehydrated. And chart the patient’s continued confusion. She’s still presenting with clear signs of postoperative social disinhibition."
"Social disinhibition?" you repeat, letting out a laugh that sounds a bit too sharp in the quiet room. You look at the interns, who are staring at the floor with intense interest, and wink at them. "He’s such a tease, right? He gets shy when he’s on the clock. Don't worry, baby, I know you can’t act like this in front of your little students, but we can talk about it later, yeah?"
One of the interns coughs, a strangled sound that’s clearly an attempt to hide a laugh, and Oscar’s eyes snap toward them. That’s enough to kill the room’s energy instantly. He turns back to you, his face a perfect mask of clinical indifference.
"Your condition is a result of trauma to the brain, not a romantic comedy," Oscar says, leaning in just enough so that you have to look directly into his eyes. There’s no affection there—just a stark, terrifying level of focus. "You are experiencing a misfire in your emotional processing centers. Your brain is trying to assign 'safety' to the person who performed the surgery, and it’s manifesting as an irrational emotional attachment. It is not real. It is not happening. Now, I need you to lift your left leg. Follow the command, or I will have to increase your sedation."
He stares at you, waiting. No smile, no softness, no sign that he’s ever even heard the word 'baby' before in his life. He is the picture of professional distance, and as you look at him, you realize he’s going to hold this line until you finally start acting like a patient and not a partner.
You sigh, dropping your leg back onto the bed, but you still keep that smile fixed on your face. "Fine, keep playing the part. I know the truth."
"There is no part," he says, pulling his penlight out to check your pupils for the third time that morning. "There is only recovery. Lift your leg."
— ✦
Physical therapy is a nightmare, mostly because your head feels like it’s being held together by duct tape and sheer willpower. A therapist—some guy named Miller with an infuriatingly cheerful disposition—is standing there with a clipboard, asking you to perform basic balancing exercises that make you feel like a newborn giraffe. You’ve been staring at the wall for twenty minutes, refusing to move a muscle.
"I’m not doing this," you say, crossing your arms and glaring at the empty hallway.
"Come on, just a few steps," Miller pleads, his voice thin with exhaustion. "Your motor functions need the stimulation, or we’re going to be looking at a much longer recovery time."
"He said he’d be here," you mutter, stubborn as hell. "My boyfriend said he’d watch me do the first session. He doesn't like it when I do things without him, and I’m not breaking his heart by doing this while he’s not looking."
Miller sighs, a long, rattling sound. He looks like he’s ready to toss his clipboard through the window. "I don't have a record of any visitor authorization for a boyfriend. Do you mean Dr. Piastri?"
"Yes, exactly," you beam, as if Miller finally caught onto the obvious. "Go get him. Tell him I’m waiting, and I’m not taking a single step until he’s in the room to make sure I don't fall."
He turns to walk out, but he stops dead in his tracks. Oscar is leaning against the doorframe, arms folded tightly across his chest, his eyes unreadable. He’s been standing there for at least five minutes, just watching the stalemate. He doesn't look like he’s enjoying it—he looks like he’s observing a particularly difficult lab specimen.
"Dr. Piastri," Miller says, sounding relieved. "She won't start."
Oscar doesn't say a word. He just walks into the center of the room, his presence instantly sucking the air out of the space. He doesn't look at Miller; he keeps his eyes locked directly onto yours. There’s no warmth in his expression, just that familiar, high-stakes intensity.
"You want me to watch?" Oscar asks, his voice low and raspy. He doesn't offer a hand, doesn't offer a smile. He just stands there, a silent sentinel waiting for a performance.
You feel a sudden, electric jolt of motivation. You don't know why, but with him standing there, the ache in your head seems to dim. You stand up, your legs wobbling, and start the sequence of exercises. You don't trip. You don't stumble. You finish every single movement with a focus that makes Miller look like he’s forgotten how to breathe. When you’re finally done, you’re breathless, leaning on the railing, looking at Oscar for approval. He gives a single, sharp nod—the bare minimum—and turns on his heel, exiting the room without a word.
Lunch in the breakroom is a cacophony of clattering trays and low-level gossip, but the mood shifts the second Oscar drops his bowl of salad onto the table. George and Lando are already seated, and they’ve been waiting for him.
"You’re late," Lando says, grinning around a forkful of pasta. "Must be busy doing your rounds of emotional support, huh?"
George snorts into his coffee. "Seriously, Oscar. Your girlfriend was asking for you again. She wouldn't move until she had an audience for her PT session. It’s becoming a bit of a legend on the floor."
Oscar doesn't look up from his salad. He stabs a piece of lettuce with clinical precision. "She’s not my girlfriend."
"You sure?" Lando asks, his eyebrows dancing in a way that suggests he knows exactly how much this is bothering his friend. "Because I heard she told the entire nursing staff that you promised to supervise her. That sounds like a 'boyfriend' thing to do."
"She’s suffering from post-traumatic cognitive displacement," Oscar says, his voice flat and perfectly rehearsed, the way he’d explain a diagnosis to a nervous intern. "She’s mapping her survival onto the first person she saw when she woke up. It’s an involuntary neurological response. It has absolutely nothing to do with me personally."
"You’re very sure about that?" George needles, leaning back in his chair, a smug glint in his eyes. "Because most neurosurgeons don't go to PT sessions just to act as an audience for a patient who thinks they're dating."
"I was checking on her progress," Oscar replies, his tone icy. "It was a clinical observation. Nothing more."
He keeps his face perfectly blank, staring at his lunch as if it’s the most interesting thing in the world. But he doesn't see the salad. In his mind, he’s replaying the way you stood up—the way your eyes lit up when he walked in, the sheer, irrational trust you placed in him. It’s absurd. It’s medically incorrect. It’s a complete violation of every boundary he’s spent his entire career building.
As Lando and George launch into a debate about the weekend race results, the conversation drifts away from you. The table goes quiet for a second as someone grabs a napkin. Oscar, thinking he’s shielded by the low light of the corner booth and the chatter of the room, lets his guard drop for just a fraction of a second.
A small, genuine smile tugs at the corner of his mouth—a brief, soft expression that he quickly hides by taking a sip of his water. It’s a look of secret, begrudging amusement, a flicker of humanity that betrays everything he just told his friends. She’s a disaster, she’s a scientific anomaly, and she’s the most frustrating patient he’s ever had—but for the first time in years, he’s not just thinking about the work. He’s thinking about the way you called him 'baby' in front of the interns, and for a fleeting, impossible moment, he doesn't hate the sound of it at all.
— ✦
Strolling down the ICU corridor, Oscar catches himself doing it again. It’s supposed to be a random rotation, a methodical check of every bed from 401 to 415, but his boots are already heading for 412 before he even finishes charting the last case. It’s an automated response, like a muscle memory, and it makes him stop dead in his tracks.
Why are you here first? he thinks, his jaw tightening. You’re not the most critical patient—the guy in 405 has a much higher risk of secondary hemorrhaging—but here he is, staring at your door.
A small, stupid smile is plastered on his face before he can catch it, and he feels a sharp, hot prick of guilt in his chest. He’s a doctor. He’s a neurosurgeon. He is not supposed to be looking forward to these sessions like a schoolboy. He immediately wipes his expression clean, scrubbing the amusement away until his face is just a blank, clinical slate. He takes a breath, checks his watch to remind himself of the clinical reality, and pushes the door open.
You’re sitting up, looking much more alert than yesterday, and the second you see him, that signature grin of yours lights up the room.
"Hey, handsome," you chirp, not missing a beat. You don’t even wait for a greeting. "I was starting to think you forgot about me. What took you so long? Did those other patients hold you hostage with their boring medical problems?"
Oscar keeps his eyes firmly fixed on your IV bag, walking past you to check the monitor settings. "I was busy, as I have been all morning. We have a lot to cover today. How’s the headache level? One to ten."
"Zero, as long as you're in the room," you say, batting your eyelashes at him. You’re watching his every movement, your eyes tracking the way he leans over the bedside table. "Seriously, though, have you eaten? You look like you need a break. Why don't you pull up a chair and tell me something about yourself? Like, do you have a favorite color? Does it match your scrubs?"
He reaches for his penlight, his movements sharp and efficient. "Eyes on me, please. I need to check your pupils."
You lean in, way closer than is professional, and he has to consciously pull back to maintain the barrier. You aren't making this easy. You never make it easy.
"I have a favorite color," you tease, ignoring his request and staring right at his lips instead of the penlight. "It’s whatever color your eyes are when you’re looking at me. They’re kind of intense right now, don't you think? Is it the job? Or are you just happy to see me?"
"Pupils," he says, his voice flat, not giving you an inch. He shines the light, watching the way they contract. Everything is perfect—too perfect. His medical assessment confirms you are physically recovering, but your social radar is still completely haywire. "Your tracking is sluggish. Stop the chatter and follow the light."
"I am following it," you whisper, your voice dropping to a playful, intimate register that has no business being in a hospital room. "I’m following you everywhere you go. You know, you’re really bad at hiding how much you like this, Dr. Piastri. You’re doing such a good job at being the stoic, serious surgeon, but I see the way you look at me when you think I’m not paying attention."
Oscar clicks the penlight off with a sharp snap. He records the result on your chart, his hand steady even though the heat in the room feels like it’s spiked. "You are not seeing anything, because there is nothing to see. You are a patient, and I am the one managing your recovery. That is the beginning and the end of our dynamic."
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and for a second, he’s not just a doctor. He’s a guy trying to keep his composure while you try your hardest to dismantle it. "Don't mistake clinical concern for anything else. Keep your focus on the recovery exercises, or I’ll have to move you to a room closer to the nursing station where you can have 'supervision' twenty-four-seven."
"Is that a threat?" you giggle, undeterred, reaching out to pat his hand. "Because it sounds like you just want me closer to you. I’d love that."
He pulls his hand away before you can make contact, tucking it back into his pocket. He is a wall. He is a fortress. He is the best neurosurgeon in Australia. But as he turns toward the door to check on the next patient, he feels that tiny, annoying smile threatening to break through his defenses all over again.
"Tell me something that isn't about my brain," you say, propping your chin on your hand as he finishes jotting down the day’s final neurological findings. "I’m sick of talking about hematomas and cranial pressure. What do you actually do when you aren't busy being a genius with a scalpel?"
Oscar pauses, his pen hovering over the chart. He looks up, clearly surprised that you’ve managed to shift gears from romantic delusion to actual conversation. He’s tired—you can see it in the way his shoulders slump, just a fraction—but he doesn't immediately shut you down this time.
"I don't really have a 'when'," he admits, his voice dropping that clinical edge for something a little more human. "My schedule is… well, it’s basically an impossibility. Between the surgeries, the rounds, and the emergency call-outs, most of my 'hobbies' are just trying to find enough time to sleep or catch the Formula 1 highlights."
"F1? Really?" You sit up straighter, your eyes widening. "Don't tell me you're one of those people who spends their Sunday nights obsessing over tire degradation and team radio drama. Because if you are, I might actually have to forgive you for being such a stick-in-the-mud."
A ghost of a smirk actually touches his face. "Maybe. It’s hard to watch live, obviously, but I keep up. I like the engineering side of it. The precision. It’s not that different from what I do, really."
"Except you get to save lives instead of just chasing a championship trophy," you counter, grinning. "So, what’s your favorite food, then? And don't say hospital cafeteria salad. I know you're better than that."
"Pizza," he says, almost too quickly, then seems to realize he’s revealed something personal. "Simple. Reliable. Doesn't require much thought after a fourteen-hour shift."
"See? That wasn't so hard," you tease. "We’re practically compatible already. If we weren't dating, we’d have to invent a reason to start."
Oscar’s face instantly hardens, that professional wall slamming back into place like a steel shutter. "We’re not dating. We have never been dating. And we are not going to start."
You burst out laughing, the sound ringing through the sterile room, making him blink in genuine confusion. "You’ve said that so many times now, Oscar. It’s like you’re trying to convince yourself more than me. I just like seeing you blush—you’ve got this weird, patchy color that creeps up your neck whenever I get under your skin. It’s actually kind of adorable."
He flushes a deep, frustrated crimson, his jaw tightening so hard you can see the muscle jump. He snaps your chart shut, his eyes flashing with a mix of annoyance and something he refuses to name. "Assessment is over. Eat your dinner, keep your head elevated, and try to get some actual sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow."
He turns on his heel and marches out of the room, his stride a little less controlled than usual.
— ✦
Oscar is walking toward his car, keys already in his hand, when George falls into step beside him. George looks like he’s just finished a grueling shift, but his eyes are sharp and far too observant.
"You’re playing a dangerous game, mate," George says, his voice low as they navigate between rows of parked vehicles. "I’ve seen the way you talk about her. And I’ve seen the way you act when you think no one is watching. You’re starting to get too invested."
Oscar doesn't even look at him. He just keeps walking, his eyes fixed on the taillights of his car. "I know, George. I’m a neurosurgeon. I know exactly what I’m doing. It’s a patient-doctor dynamic, and I’m maintaining the necessary distance."
"Are you?" George asks, stopping by the driver’s side door. "Because you're coming in on your days off, Oscar. That’s not 'maintaining distance.' That’s choosing to be there."
Oscar just opens his car door, his expression an absolute mask of deadpan indifference. "It’s called monitoring a recovery. I’m thorough."
Before George can respond, a frantic, high-pitched thud-thud-thud of running footsteps echoes through the lot. Lando Norris comes sprinting around the corner, his stethoscope swinging wildly around his neck and his lab coat flapping in the wind. He catches up to them, doubled over, panting, with a massive, shit-eating grin plastered across his face.
"Wait… for… me!" Lando gasps, slapping a hand onto the roof of Oscar’s car. He looks up at Oscar, his eyes dancing with pure, unadulterated mischief. "I just walked past the nurse’s station, and I heard something interesting. Something about a certain neurosurgeon who’s supposedly 'just doing rounds' but is actually spending forty minutes debating the merits of thin-crust pizza with a patient."
Oscar stares at him, his face completely unreadable. "It was a clinical discussion about dietary recovery."
"Oh, 'clinical discussion', is it?" Lando laughs, elbowing him in the ribs. "Since when does clinical mean you’re checking if she likes pepperoni? You’re cooked, Oscar. You’re absolutely, completely cooked."
Oscar doesn't even bother to deny it anymore. He just gets into his car, tosses his bag onto the passenger seat, and rolls the window down just enough to look at his friends. "I’m going home. If either of you mentions this again, I’m putting you on the emergency trauma roster for the rest of the month."
"Yeah, yeah, see you tomorrow, lover boy!" Lando shouts as the engine turns over.
Oscar pulls away, his car lights cutting through the darkness, but as he checks his rearview mirror, that small, impossible smile finds its way back onto his face. It’s quiet, it’s secret, and it’s entirely yours.
— ✦
Days start blurring together, a repetitive cycle of vitals, medication, and the slow, agonizing process of remembering who you are. The fog in your head is finally lifting, dissipating like steam off a mirror. You’re starting to recognize the faces that drift in and out of your life, the blurry shapes turning into distinct, familiar features.
Your mom and sister walk into the room one afternoon, their arrival marked by the scent of fresh flowers and that specific, overwhelming sense of "home" that makes you want to cry. They hover over you, touching your hair, asking a thousand questions about your recovery. It’s comforting, solid, real. You remember them. You know their names, their voices, the way your mom laughs when she’s nervous. It’s a massive win, a sign that the worst is truly behind you.
But then, the door hinges creak, and the air in the room shifts instantly. Oscar walks in. He looks exhausted, his tie loosened, a stray lock of hair falling over his forehead, and your heart does that familiar, traitorous flip-flop.
"Dr. Piastri!" you chirp, your face lighting up as if he’s brought the sun with him. You turn to your mom, your eyes bright with pride. "Mom, meet Oscar. He’s my boyfriend, and he’s basically a hero. He saved me, literally."
Your mom glances at him, her face full of genuine gratitude. She steps forward, her hand reaching out to squeeze his arm. "Dr. Piastri, I don't know how to thank you. We’ve heard everything—about the surgery, the long hours, how you wouldn't leave her side. You’ve given us our daughter back. Truly, we are so, so grateful."
Oscar stands there, stiff as a board. He doesn't look at you, and he doesn't look at your mom. He keeps his gaze fixed on a point somewhere just past her shoulder, his expression a masterpiece of professional restraint. "It was my job, ma'am. I’m just glad she’s recovering so well."
"He’s so humble," you add, beaming at him. You reach out, your fingers sliding into his, your grip firm and possessive. "He’s been taking care of me every single day. I don't know what I’d do without him."
He doesn't pull away this time—maybe because your mom is right there, maybe because he’s too tired to fight the battle—but he doesn't squeeze your hand back, either. He just stands there, a hollow shell of a man playing the part of a saint, while you look at him with a devotion that’s equal parts sweet and heartbreaking.
Later that evening, when the room is quiet and the visitors have left, he returns to check your neurological status one last time. You’re tired, your eyelids heavy, but you still smile when you see him.
"They seem nice," he says quietly, his voice lacking its usual clinical edge. He’s looking at your chart, not at you.
"They are," you agree, shifting in the bed. "They love you, too. My mom said you’re 'very impressive.' I told her that was an understatement."
He finally looks at you, his eyes dark and unreadable. He’s spent weeks fighting this, weeks telling everyone who would listen that you were confused, that your brain was misfiring, that it was all just a symptom. Now, as your memory returns and you start to piece the world back together, he realizes that the "symptom" is fading. Soon, you’ll look at him and see just a doctor—a guy in a white coat who did his job and moved on to the next patient.
He should be relieved. This is the medical goal. This is the success story. But looking at you now, with the memory of your mom thanking him for being your 'boyfriend' still ringing in his ears, he feels a cold, sinking sensation in his gut.
"Is the headache getting better?" he asks, though he sounds like he’s forcing the words out.
"Yeah," you say, your voice soft. "Everything’s getting clearer. I think I’m almost back to normal."
He nods slowly, his hand clenching at his side. "That’s… that’s good. That’s what we want."
He turns to leave, his movements heavy and uncharacteristically sluggish. He reaches the door and stops, his hand lingering on the frame for a heartbeat too long. He’s terrified. He’s a man who has mastered life-or-death scenarios, who can slice into the human brain without a tremor, yet the idea that you might wake up tomorrow and look at him with simple, clinical indifference scares him more than anything he’s ever faced in the OR.
He doesn't want you to be 'normal' if 'normal' means you stop looking at him like he’s the only person in the world who matters. He’s supposed to be the one who saves you, but as he steps out into the hallway, he realizes you’ve managed to do something far more dangerous: you’ve made him hope that he isn't just your surgeon. And that, he knows, is a problem he can't fix with a scalpel.
— ✦
"So, here’s the plan," Oscar says, his voice is professional as he taps the tablet in his hand. He’s standing at the foot of your bed, not leaning, not lingering, just delivering the data like he’s reading a report on a standard post-op recovery. "Your vitals have remained consistent for seventy-two hours. Neurological markers are within the normal threshold. Assuming your CT scan tomorrow shows no unexpected shifts in the tissue, we’re looking at discharge in about two days."
He looks up, expecting you to start with the usual banter, maybe a comment about his appearance or a playful jab about him 'forgetting' to bring you something from the canteen. But you’re silent. You’re really looking at him—not through the haze of medication, not through the lens of that weird, desperate feeling of safety you’ve been clinging to, but with actual, objective clarity. You look at the sharp line of his jaw, the slight exhaustion in his eyes, the sterile blue of his scrubs, and then you look around the room.
White walls. The relentless, rhythmic beep of the monitor. The tray of sad, congealed food. The IV stand. The reality of it hits you like a physical force, cold and jarring.
"...Wait," you whisper, the word barely escaping your throat.
Your mind starts to race, the connections sparking in your brain like short-circuited wiring. You think about the way you’ve been acting, the way you’ve been talking to him—the way you’ve been possessing him. The memories slam back into you in a chaotic, Technicolor montage.
There you are, calling him 'baby' in front of a group of terrified-looking interns who were just trying to take your blood pressure. You recall yourself leaning over the side of the bed, trying to kiss his cheek while he was holding a reflex hammer, acting like it was a casual, everyday occurrence for you to flirt with the man who had just finished performing invasive brain surgery on you. You picture yourself introducing him to your mother—your own mother—as your boyfriend, seeing the way he stood there, frozen and stoic, trying to balance his professional duty with the absolute absurdity of your claims.
It all comes rushing back: the hunger strikes because he wasn't there, the refusal to do physical therapy unless he was watching, the way you’d grab his hand and hold onto it like he was a lifeline you were afraid to lose. It wasn't love. It wasn't destiny. It was a massive, humiliating, high-speed collision of post-operative confusion and a desperate, misdirected need for comfort.
You feel the heat rising up your neck, a wave of mortification so intense it makes your skin prickle. You can’t even hold his gaze anymore. You look down at your hands, then at the sheets, then at the pillow. You can’t handle the weight of the realization.
Without a word, you lunge forward, grabbing the closest pillow and burying your face into it, muffling a groan that comes from the very bottom of your soul. You press your forehead into the soft fabric, wishing you could just burrow into the mattress and vanish into the hospital floor.
"Oh my God," you wail, the sound distorted by the pillow. "Oh my God, no."
Oscar stops. His tapping on the tablet halts abruptly. He stands there, his posture shifting from rigid to slightly baffled. He’s spent weeks bracing himself for your antics, for the next bizarre comment, the next attempt to hold his hand or pull him into a 'date.' This reaction? This genuine, soul-crushing wave of embarrassment? This wasn't in the manual.
"Hey," he says, his voice dropping into a much softer, more tentative register. "What happened? Are you feeling dizzy? Is the pressure spiking again? Talk to me—I need you to tell me what’s wrong."
"I did it," you mumble into the pillow, your voice thick with shame. "I literally… I called you baby. In front of the interns. I told my mom we were dating. I refused to eat my porridge like a toddler."
You roll onto your back, finally pulling the pillow down to your chest, clutching it like a shield. Your face is probably as red as a fire engine, and you can’t bring yourself to meet his eyes.
"I am so sorry," you breathe out, staring at the ceiling. "I was… I don't even know what I was. I was out of it. And you just—you just stood there. You let me do all of that, and you didn't even stop me. You must think I’m the most insane person you’ve ever had to treat."
Oscar stays where he is, his hands still holding the tablet, but his thumbs have stopped moving. He looks at you, and for the first time in weeks, his guard isn't just lowered—it’s completely dismantled. He isn't the stoic, impenetrable surgeon anymore. He looks almost… relieved.
"You're not insane," he says, and there’s a flicker of something in his voice—not pity, not irritation, but a strange, quiet warmth. "You were dealing with a severe brain injury, and your brain was trying to figure out how to make sense of the situation. It was a neurological response, not a personality flaw."
"Still," you insist, letting out a sharp, self-deprecating laugh. "It’s beyond humiliating. I’m so sorry, Oscar. Truly. You’ve been trying to do your job this whole time and I’ve been treating you like… like I was writing a fanfiction about you in real-time."
Oscar lets out a low chuckle, a sound so rare and genuine that you find yourself turning your head to look at him properly. He looks less like a doctor and more like a guy who’s just been let out of a very long, very exhausting cage.
"It was," he says, pausing to find the right word, "certainly an unconventional recovery, I’ll give you that."
"Are you ever going to let me live this down?" you ask, finally managing a weak, shy smile.
Oscar watches you, and that familiar, secret smile starts to tug at the corner of his mouth again—the one he usually hides when he thinks you aren't looking. He doesn't look away this time.
"Well," he says, his voice soft, "you're being discharged in two days. Maybe I’ll start by forgetting most of it. But don't count on me forgetting the bit about the porridge."
— ✦
Sunlight is streaming in, but you’d honestly prefer to be buried under the covers like an ostrich. You stare intently at your fingernails, studying your cuticles like they hold the secrets to the universe, anything to avoid looking at the man standing at the end of your bed.
Oscar is checking your charts, his movements precise and familiar. Click, scribble, pause. It’s the same routine as always, but today, it feels like he’s performing an autopsy on your dignity.
"I’m so sorry," you mutter for the tenth time since he walked in, your voice small and tight. "Seriously. It’s never going to happen again. I’ve reached peak levels of cringeworthy, and I’m genuinely mortified."
Oscar doesn't look up from the clipboard. He just keeps reading, his expression unreadable. "You don't need to apologize. I’ve told you, it was a medical side effect. It’s not something you had control over."
"I absolutely do need to apologize," you counter, finally glancing up—but only to his chin, because meeting his eyes is still a bridge too far. "You’re a world-class neurosurgeon, and I spent a week treating you like a character in a bad soap opera. I’ve been far more embarrassed than this, but I think this officially takes the gold medal."
He stops reading. He sighs, a sound that isn't quite annoyed but definitely sounds weary. He finally meets your gaze, and his expression is unyielding—the same professional mask he’s worn since the first day.
"If we’re going to discuss this, let’s get it out of the way so we can focus on your actual health," he says, his voice steady. "Yes, the behavior was unconventional. But in the context of what you went through? It’s completely irrelevant. My focus is, and has always been, on your recovery. The rest of it… it’s just background noise."
It’s the most "doctor" thing he could possibly say. It’s meant to be reassuring, but it feels like a bucket of ice water. Of course, it’s background noise to him. He’s the professional. You’re just the patient who had a public breakdown.
"Right," you say, forcing a nod. "Background noise. Got it. I’ll keep it professional from here on out."
He gives a curt, sharp nod, his face going completely blank. There’s no hint of that secret, fleeting smile from yesterday. He’s back to being Dr. Piastri, the man who saves brains and doesn't have time for social misfires.
"I’m going to have the nurses continue monitoring your vitals throughout the day," he says, already backing toward the door. "We’ll do one final neuro assessment tomorrow morning. If everything is clear, you’re cleared for discharge."
"Sounds good," you manage, your voice sounding hollow even to your own ears.
He turns on his heel, his white coat fluttering slightly as he exits without a backward glance. He’s gone, and the room feels instantly, aggressively empty. You sink back into the pillows, feeling like you’ve successfully purged the "crazy," but for some reason, you’ve never felt more like an idiot in your entire life.
— ✦
Discharge day is a weird mix of excitement and absolute dread. You’ve spent two weeks staring at the same four walls, and the idea of actual sunlight without fluorescent hum is almost overwhelming. You’ve packed your single bag—mostly just the clothes you arrived in, now feeling a bit too big, and a stack of paperwork that looks like a legal dissertation.
You make a point to stop by every desk, every station, and every nurse that had to deal with your post-op delirium. You shake hands, offer awkward but sincere thank-yous, and apologize for the hundredth time for the whole "I think you’re my boyfriend" fiasco. By the time you reach the end of the hall, your heart is thumping against your ribs like a trapped bird. You know he’s going to be there. You know he’s the one who has to sign the final release.
He’s standing near the main ICU bay, reviewing a stack of files with that same intense, unbothered posture. He’s in a crisp white shirt today, sleeves rolled up, revealing the veins in his forearms—a detail you definitely don't need to be noticing right now, but you do anyway.
You walk up, trying to keep your steps steady, even though your brain feels like it’s vibrating. "So," you say, stopping a few feet away. "This is it. The end of the road."
Oscar looks up, his expression guarded. He checks the clipboard, nods to himself, and hands you the final discharge slip. "Everything looks perfect. The swelling has subsided, your motor skills are back to baseline, and your cognitive tests are solid. You're clear to go."
You take the paper, your fingers brushing his—an accident, you tell yourself, even if it feels electric. You look at him, really look at him, and you realize that all that embarrassment from yesterday is still sitting in your chest like a stone, but something else is there, too. A bit of courage you didn't know you had.
You swallow hard, your voice dropping. "I know you have to say no to this. I know the ethics board, the hospital policy, the whole 'doctor-patient' boundary thing. I know exactly what you’re going to say."
Oscar goes still. He sets the clipboard down, his hands folding neatly behind his back. He’s already bracing himself, his face shifting into that familiar, unreadable mask.
"But," you continue, refusing to look away, "can I ask anyway?"
He doesn't interrupt, but he doesn't encourage you either. He just waits, his eyes narrowing slightly, those sharp, blue irises cutting right through the space between you.
"Dinner?" you say, the word feeling small and heavy in the sterile hall. "Just dinner. Not a date. Just... food. Once I'm officially not on your patient roster anymore. I just want to thank you properly, for, you know, not letting me die."
Oscar’s mouth twitches. For a fleeting second, the professional mask slips, replaced by a soft, almost imperceptible smile. It’s not the cold, clinical one, and it’s not the dismissive one. It’s proud—genuinely proud. He looks at you, and you can tell he sees the progress you’ve made, the way you’ve pulled yourself back from the edge of that dark, confusing place. He looks like he’s watching a race car cross the finish line, satisfied that the machine held together.
"No," he says, his voice low, firm, and completely devoid of wiggle room.
You let out a long, dramatic sigh, slumping your shoulders. "Knew it. Absolute classic. I thought I’d try my luck, but honestly, I expected that."
"You’re still officially my patient," Oscar says, his tone softening just a fraction as he gestures toward your chart. "You have follow-up checkups scheduled for the next six months. You’re not out of the woods just because you’re walking out those doors today. My duty of care remains until I sign off on your final neurological clearance."
You feel a little sting, but you don't let it knock you down. You’ve been through a literal brain injury; a simple rejection from a neurosurgeon is small potatoes. You lean against the counter, crossing your arms, and that old, familiar spark of confidence—the one that made you flirt with him while you were still high on anesthesia—starts to flicker back to life.
"Okay," you say, grinning up at him. You turn to walk away, the discharge papers tucked firmly under your arm, but you pause and look back over your shoulder, winking. "I'll ask again."
Oscar watches you go, his jaw tightening just enough to betray how much that simple, playful challenge is bothering him. He doesn't say anything, but he doesn't go back to his files either. He just stands there, watching you walk toward the elevator, his eyes tracking your every move until the doors slide shut and the world—at least for today—finally goes quiet.
— ✦
Steam rises off a massive plate of pasta, but Oscar is mostly just moving it around with his fork. His brain is still stuck on the sterile hum of the hospital, even though he’s miles away in a restaurant that doesn't smell like antiseptic. Lando is currently mid-story, waving a breadstick around like a conductor’s baton, complaining about a patient who woke up from surgery convinced they were a professional race car driver.
"So there I am," Lando says, practically vibrating in his chair, "trying to explain that, no, you are not in the paddock at Silverstone, and you certainly cannot reach the pedals from a surgical bed. The guy was trying to 'downshift' the IV pole. Absolute chaos."
George laughs, leaning back in his chair with a beer in hand. "Better than the lady who tried to convince me that my stethoscope was a magical listening device for her future. Neuro is weird, man. It’s all brain trauma, all the time. Right, Oscar? You’ve been dealing with that, uh, 'special' case in 412 for the last two weeks. How’s that going?"
Oscar takes a sip of water, keeping his face intentionally blank. "She’s been discharged. Went home this afternoon."
He expects that to be the end of it. It’s a factual statement, a tidy little conclusion to a clinical case. He puts his fork down, clearly signaling that he’s ready to move on to literally any other topic—Formula 1, the weather, the miserable state of the hospital cafeteria coffee.
Lando, however, has no intention of letting this slide. He stops mid-chew, his eyes widening with mock shock. "Oh, is that all? Just, 'she’s discharged'? Nothing else to add? Like, say, the part where she tried to ask out her neurosurgeon?"
George smirks, the look of a man who has been waiting all day to pounce. "Oh, we heard, Oscar. The nurses’ station is basically a gossip column with scrubs. Apparently, she pulled a total power move. Asked you to dinner right in the middle of the ward. Bold. I’m impressed."
Oscar feels the familiar, annoying heat creeping up his collar. He hates that they know. He hates that your little moment of bravery—the one that made his heart stutter for reasons he still hasn't fully unpacked—has become public record. "It was an inappropriate request made during a clinical sign-off. I handled it. End of story."
"You 'handled it'?" Lando mimics, leaning in close, his voice dropping to a theatrical whisper. "I bet you got all awkward and started talking about the 'ethics of doctor-patient dynamics' while your face turned three different shades of red. Did you stutter? Tell me you stuttered."
"I did not stutter," Oscar bites back, his voice low and sharp. "I informed her that she is still under my care for follow-ups and that the request was, and will remain, denied."
George chuckles, clinking his beer glass against Oscar's water. "Denial is a funny thing, mate. You sound like a guy who’s protesting a little too much. Look at you—you’re twitchy. Usually, when a patient crosses a line, you’re the first one to file a report or have them moved to a different unit. But here you are, two weeks later, and you’re still looking like you’ve just run a marathon."
"I’m tired, George," Oscar snaps, though there’s no real bite in it. "It was a complex recovery. Subdural hematomas are tricky. You know that better than anyone."
"Yeah, yeah, complex recovery," Lando teases, stabbing his pasta again. "And totally unrelated to the fact that she’s got a personality that could charm the paint off a wall. Come on, don't play the 'cold, detached surgeon' card with us. We’ve known you since residency. You haven't looked this rattled since you tripped on stage at graduation."
Oscar glares at them, but it’s a losing battle. He knows exactly what they’re thinking. He knows that they’ve clocked every single extra minute he spent in your room, every time he checked the charts before he had to, and every time he looked just a little bit too happy after finishing your rounds.
"She’s a former patient," Oscar says, his voice final, though he can't quite scrub the tension out of his shoulders. "That is the boundary. That is the rule. We are not talking about this anymore."
"Fine, fine," Lando says, holding his hands up in mock surrender, though he’s still grinning. "But for the record? I saw the way you looked at her during the last round. If you didn't have that stupid 'do not touch' sign tattooed on your forehead, I’d bet money she’d have had you at that dinner."
Oscar just sighs, looking down at his plate. He doesn't say that he wanted to say yes. He doesn't say that the image of you, walking out of that room with your bag over your shoulder and that defiant, playful look in your eyes, has been playing on a loop in his mind for hours. He just eats his pasta, ignores the teasing, and pretends he’s completely unaffected—even though every time he thinks of your invitation, he feels a pull that no amount of professional distance can fix.
— ✦
Follow-up appointments became a rhythmic, slightly annoying part of your life. You’d trek back into the hospital every few weeks, navigating the labyrinthine corridors that still smelled like that specific, sharp blend of sanitizer and floor wax. You’d sit in the waiting room, leafing through outdated magazines, watching the clock tick, and every single time, you’d steel yourself to ask him one more time. You’d rehearse it in your head—Hey, Oscar, how about that drink now that you aren't legally bound to keep me alive?—but every time he walked in, clipboard in hand, face set in that infuriatingly professional mask, the words died in your throat. He was always so efficient, so focused on the scan results and the reflexes, that the gap between you seemed to widen with every visit.
Eventually, the novelty of the crush just… eroded. It was like a pair of shoes that looked great in the store but gave you blisters every time you wore them. You stopped checking the hallway to see if he was around. You stopped lingering by the nurses' station after your appointments. The "what-ifs" quieted down, replaced by the mundane reality of getting back to your own job, your own stress, and your own life.
Six months post-op, you sat in his office for the final time. Oscar was staring at your latest MRI on the lightbox, his brows furrowed in that familiar, studious line. He looked tired—that deep, bone-weary fatigue that seemed to be a permanent fixture in his life—but he was as precise as ever.
"Everything looks perfect," he said, turning to face you. He didn't smile, but his voice was lighter than usual. "The tissue has healed, the pressure is stable, and there’s absolutely no sign of secondary complications. You’re effectively a clean slate. You don't need to come back here anymore."
You blinked, surprised by how final it sounded. "So… that’s it? No more penlights? No more reflex hammers?"
"That’s it," he confirmed, closing your file with a decisive thud. "You’re done."
"Well," you said, standing up and smoothing down your skirt, suddenly feeling very strange. "Thanks, Dr. Piastri. For everything. Seriously."
"You’re welcome," he replied, and for a second, he looked like he wanted to say something else, but the beeper on his belt vibrated, cutting the moment short. He glanced at it, sighed, and shifted back into 'on-call' mode. "Take care of yourself out there."
You left the office, walking out into the bright, unfiltered afternoon sun, feeling the weight of the last six months slip off your shoulders. You didn't look back. You didn't wonder if he was watching. You just started walking toward the parking lot, already thinking about what you were going to have for dinner.
Inside the hospital, Oscar watched you go. He was already pulling up the file for his next patient, a young man with a complex spinal injury, and by the time he’d reached the end of the first page, your name had already started to drift into the background. His brain was a sieve of medical emergencies and high-stakes surgeries, and you were just another success story filed away in the cabinet. He didn't think about the dinner invitation, or the "baby" jokes, or the way you’d looked at him those first few days in the ICU. He had twenty patients to stabilize, two surgeries to prep for, and a life that didn't leave room for lingering thoughts. He turned to the door, his mind already shifting gears, and by the time he reached the nurses' station, the memory of you was just a blurred line in a sea of data.
— ✦
Blue badge clipped to your shirt feels a little heavy, but it’s a good kind of weight. Volunteering in the rehab ward is harder than you expected, but seeing the look on someone’s face when they realize they can lift their own arm again—that’s the kind of high you can’t get anywhere else. You spend your days listening to the same fears you once had, translating the terrifying medical jargon for patients who are too exhausted to process it, and generally just being the person you wished you’d had around when you were staring at the ceiling in room 412.
One afternoon, your legs are screaming for a break, so you duck into the café. It’s a cramped, noisy disaster of a room, smells like burnt espresso and desperation. You’re weaving through the tables, intent on grabbing a tea, when you turn a corner too fast and slam directly into a solid wall of starched white cotton.
Coffee sloshes violently over the rim of a paper cup. You reach out to steady the person you bumped into, and your hand makes contact with a forearm that’s lean, firm, and familiar.
"Whoa, easy there," you mutter, looking up.
It’s Oscar. He’s standing there, his lab coat slightly rumpled, looking like he’s been awake for forty-eight hours straight. He’s managed to keep the coffee from spilling, but he’s staring at you with a look of pure, unadulterated shock. For a second, he just stands there, frozen, his eyes scanning your face as if he’s trying to verify your medical history in real-time.
"Oh," he says, his voice a bit rusty. "It’s you. I almost wore that for you, by the way. Very generous of me."
You look down at his sleeve, where a dark brown stain is already beginning to seep into the white fabric. You start to laugh, a genuine, bubbling sound that makes the tension in his shoulders drop about an inch.
"I’m sorry, I’m a menace," you say, grabbing a napkin from a nearby table and dabbing at his sleeve. "I guess I haven't lost my knack for causing trouble in this building."
Oscar watches you work, his expression shifting from startled to that low-key, amused look you haven't seen in months. He steps back, clearing his throat and tucking his coffee cup safely against his chest.
"No apology necessary," he says, his eyes tracing the line of your face. He looks at your volunteer badge, then back at your eyes. "I didn't know you were back. I thought you were done with this place—for good."
"I missed the ambiance," you joke, gesturing vaguely at the fluorescent lights and the general clinical chaos. "No, seriously, I wanted to help out. Being a patient here is a hell of a learning curve. I figured I could make it a little less terrifying for the next person."
Oscar stares at you for a long beat, his gaze thoughtful. "That’s… actually quite admirable. Most people run as far away from here as they can once they get their discharge papers."
"Yeah, well, I like to do things differently," you say, a playful glint entering your eyes.
He cracks a small, genuine smile—not the professional, doctor-in-the-hallway version, but a real, crooked one that lights up his entire face. He looks like he’s fighting off a joke, his head tilting slightly as he leans against the counter.
"So," he says, his voice dropping into a teasing register that catches you completely off guard. "No neurological confusion this time? You’re sure you know exactly who you’re talking to?"
You feel a heat rise up your neck, but this time, it’s not out of mortification. It’s a warm, comfortable sort of recognition. You look him dead in the eye, squaring your shoulders.
"None whatsoever," you say, your voice steady. "Though, I have to admit, I’m a little disappointed. I was planning on being a bit more chaotic today, but you’ve ruined my schedule."
"Is that so?" he asks, his eyebrows arching in that familiar, challenging way.
"Yep," you reply, feeling that familiar spark of chemistry flare up, but this time it’s grounded in reality—no anesthesia, no brain fog, just you and a guy who happens to be a neurosurgeon. "Unfortunately, I remember everything. Every single ridiculous thing I said. Every time I tried to hold your hand. Every 'baby' I dropped in front of your poor, traumatized interns."
Oscar actually laughs out loud. It’s a bright, sharp sound that makes a few people in the café turn to look, but he doesn't seem to care. He runs a hand through his hair, looking at you with a mix of disbelief and something much warmer.
"I remember," he says, his voice dropping to a low, intimate hum. "And for the record, the interns still bring it up in rounds. You’re a legend in the neuro department. They’re still wondering if you were faking the amnesia just to mess with me."
"And were you?" you ask, leaning in, a mischievous grin spreading across your face. "Did you think I was faking it?"
He looks at you, his eyes locking onto yours with a level of focus that makes your stomach do a series of flips. He doesn't pull away. He doesn't make a joke about doctor-patient boundaries. He just stands there, holding his coffee cup, looking at you like you’re the most interesting puzzle he’s had to solve in years.
"I stopped thinking a long time ago," he admits, his voice so soft you barely hear it over the roar of the café. "I just started wondering if you were going to ask me again."
— ✦
Hallway encounters stop being coincidental and start feeling like an unspoken appointment. You’re always somewhere on the fourth floor, usually lugging a stack of paperbacks toward the neurology ward, and he’s always—inevitably—striding out of a consult or rushing toward an OR. Every time you see his lanky frame moving through the sea of scrub-clad staff, your pulse does this annoying, predictable kick.
"Third book this week, Piastri," you call out, adjusting the heavy stack in your arms as he brushes past you. "I’m starting to think you just like hearing me talk about the plot twists."
He stops, pivots on his heel, and waits for you to catch up. The exhaustion that usually clings to his features has softened just enough for him to look human, and he takes the top two books from your pile without asking, lightening your load.
"I don't have time to read," he says, his voice a low rumble. "I just like making sure you don't drop these on your foot. You’re a liability, remember? I operated on you. I have a vested interest in your continued physical stability."
"Right, the 'vested interest,'" you tease, matching his pace. "Is that what they’re calling it now? I thought it was because you were craving that burnt-tasting sludge from the vending machine down the hall."
He glances down at the lukewarm paper cup in his hand, grimacing. "It’s not sludge. It’s… efficient fuel. I don't have a thirty-minute window to walk to the local café, get an actual barista-made flat white, and walk back. This stuff at least keeps the brain firing."
"It’s an insult to coffee, Oscar. Honestly, it’s a health violation." You stop at a patient's room, hand him back the books, and lean against the wall. "How many have you had today? Be honest."
He sighs, looking at the cup like it’s a clinical failure. "Four. Maybe five."
"You’re going to vibrate out of your skin," you laugh, shaking your head. "I’m telling you, if you didn't spend all your time trying to be the hospital's most stoic martyr, you’d realize that life exists outside these sliding glass doors. There’s decent espresso three blocks over. I know because I walk there every morning before my shift."
He looks at you then, really looks at you, and the playfulness in his eyes is replaced by something heavier, more contemplative. He’s standing close enough that you can smell the faint, clean scent of antiseptic and the sharper, more grounding scent of his cedarwood cologne. It’s a sensory detail that’s become way too familiar over the last month.
"I don't get 'three blocks over' time," he says, his voice dropping an octave. "I get fifteen-minute windows between consults and the occasional three hours of sleep. It’s not exactly a life that leaves room for… external activities."
"Sounds miserable," you say, but there’s no judgment in it, just a quiet invitation.
"It’s not miserable," he retorts, though he doesn't sound entirely convinced. "It’s just… work. It’s what I signed up for."
You watch the way his gaze lingers on your face, drifting down to your lips for a heartbeat before snapping back up to your eyes. It’s a tell. He’s tired, he’s stressed, and he’s clearly overworked, but he’s also clearly not in a rush to leave this hallway.
"You know," you say, your voice dropping, "I’m not a patient anymore. I’m a volunteer. Technically, that means we’re colleagues. And colleagues have to go to lunch sometimes, right?"
You hold your breath, the air in the hallway suddenly feeling incredibly thin. You’ve been dancing around this for weeks, and you’re tired of the choreography.
Oscar doesn't answer immediately. He shifts the books in his arms, his knuckles whitening slightly. He’s thinking about the ethics, the hierarchy, the ridiculous, stubborn lines he’s drawn for himself, and the way your existence has managed to blur every single one of them. He’s been waiting for you to say it again—praying you would, even if he didn't want to admit it to himself. Every time you walk away after a conversation, he finds himself feeling a sharp, cold sting of regret that he didn't just reach out and stop you.
"Colleagues," he repeats, the word tasting strange on his tongue.
"Yep. Colleagues. Which involves eating actual, non-vending-machine food." You take a half-step closer. "I’m off shift in twenty minutes. The café three blocks away closes at five. If you can manage to escape the neuro-trauma siren for an hour, I’ll buy you a coffee that actually tastes like coffee."
He looks at his beeper, then at the empty hallway, then back at you. The internal struggle is visible—the meticulous, rule-abiding surgeon fighting against the man who’s been secretly hoping you’d stop being so polite.
"Twenty minutes?" he asks, his voice barely audible.
"Twenty minutes," you confirm, your heart hammering against your ribs.
"I’ll see if I can clear my desk," he says, his voice thick with a sudden, intense focus. He starts to turn away, then pauses, looking back over his shoulder. That soft, proud, secret smile is back, and this time, it’s unmistakably expectant. "Don't leave without me. I’m serious. If you walk out that door before I get there, I’m putting you on the 'permanent nuisance' list."
"Wouldn't dream of it, Doctor," you grin, watching him stride away with a little more speed in his step than he had a moment ago.
He’s finally going to say yes. You can see it in the way he walks, in the way he’s already checking his watch to see how he can condense his paperwork. You’ve spent months thinking you’d gotten over this, that you were just a person who’d moved on, but as you stand there in the quiet of the hallway, you realize you haven't moved on at all. You were just waiting for him to catch up.
Twenty minutes felt like an eternity of pacing, but you managed to keep your cool, hovering near the main lobby entrance. When Oscar finally appeared, he’d ditched the white coat, opting for a dark, fitted sweater that made him look less like a looming authority figure and more like a normal, incredibly handsome man who just happened to be chronically sleep-deprived. He was moving with purpose, his phone tucked into his back pocket, and the moment his eyes landed on you, he slowed his pace just enough to let you know he wasn't running away.
He didn't make it five feet before Lando and George intercepted him. They were coming down the opposite corridor, probably heading out to grab their own post-shift meal, and when they saw Oscar walking toward you, their collective stride hitched. George stopped dead, his eyebrows practically reaching his hairline, while Lando did a dramatic, slow-motion pivot, his jaw dropping in a way that would have been hilarious if it didn't make your face burn.
"Well, well," George drawled, crossing his arms and leaning against the wall, a look of pure, unadulterated mischief on his face. "Look who finally decided to prioritize something other than a shunt replacement."
Lando didn't even try to hide his grin. He looked from Oscar to you, his eyes darting back and forth like he was watching a tennis match, his face twisted into an expression of absolute glee. "Is that a jacket? And you’re leaving the building? Before midnight? What kind of black magic is this?"
Oscar didn't even blink, though he did offer them a faint, resigned smile that suggested he’d already accepted his fate—namely, that he’d be hearing about this for the next decade. He didn't offer an excuse, didn't stammer, and certainly didn't try to play it off as a clinical meeting. He just tucked his hands into his pockets, shifted his weight, and looked at his friends with a look that essentially told them to get lost.
"We have plans," Oscar said, his voice level and entirely unbothered.
Lando shot you a wink—a quick, cheeky flick of his eyes that made you want to dive behind the nearest plant—before clapping Oscar on the shoulder with a little too much enthusiasm. "Plans. Right. Go on then, Romeo. Don't worry, George and I will keep your patients alive. Or, you know, we’ll just tell everyone in the cafeteria you’re off having a secret tryst."
"Get out of here," Oscar deadpanned, though his smile deepened just a fraction. He didn't wait for them to finish their teasing. He reached out, gently cupping your elbow to steer you toward the revolving doors, his touch brief but warm.
— ✦
The cafe was small, a quiet, dimly lit place with mismatched chairs and the smell of roasting beans. It was blissfully free of monitors, sirens, and that underlying hum of human suffering that seemed to permeate every wall of the hospital. You took a seat by the window, watching the city lights blur as the sun finally dipped below the horizon. When the waiter brought over a pot of steaming black coffee and a small plate of pastries, Oscar actually exhaled—a long, shuddering breath that seemed to dump months of stress into the floorboards.
"You look like you might actually sleep for a full hour tonight," you joked, sliding the sugar toward him.
"Only if the pager stays quiet," he muttered, finally letting his shoulders drop. He took a sip of the coffee, closing his eyes for a second as if he were drinking nectar of the gods. "You were right. This is infinitely better than that vending machine disaster."
"I’m always right," you said, leaning back. "It’s a personality trait. You’ll have to get used to it if you’re going to be my colleague."
He chuckled, a low, easy sound that made your chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with brain injury. "I’m learning. It’s a steep curve, but I think I’m adjusting."
The conversation drifted away from the hospital, peeling back layers of the rigid, clinical exterior he wore like armor. You discovered that he had a dry, sarcastic wit that he usually kept under lock and key—the kind of humor that slipped out in deadpan observations about bad movies or the sheer absurdity of hospital politics. It was intoxicating. You spent an hour debating the merits of different travel destinations, realizing that beneath the man who could perform a craniotomy in his sleep was someone who actually liked to hike, hated mornings, and had a surprisingly deep appreciation for bad 80s pop music.
"You know," he said, staring at his coffee cup as he swirled the liquid, "I spent most of that month after your surgery wondering if I’d lost my mind. I’m used to patients who follow a script. Wake up, stabilize, rehab, discharge. You… you kind of threw the script into the fire."
"I was a bit much, wasn't I?" You looked down, picking at the napkin. "I still cringe whenever I think about it. I flirted with you in front of half the hospital, Oscar. I don't know how you didn't have me moved to a psych ward."
He looked up, his gaze catching yours. There was no mockery there, just a strange, intense sincerity. "I’m aware. And I didn't want you moved. To be completely honest, that month was brutal. We had a string of cases that didn't go well—losses that stay with you—and every time I walked into room 412, it was like the only part of my day that wasn't grey."
Your heart skipped a beat, the air in the small room feeling suddenly charged. "Really?"
"Really," he said, his voice dropping. "You were a disaster, and it was the best part of my schedule."
You were just about to respond, to say something brilliant and flirtatious, when his phone screeched—a sharp, shrill vibration that jarred the table. He didn't reach for it immediately. He looked at it, then at you, a flicker of genuine irritation crossing his face before he sighed and pulled it from his pocket.
The screen lit up with a name that made his jaw tighten. He glanced at the display, the surgeon in him instantly overriding the man having a coffee.
"I have to take this," he said, his eyes darkening as he stood up. "It’s the trauma unit. They’ve got a head-on collision coming into the bay in ten minutes. I'm sorry."
"Go," you said, standing up with him, your voice steady even as a wave of disappointment hit you. "I know how this works. Go save them."
He looked like he wanted to say more, to reach out, but the siren was already wailing in his mind, pulling him back to the world of life and death. He grabbed his coat, gave you a quick, searching look, and was already moving toward the door before the phone had even stopped ringing. "I’ll text you," he promised, his tone tight with regret.
"Go, Dr. Piastri!" you called out, smiling despite yourself. He was already out the door, disappearing into the night, but for the first time in your life, you weren't waiting for him to check your reflexes. You were just waiting for him to come back.
— ✦
Midnight quiet of the hospital parking lot has become your second home. You’re sitting in the driver’s seat of your car, engine off, dashboard lights casting a soft, amber glow against your face while you scroll through your phone. You’re waiting for the double-set of glass doors to slide open. You’ve got a greasy paper bag from that late-night burger joint sitting on the passenger seat—the one with the decent fries that Oscar actually likes—and you’re listening to the muffled static of a podcast, counting the minutes.
When he finally emerges, he’s a wreck. His scrubs are rumpled, his hair is a chaotic mess, and he’s moving with that heavy, robotic gait that tells you he’s been on his feet for eighteen hours straight. He doesn't see you at first, just walks toward his own car like he’s sleepwalking, but when you tap your horn—a soft, singular beep—he stops. He looks over, his eyes squinting into the darkness, and then his shoulders drop. That stiff, defensive posture he wears in the hallways just melts away.
He walks over to your car, drops his bag into the backseat, and collapses into the passenger seat with a groan that sounds like it’s vibrating from his soul.
"I have reached the point," he mumbles, his head leaning back against the headrest, eyes closing instantly, "where I am fairly certain I have forgotten how to sit on a chair. I feel like I’ve been vibrating for a decade."
"Here," you say, pushing the paper bag toward him. "Eat. If you don't consume at least three hundred calories of processed beef, I’m going to personally file a complaint with the hospital board for your lack of self-preservation."
He chuckles, a dry, raspy sound, and starts tearing into the bag. He doesn't even use a napkin, just takes a massive bite of the burger like it’s the best thing he’s ever tasted. Watching him eat, even in this exhausted, messy state, gives you a jolt of warmth that’s hard to describe. You’ve moved past the "patient" phase, past the "crush" phase, into something that feels steady and lived-in. It’s quiet. It’s comfortable.
"You’re a lifesaver," he says, mouth half-full. "Not even kidding. I think I would have started eating the charts if you hadn't shown up."
"Good to know I’m more important than your medical records," you tease, reaching out to brush a stray crumb off his sweater. He leans into your touch instinctively, his eyes fluttering shut again. "Movie night tonight? Or are you planning on passing out the moment we hit my couch?"
"Movie night," he insists, though he sounds like he’s talking through a thick blanket. "I promised. I want to see how that thriller ends, even if I only get to see the first ten minutes before I lose consciousness."
That’s how it goes. You get to your place, and he’s asleep before the opening credits of whatever suspense-filled mystery you’ve picked out even finish rolling. He’s slumped against you, his breathing deep and rhythmic, the weight of him pressing against your shoulder a grounding, heavy reality. You don't move. You just sit there, watching the screen, letting his exhaustion bleed into your own peacefulness, thinking about how strange it is that this man, who holds people's lives in his hands every single day, just wants to be a person when he’s with you.
The next morning, while he’s rushing through the kitchen grabbing his gear for another 30-hour block, you slide a bright yellow sticky note into his lunchbox. It’s a silly little thing—a crude drawing of a stick figure with a stethoscope and a caption that reads, Don't be a hero today, drink water, you idiot. You don't tell him you put it there, and he doesn't say anything when he finds it, but days later, when you’re helping him organize some paperwork in his home office, you open his top desk drawer to look for a pen.
They’re all there. Every single one. A rainbow stack of neon paper, each one with a note about his coffee intake, his sleep schedule, or just a reminder that he’s better than the hospital politics. He’s kept them all. He catches you looking, and for a second, he looks almost embarrassed, his ears turning that familiar, endearing shade of pink. He doesn't apologize, and he doesn't try to hide them. He just clears his throat and says, "They’re for… diagnostic reference. To track your recurring harassment."
You laugh, and he smiles that genuine, soft smile that only you get to see.
Of course, the pack never lets you get away with it. Lando and George have fully adopted you into their orbit, mostly because they’ve realized that you’re the only person in the hospital who can actually force Oscar to stop and eat a vegetable. You’re always showing up in the breakroom with an extra sandwich, or cornering Lando to make sure he’s had a lunch break that lasted longer than five minutes.
"You’re doing the lord’s work," George says one afternoon, watching as you forcefully hand Oscar a container of actual, home-cooked pasta instead of the cafeteria slop. "I don't know how you do it. He’s stubborn as a mule, but he folds the second you look at him with that 'I’m disappointed in your blood sugar' face."
"It’s about persistence," you say, grabbing Oscar’s hand and giving it a squeeze. "He thinks because he’s a genius, he doesn't need to eat. He’s wrong."
"She’s right," Oscar admits, taking the container and actually opening it, much to Lando’s shock.
"See? The beast is tamed!" Lando crows, leaning back in his chair. "Next thing you know, he’ll be taking a whole hour for lunch and actually joining us for a weekend out."
Oscar just shakes his head, though he’s looking at you with a look of quiet, profound gratitude. "Don't push your luck, Norris. We’ve got an emergency neuro-trauma call in twenty minutes."
It’s the life, though. You know the reality. There are days—hell, weeks—where the hospital eats him whole. You’ll be in the middle of a text conversation and he’ll vanish for six hours because someone’s ICP went haywire in the middle of the night. You’ve learned not to take it personally. You’ve learned that when he comes back to you, even if he’s hollowed out by the weight of a surgery that didn't go his way, he’s yours. You’re the one who keeps him tethered.
"You look tired," you say one night, leaning against the door of his office after a brutal shift.
"I am tired," he says, rubbing his eyes. He looks like he’s aged ten years in a day. He stands up, his movements stiff, and walks over to you. He doesn't say a word, just pulls you into a hug that feels like he’s trying to disappear into you. You hold him, feeling the sharp edges of his exhaustion, and you know he doesn't need a snack, or a note, or a movie. He just needs to know that when he steps out of that hospital, there’s a world that doesn't demand perfection from him.
"I’m here," you whisper into his sweater.
"I know," he mumbles, his voice barely audible against your hair. "I know. Thank you for… everything."
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours, that intense, surgical focus now entirely aimed at you. He looks at you like you’re the only thing that makes sense in a room full of chaos. "I couldn't do this without you. Seriously. It’s just too much on my own."
You don't need him to say more. You take his hand, the same hand you once tried to grab when you were high on anesthesia and confused, and you lead him out of the hospital, away from the sirens, and into the quiet of the night. You’re not his patient anymore, and he’s not just a doctor, and even if tomorrow brings another thirty-hour shift, tonight, it’s just the two of you, navigating the world one step at a time.
— ✦
Saturday afternoon sun is streaming through the living room blinds, casting long, dusty stripes across your laptop screen. You’re deep in the weeds of a quarterly report, juggling spreadsheets and half-finished emails, when the sound of a key turning in the lock makes you stop. It’s a familiar sound, a slow, metallic click followed by the heavy, weary thud of a man who has been carrying the weight of the world for thirty-six hours straight.
Oscar doesn't call out. He doesn't announce his presence because he doesn't have the energy to spare. He just drifts into the room, his tie already long gone, his shirt sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms that are tensed with residual stress. He looks like he’s aged five years since he left this morning, his eyes rimmed with red and his movements uncharacteristically sluggish. He drops his bag near the door with a dull thud and stares at the floor as if he’s trying to decide if he has the physical capacity to walk the remaining ten feet to the couch.
"Rough day?" you ask softly, closing your laptop and abandoning the report without a second thought.
He looks up, his gaze unfocused, drifting over your face for a second before he sighs. It’s a sound that seems to deflate his entire frame. He looks so raw, so stripped of that invincible, calm persona he projects in the OR, that it makes your chest ache. He’s spent the last few months living in this apartment in every way that counts; his toothbrush is in your bathroom, his favorite oversized hoodie is perpetually draped over your armchair, and he’s long since stopped remembering the last time he stepped foot in his own sterile, lonely condo. He’s here, he’s yours, and right now, he’s absolutely spent.
You don't wait for him to answer. You get up, crossing the room in a few quick strides, and open your arms. He doesn't hesitate. He doesn't try to maintain his composure or play the stoic surgeon. He just walks into your embrace and drops his head onto your shoulder, his entire body going limp. He’s trembling, just a fraction, the kind of micro-tremors that only come after a day of life-or-death decisions and standing over an operating table for hours on end.
"I can't," he whispers, his voice so thin it’s almost lost in the room. He breathes in against the crook of your neck, his hands gripping the back of your sweater like he’s trying to anchor himself to reality. "I’m done, I’m just… I’m so done, everything is just… noise."
You tighten your hold, running a hand up his back, feeling the tension locked tight in his shoulder blades. You’ve let the relationship move at its own pace, a slow, careful dance around his impossibly demanding schedule, figuring out how to love a man who is often married to his work. You haven't rushed anything, but in this quiet moment, the air feels heavy, charged with all the things you’ve been feeling but haven't quite found the right space to articulate.
He pulls back just enough to look at you, his eyes searching yours. There’s no professional distance left, no masks, no medical terminology—just a man who has spent all his reserves saving others and now has nothing left for himself but you. His hand comes up, his fingertips tracing the line of your jaw with a gentle, shaky reverence.
"I love you," he whispers.
The words land in the silence of the room, simple and absolute. It’s the first time, a secret you’ve both been holding onto, afraid that saying it out loud might somehow break the fragile rhythm you’ve built around his career.
"I love you too," you say, and the weight of it feels like a promise, like the only solid thing in a world that is otherwise constantly shifting.
He lets out a shuddering breath, the tension finally leaving his face, replaced by an expression of pure, relieved vulnerability. He leans his forehead against yours, his eyes closing, and for the first time in a long time, the hospital feels like a thousand miles away.
"I don't think I could do this without you," he murmurs, his voice barely audible. "I go into that building, I deal with the chaos, and the only reason I’m still standing at the end of the day is knowing I’m coming back here. To you."
"You don't have to do it alone," you tell him, pulling him back down toward the couch. "Not anymore."
He doesn't argue. He just sinks into the cushions, pulling you down with him, his head finding its usual spot on your shoulder. He’s asleep within minutes, his breathing evening out into the deep, heavy rhythm of a man finally allowed to let go. You sit there, listening to the quiet of the apartment, watching the light fade from the window, and you realize that this—this messy, tired, quiet love—is the most important thing you’ve ever had to work for. You reach over, covering him with the throw blanket from the end of the couch, and just hold him, knowing that when he wakes up, you’ll be there to help him face the week all over again.
— ✦
Sunlight is already hitting the edge of the curtains when you stir, but you don't open your eyes just yet. You feel the heavy, familiar warmth of a body pressed against your back—a solid, grounding weight that makes your heart do that stupid, happy flutter even when you’re half-asleep. Oscar is still dead to the world, but he’s shifted enough to press his chest against your shoulder, his arm draped possessively over your waist.
You’re still wearing your pajamas, but he’s still in the wrinkled, grey undershirt he passed out in last night after you managed to drag him into the bedroom. You remember the chaotic, semi-conscious shuffle, him mumbling something about neuro-pathways while you practically carried him to bed.
He moves, the bed frame creaking, and you feel the weight shift as he sits up. He’s quiet—always quiet—and you hear him sliding out of the room, his footsteps muffled against the floorboards. You drift back into a light, lazy sleep for another twenty minutes before you hear the hum of the shower, then the soft, rhythmic clicking of his toothbrush.
A few minutes later, you feel the mattress dip again. The air smells like his cedarwood body wash and a hint of the coffee he must have just started brewing. You don't turn around, just wait for him to close the distance.
He leans over, his lips brushing the shell of your ear, then tracking down the line of your neck. It’s a slow, deliberate wake-up call. "Morning," he murmurs, his voice gravelly and low.
You shift, turning around to face him, and see he’s finally ditched the work clothes for a pair of sweatpants. He looks like a completely different person when he’s not vibrating with stress or clutching a hospital pager. He looks relaxed, his hair a mess, his eyes clear and focused entirely on you.
"Morning," you whisper back, pulling him down by the neck of his shirt. He kisses you, a soft, lingering thing that tastes like toothpaste and that specific kind of calm that only exists on a Saturday morning with nowhere to be.
"Did you sleep?" you ask, running your hands up his arms.
"Best sleep I’ve had in months," he says, resting his forehead against yours. He’s smiling—a real, lazy grin that makes him look ten years younger. "And guess what? No beeps. No emergency pages. No trauma calls. I checked the schedule three times just to be sure—I’m actually, properly off."
"No way," you say, propping yourself up on one elbow. "The great Dr. Piastri is off-duty on a Saturday? Does the hospital know? Will the city collapse without you?"
"I’ve already accepted that the world might end today," he jokes, nudging your nose with his. "But I’ve decided I’m okay with that. I’m planning on spending the entire day not thinking about craniotomies."
"What’s the plan, then?"
He pulls back, looking at you with that boyish excitement that he usually keeps hidden behind his professional exterior. "Camping. I know you’ve been saying you needed a break from the city, and I found a spot a few hours out. I’ve already done a sweep of the gear. I’ve got the tent, the stove, the sleeping bags—it’s all in the car."
"You did all that while I was sleeping?" You laugh, reaching up to mess with his hair. "You really are an overachiever."
"I just wanted to make sure we actually made it out the door," he says, kissing your temple. "You stay in bed, get another half-hour. I’m going to finish packing the cooler. I’ll make pancakes, then we’re leaving."
"You’re making pancakes?"
"I’m making pancakes," he confirms, standing up and heading for the door. He pauses, looking back at you one last time, his eyes bright with a rare, unfiltered happiness. "Stay put. Don't go anywhere. I’m not letting you spend this day doing reports."
You watch him walk out, feeling a wave of genuine disbelief. A whole day of camping, with no hospital in sight, and the man you love is currently downstairs trying to master the art of breakfast. You sink back into your pillows, listening to the clatter of pots and pans and the muffled sound of him humming a song under his breath. It’s perfect. It’s better than perfect. It’s real.
— ✦
Road winds through the pine trees, tires crunching over loose gravel as the city finally dissolves into the rearview mirror. You’re watching Oscar drive, one hand draped over the wheel, the other tapping a rhythm against his thigh. He looks like a completely different person in cargo shorts and a faded vintage t-shirt, completely detached from the clinical sterility he usually inhabits. When he pulls into the campsite—a secluded spot tucked behind a dense thicket of spruce—he’s out of the car and moving before the engine even stops ticking.
You lean against the trunk, sipping a lukewarm coffee, watching him navigate the site. He works with an unnerving, practiced efficiency. He doesn't just put up a tent; he engineers it. He hammers stakes into the ground with surgical precision, measuring the tension on the guy lines as if he’s calibrating a piece of hospital equipment.
"You know, you’re allowed to just hammer it in," you call out, watching him adjust a corner for the third time. "It doesn't have to be anatomically perfect."
He laughs, wiping a smudge of dirt off his forehead with the back of his hand. "Habit. If I don't set it up right, it’ll be a disaster in a windstorm. Everything has a structural integrity, you know."
"Yeah, yeah, Mr. Neurosurgeon," you tease, walking over to help him unfurl the tarp. "I’ve been meaning to ask, though—how did you even end up here? Did you wake up one day and decide you wanted to spend your life staring at gray matter, or was there some sort of traumatic incident involving a toy microscope?"
He stops, glancing at you with a wry expression before going back to the tent poles. "Nothing that dramatic, honestly. I was never the kid who wanted to play doctor. I played piano, did a lot of woodworking, tinkered with old watches—my dad taught me how to handle the gears without stripping the threads. One day, a mentor of his watched me setting a microscopic balance wheel and joked that I should look into surgery because my hands didn't shake. I laughed it off, but the thought just… stuck. By the time I hit med school, I was already looking for something that required that kind of fine-motor control."
"So, you’re basically a glorified watch repairman, but for brains?"
"Basically," he grins, sliding a pole through the canvas sleeve. "Although, brains are significantly harder to source parts for."
You sit down on a folding chair, watching him work, the ease of the conversation smoothing out the edges of the day. "Was it hard? At the beginning?"
His face loses a bit of that lightheartedness, his expression turning distant as he focuses on the tent frame. "The first time I lost someone? It was hell. I was a junior resident, and I had done everything by the book. Perfect prep, perfect incision, textbook closure. But the patient just didn't wake up. I spent weeks replaying every second of that surgery, convinced that if I had just moved a millimeter to the left or been a second faster, they’d still be here. I didn't understand how someone could be so physically sound and yet just… gone."
"That sounds soul-crushing," you say softly.
"It was," he admits, pausing to hammer the final stake into the ground. "But you keep losing people. You realize that sometimes, you’re just playing the hand you’re dealt, and nature doesn't always care about your best intentions. You stop trying to play God and start trying to be the best possible mechanic for a failing system. It’s a harsh lesson, but you have to learn it or you won't survive the specialty."
"So, why neuro? Why the most unforgiving, high-stress, 'impossible' specialty in the hospital?"
He stands up, brushing the dirt off his hands and looking at you with a sharp, competitive glint in his eyes that you recognize all too well. "I’ve always been competitive. When I was starting out, people told me it was the hardest, the most exclusive. That was all the motivation I needed. I wanted the hardest cases, the ones that everyone else said were 'inoperable.' I thrive on that pressure—the adrenaline, the clock, the razor-thin margin between a complete recovery and a catastrophic outcome. I wanted to be the best because, at the time, I thought being the best meant proving I was the smartest person in the room."
"And now?"
He walks over, leaning against the tree beside your chair, his posture relaxing as he looks out into the trees. "Now? I know that medicine isn't a competition. It’s a service. The 'impossible' cases are just people who deserve one more shot. The board of directors keeps trying to push me toward a professorship, wanting me to teach the next generation, but I don't have the patience for it. I’m not built to stand at a podium and lecture. I’d rather be in the OR where things are tangible."
You let out a loud, incredulous laugh, shaking your head. "You don't have the patience? Are you kidding me? You spent weeks handling me while I was literally hallucinating that you were my boyfriend. If that doesn't qualify as 'having patience,' I don't know what does."
He chuckles, a low, melodic sound that warms the cool air around you. He reaches down, taking your hand and pulling you up from the chair. "That was different. You were a unique clinical anomaly. Besides, you weren't an intern asking me a thousand questions about the anatomy of the thalamus for the fifth time in a row. You were just… you."
"A unique clinical anomaly, huh? Is that what I was?"
"You were the only thing that kept me sane during the one of my worst month," he admits, his voice dropping as he draws you closer, his eyes focused entirely on yours. "And you still are."
He pulls you into the shelter of the tent, the nylon flapping gently in the breeze. The competitive, high-stakes surgeon is gone, replaced by the man who just wanted a Saturday off with the person he loves. He reaches into his pack, pulling out a small, compact stove, his movements steady and calm.
"I’m starving," he says, shifting the subject, clearly feeling he’s revealed enough for one day. "How do you feel about dehydrated camping stew? It’s not exactly a five-course meal, but it’s warm."
"It sounds like a five-star experience if you’re the one cooking," you laugh, sitting back on your sleeping bag and watching him prep the meal.
He smiles, that quiet, secret smile you’ve come to crave, and you realize that even if he never stops being the best neurosurgeon in Australia, he’s happy just being here, with you, in a tent in the middle of nowhere, with nothing to save but a pot of stew.
"Eat up," Oscar says, sliding a steaming plastic bowl toward you. "It’s a gourmet blend of dehydrated carrots and what I am fairly certain is mystery protein, but the chef—that’s me—highly recommends it."
You dig in, the warmth of the food hitting your stomach like a reset button. "You know, for a man who spends his life working with microscopic precision, your cooking is surprisingly… rustic."
"Rustic is code for 'I forgot to measure the water,'" he admits, grinning as he sits cross-legged across from you. He’s got that relaxed look again, his hair wind-tousled and his shirt collar unbuttoned. He looks more like a college student than a man who holds people's lives in his hands for a living.
"So, tell me," you ask, leaning back against a folded blanket, "how on earth do you, Lando, and George actually function as a trio? It’s like watching a chaotic sitcom. Lando is basically a golden retriever in scrubs, George is… well, George is George, and you’re just the silent, brooding professional. It defies all logic."
Oscar laughs, a genuine, unguarded sound. "It started in residency, honestly. Lando was the only one who could make me laugh when I was three days deep into a rotation, and George… George is just as obsessive as I am, but in a completely different direction. We’re a disaster, really. Lando is constantly trying to sneak pranks into the OR, and George is always trying to debate the best way to organize a tool tray. It’s loud, it’s annoying, and I think it’s the only reason I didn't lose my mind back in my third year."
"I can picture it," you tease. "Lando trying to play music in the theater, and you just staring at him until he stops."
"Exactly," he agrees, taking a sip of his lukewarm tea. "But when things go sideways, there isn't another group of people I’d want in the room. We trust each other. That’s the only thing that matters in that environment."
"You guys have saved so many lives, Oscar. Does it ever stop feeling heavy?"
He’s quiet for a moment, looking out at the tree line. "It never stops feeling heavy. You just get better at carrying it. And honestly? Having people like Lando and George—and having you—makes the weight feel like something I can actually manage."
You reach out, resting your hand on his knee, feeling the solid, familiar heat of him. "I'm glad you have them. And I'm glad you have this."
"I am too," he says, his voice dropping into that soft, low register that always makes your pulse skip. "I really am."
You’re just about to crack a joke about how he needs to thank Lando for setting the bar so low that he looks like a genius by comparison, when a sharp, white-hot pulse of pain slams into the back of your skull. It’s not just a headache; it’s a sudden, blinding spike that makes the world tilt. You gasp, your hand instinctively flying to your temple, your vision blurring at the edges.
Oscar is on his feet in a second, the playfulness gone, replaced instantly by the rigid, clinical focus of a surgeon. "What? What is it? Did you hit your head? Tell me, are you dizzy? Is it radiating?"
He’s already moving closer, his hands framing your face, his thumbs checking your pupils with the speed of an expert. He’s panicked—you can see it in the way his jaw is tight and his eyes are scanning for signs of a hemorrhage or a seizure. He’s not Oscar the camper anymore; he’s Dr. Piastri, and he’s terrified.
"Oscar, stop, seriously," you manage to choke out, forcing a weak smile despite the throbbing in your head. You reach up, grabbing his wrists to stop him from doing a full neurological workup on you right there in the dirt. "It’s not a hematoma. It’s just a tension headache. I’ve been putting in ridiculous hours at the rehab unit lately, and I haven't been sleeping enough."
"Are you sure?" he demands, his voice still vibrating with anxiety. "You’re pale. You’re sweating. We should go back. I have my kit in the car, I can—"
"You can do nothing but sit down," you interrupt, reaching into your bag and pulling out a bottle of painkillers. You shake two out into your palm and swallow them with a gulp of tea. "It happens every time I work back-to-back shifts. The noise in the rehab ward is non-stop, and I haven't been drinking enough water. It’s a classic tension headache. My blood pressure is fine, my vision is clearing, and I definitely don't need to be rushed to the ER, especially not by my own boyfriend."
He stares at you, his eyes searching yours for a lie. He’s spent months treating actual brain injuries, and he’s clearly struggling to switch off the part of his brain that’s trained to see danger everywhere.
"I know it looks like an emergency to you," you say softly, tugging on his hand until he sits back down, "but it’s not. I’m fine, Oscar. Truly. It’s just work. Everyone gets headaches, even the people who spend their lives fixing brains."
He lets out a long, ragged breath, his shoulders finally dropping as the panic begins to ebb. "You scared the hell out of me. You know that, right?"
"I know," you say, leaning your head on his shoulder as the medication begins to dull the worst of the ache. "But look at me. I'm breathing, I'm talking, and I'm definitely not having a neurological episode. I’m just a tired human who needs a nap."
"You’re a pain in my neck," he mutters, though he wraps an arm around you and pulls you close, his fingers brushing the hair away from your forehead. "And a massive health hazard."
"You love me anyway," you murmur, closing your eyes.
"Yeah," he sighs, his voice barely a whisper. "I really, really do."
— ✦
Moving into that new apartment was less of a grand gesture and more of a quiet, necessary evolution. It’s got floor-to-ceiling windows that catch the afternoon sun, a kitchen big enough for both of you to dance around in, and a bedroom that, for the first time in years, doesn't smell like antiseptic or sound like an ICU paging system. You’ve settled into a rhythm that feels less like a clinical observation and more like a real life.
Living with a neurosurgeon means you’ve become an expert in reading the room before you even walk into it. You know exactly what kind of day he’s had the second the door clicks shut behind him. If he’s silent—not just quiet, but still—it means he’s spent six hours navigating a cavernoma or a tumor near the brainstem, and he needs space to decompress. You don't ask questions; you just hand him a glass of water, turn down the lights, and let the silence sit there until he’s ready to talk. On those nights, you’re his anchor, and he’s yours.
He’s just as sharp about your moods. He knows my boss is breathing down my neck before I’ve even said a word, just by the way I’m stabbing at my laptop keys or the way my eyebrows knot together when I’m trying to finish a report. He’s the one who’ll walk by, drop a steaming mug of tea on the desk, and quietly close my laptop before pulling me toward the couch. He even keeps track of my cycle, which is both incredibly sweet and mildly terrifying, regularly restocking the bathroom cabinet with chocolate and heating pads before I’ve even realized I’m on edge.
Ordinary happiness is everywhere. It’s in the mundane, boring, wonderful stuff—arguing over who left the laundry in the dryer for too long, deciding which grocery store has the better produce, or cooking dinner on a Tuesday night while he tries to explain the difference between a subarachnoid hemorrhage and a subdural hematoma using nothing but pasta noodles and a bowl of salad.
"You're using the penne as the cranial vault, but that doesn't make any sense, Oscar," you laugh, swiping at a rogue piece of lettuce.
"It’s a functional model!" he protests, eyes bright with that playful, competitive spark he usually saves for Lando and George. "If you’d just let me explain the pressure differential—"
"I am not learning neurosurgery via Italian cuisine. Help me with the dishes."
Then comes the weekend you decide to introduce him to your parents. You’ve been dreading it, mostly because your mom and sister have never quite let go of the "brain injury romance" narrative. You pull up to your childhood home, and Oscar’s hands are actually gripping the steering wheel a little too tightly.
"You okay?" you ask, reaching over to pat his arm. "They’re just people. My mom isn't going to perform a neuro-assessment on you."
"I’m fine," he mutters, though he looks like he’d rather be back in the OR. "It’s just… usually I’m the one on the other side of this. I’m the doctor, they’re the family. Being the guest? It’s unnerving."
Before he can even fully step out of the car, your mom is on the front porch, beaming. She doesn't wait for introductions; she marches right up and pulls him into a hug that he clearly isn't prepared for.
"Dr. Piastri!" she exclaims, pulling back to beam at him. "We are so thrilled to finally have you over. Thank you, again, for everything. I still tell everyone at the garden club that we had a saint looking after our daughter."
Oscar goes stiff, offering an awkward, polite smile. "It was my privilege, really. I’m just glad she’s here."
Your sister, naturally, can’t help herself. She leans against the doorframe, a wicked grin on her face. "A saint? Mom, please. We all know how this started. We’ve seen the charts. She was practically sedated, calling him 'baby' and trying to propose to him between scans. Honestly, it’s a miracle they’re actually together. She basically manifested him into existence."
You feel the blood rush to your ears. "I did not manifest him, and I was not trying to propose, I was delirious!"
"Keep telling yourself that," your sister laughs, ushering you all inside.
Dinner is a whirlwind of questions and barely suppressed teasing. You’re trying to navigate the conversation toward safe topics—the weather, your new job, the traffic—but your parents are laser-focused on the legend of "The Handsome Neurosurgeon." Oscar handles it like a professional, though his ears are steadily turning a shade of pink that matches the tablecloth.
As you’re helping your dad with the dishes later, he leans in close, lowering his voice with a twinkle in his eye. "You know, when you told us you’d met someone in the hospital, we were worried you were just being dramatic. But... he’s a good man, honey. And he’s definitely as handsome as you kept saying. I guess you weren't lying about the 'handsome doctor' thing after all."
You nearly drop a plate, the heat in your face so intense it might as well be a fever. "Dad! Please! Can we just talk about the lawnmower? Anything else?"
He just chuckles, patting your shoulder. "Relax. I like him. He’s got enough patience to put up with you, and that’s the most important thing."
You walk back into the living room, feeling like you might spontaneously combust from pure, unadulterated mortification. Oscar is sitting on the couch, laughing at something your mom is saying, looking completely at ease. He catches your eye, and for a split second, that secret, crooked smile—the one that exists just for you—appears. It doesn't matter what your parents think or how much they tease; in that moment, seeing him there, fitting into your life, you know you’re exactly where you’re supposed to be.
—
Headaches are becoming a permanent resident in your skull, a dull, throbbing bassline that pulses right behind your left eye. You’re sitting at your desk, staring at a spreadsheet that’s starting to swim, and you press the heels of your hands against your temples, hard.
"God, I hate this job," you mutter, typing out a quick text to Oscar. Boss is officially trying to kill me with this workload. If I collapse at my desk, tell them to charge my funeral to the company budget.
You laugh to yourself, but the sound feels thin. A few minutes later, you stand up to grab your coat and head out, but you freeze. Where are your keys? You check your pockets. You check the desk drawer. You check the edge of the printer. Nothing. You spend ten minutes doing a frantic sweep of the cubicle before finding them sitting on top of the copier, right where you had been standing twenty minutes ago.
Weird, you think, your pulse jumping a little. I definitely picked them up from the desk.
When you get home, Oscar is already there, leaning against the kitchen island, scrolling through his phone. He looks up when you walk in, his expression unreadable. You drop your keys on the counter—you’re sure you put them there—and kiss him on the cheek.
"Hey," he says, his voice quiet. "How was the day?"
"Brutal," you say, flopping onto the couch. "My boss is actually delusional. I think I had a conversation with Sarah about the quarterly report, but honestly, my brain is fried. I can't even remember if we talked today or yesterday."
Oscar doesn't respond right away. He walks over, handing you a glass of water, his fingers lingering on yours for a fraction of a second longer than necessary. He’s watching you. You can feel his gaze, the clinical, observant stare he usually reserves for patients in the ICU. It makes you feel slightly exposed, but you shrug it off.
"You should sleep," he says, his tone perfectly neutral. "You’ve been pushing yourself too hard. It’s affecting your cognitive baseline."
"My 'cognitive baseline' is fine, Doc," you tease, taking a sip of water. "I’m just overworked and under-caffeinated. My boss is trying to squeeze blood from a stone, and I’m the stone."
He smiles, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He looks down at his phone, then back at you, his thumb tracing the rim of his own glass. You don't see the way his jaw tightens or the way he silently counts the times you’ve misplaced things this week. You don't see him logging your memory lapses in his head, matching them against the timeline of your recovery.
He’s terrified. He knows exactly what those headaches mean, and he knows exactly what the memory slips imply, but he’s holding his breath, waiting for the right moment. He knows you’ll just fight him on it, calling him a paranoid surgeon who’s projecting his work trauma onto his girlfriend.
"Yeah," he says finally, his voice soft. "I guess it’s just stress. You’re probably right."
You look at him, feeling a sudden, strange flicker of unease. He’s usually the first one to crack a joke or push back, but tonight, he’s as still as a statue.
"Are you okay?" you ask. "You’ve been weirdly quiet since I got home."
"I'm just tired," he says, walking over to pull you into a hug. He holds you tighter than usual, his chin resting on top of your head. You can hear his heart beating against your chest, steady and fast. "Just really tired."
You close your eyes, letting the headache recede into the background. You’re fine. You’re just stressed. You’re just a busy person in a busy world, and Oscar is just a guy who spends his life looking for problems where there aren't any. You don't see the look on his face over your shoulder—the look of a man watching his worst fear begin to unfold in slow motion.
— ✦
Alarm clock screams at 6:00 AM, and your head feels like it’s being squeezed in a vice. You roll over, groaning, and press your palms into your eyes until you see stars. Another day, another headache. You chalk it up to the humidity, the lack of sleep, or maybe just the general soul-crushing weight of adult life. You roll out of bed, your movements sluggish, and shuffle toward the bathroom.
"Coffee’s already going," Oscar says from the kitchen. He’s already dressed in his scrubs, leaning against the counter with a cup of black coffee in his hand. He’s looking at you with that same unreadable, clinical expression he’s worn for the last week.
"Bless you," you mutter, stumbling into the kitchen. You down the first cup like it’s life-saving medicine, then immediately start frantically checking your bag. "Have you seen my car keys? I swear I left them right here last night. Why is it that the moment I need to leave, my house decides to swallow my belongings?"
You start tearing through the mail pile, knocking a stack of envelopes onto the floor. You’re annoyed now, the pulsing in your temples picking up speed with every frantic motion. You check the sofa cushions, then the kitchen junk drawer, your heart hammering against your ribs.
Oscar is standing there, leaning back, his eyes locked on the spot on the counter where your keys are sitting in plain sight. They’re right there—shiny, silver, and utterly obvious. He doesn't move. He doesn't point. He just watches you, his face a mask of carefully controlled concern. He’s counting. He’s weighing the seconds it takes for you to notice the keys that were in your hand five minutes ago. His silence is heavy, bordering on suffocating, but you’re too wrapped up in your own rising frustration to notice.
"I’m losing my mind," you snap, throwing your hands up in exasperation. "I put them right here! I remember putting them here!"
Oscar finally speaks, his voice eerily calm. "Are you sure? Maybe you left them in your jacket pocket?"
"I checked the pockets, Oscar! I checked them twice!" You’re pacing now, your breath coming in short, irritated bursts.
He takes a slow sip of his coffee, his gaze never leaving your face. He’s looking for the glimmer of recognition, the moment where the memory clicks into place. It doesn't come. You’re genuinely convinced they’ve vanished into thin air. He finally sets his mug down, walks over to the counter, and picks up the keys.
"These?" he asks, holding them up.
You stop dead. You stare at the keys, then at the counter, then back at him. A wave of cold, sharp realization washes over you, but you shove it down. "Oh. Right. I... I must have moved them when I was putting the mail away. My brain is just toast today."
You grab the keys from him, your fingers brushing his. His skin is ice cold.
"Don't forget your report," he says quietly, gesturing toward the dining table.
You frown, turning toward the table. Sure enough, your thick binder is sitting right there, smack in the middle of the surface. You had been staring at it for ten minutes while you were complaining about the keys, and you hadn't even registered it was there.
"Seriously?" You laugh, a dry, nervous sound. "I’m looking right at the thing and it’s like it’s invisible. I need a vacation. Or a new brain. Preferably a new brain."
Oscar doesn't laugh. He doesn't even crack a smile. He watches you stuff the binder into your bag, his eyes tracking every movement with a precision that makes you feel like a specimen under a microscope.
"You’re working late today, right?" he asks.
"Yeah, big meeting," you say, heading for the door. You’re already halfway into the hallway before you remember to grab your coat. You swing back, snatching it off the chair. "I’ll probably be home by eight. Don't wait up if you’ve got a late shift."
"I’ll be home," he says. He’s standing in the doorway, watching you leave, his hands shoved deep into his pockets. He looks like he wants to say something—like he wants to grab you and pull you back into the apartment—but he just keeps his lips pressed into a thin, white line.
"See you later, Doc," you call out, forcing a bright, casual tone that feels totally fake.
"See you," he replies.
You walk down the hallway, the headache roaring to life again. You’re halfway to the elevator when you stop, hit by a sudden, jarring wave of confusion. You reach into your bag to check for your phone, but you realize you haven't checked for your wallet. You turn around to head back, but as you look at your apartment door, you struggle for a split second to remember which unit is yours.
It’s the one at the end, you tell yourself, your heart doing a sick, slow somersault. It’s the one with the blue wreath.
You reach your door, unlock it, and walk back in. Oscar is still standing in the kitchen, right where you left him. He looks at you, his expression shifting from surprise to something much, much darker.
"Left my wallet," you say, trying to keep your voice steady, trying to keep the panic from leaking out. You grab it from the counter, your movements jerky. "Back again. See you later."
You leave, but you can feel his eyes on your back the entire time. You get to the elevator, the doors slide shut, and you finally let yourself lean against the cold metal wall. You’re fine. You’re just tired. Everyone forgets their wallet. Everyone loses their keys. You’re just stressed, and you’re dating a neurosurgeon who’s making you paranoid by proxy.
But deep down, in the back of your mind, a small, terrified voice is whispering that something is fundamentally wrong, and you’re terrified that if you say it out loud, it might actually be true.
Hey, I’m at my desk, you type, your thumbs hovering over the glass. Everything is normal. Stop looking at me like I’m a malfunctioning MRI machine. I’m just tired, I promise.
You hit send before you can talk yourself out of it. You’ve been trying to convince yourself all morning that you’re not a walking disaster. You’re just busy. Everyone gets overwhelmed. But that sinking feeling in your stomach—the one that hit when you couldn't find your own front door—doesn't go away just because you sent a text. You stare at the screen, waiting for his reply, trying to ignore the way your thoughts keep slipping through your fingers like water.
Meanwhile, three miles away, Oscar is staring at a blank wall in his office. His coffee is cold, and he hasn't moved in ten minutes. His phone buzzes, he reads your message, and his jaw just tightens. He knows you're lying. He knows that "normal" for you lately has been a series of small, terrifying cracks in the foundation.
Lando and George burst in without knocking, as usual.
"I’m telling you, the patient in 602 is going to be the death of me," Lando is saying, mid-rant, throwing his hands up. "He’s convinced that his post-op headache is actually a microchip the government installed, and I’m pretty sure he’s going to—"
George stops. He notices the silence in the room. He looks at Oscar, then looks at Lando, and nudges him to shut up.
"Okay," George says, his voice losing that joking edge. "What’s going on? You look like you’ve seen a ghost."
Oscar finally turns his chair around. He looks exhausted, the kind of tired that sleep won't fix. "It’s her," he says, his voice dropping. "It’s not just the headaches anymore. It’s the memory lapses. She’s misplacing things, losing track of conversations, even basic navigation. And she’s trying to hide it. She’s trying so hard to act like it’s just stress."
George leans back against the doorframe, his expression hardening. He’s a neurosurgeon, too; he’s seen the patterns. He doesn't need a textbook to know where this conversation is heading.
"How long?" George asks.
"A few weeks," Oscar says. "It started small. I thought it was burnout. But today... she didn't know which apartment was ours. She had to double-back to find the door."
Lando goes quiet, his usual manic energy completely evaporated. He looks between the two of them, sensing the gravity shift. "Oscar... you’re the lead on her case. You’ve had the follow-ups. You saw the scans six months ago. They were clear."
"I know," Oscar says, his voice rough. "I’m the one who cleared her. I’m the one who told her she was a clean slate. So now I’m sitting here, wondering... am I overthinking this because I’m biased? Am I seeing things that aren't there because I’m terrified of losing her? Or am I just looking for an excuse to believe it’s not happening?"
George goes silent. He’s staring at the floor, thinking. He’s not going to lie to his friend, and he’s not going to offer a hollow comfort. He’s a surgeon; he deals in facts, even when they’re brutal.
"I can't diagnose her, Oscar," George says finally, looking up, his voice steady. "You know that. I haven't seen the charts, and I haven't seen her in months. But... memory retrieval issues, spatial disorientation, persistent cephalalgia? If a patient came to me with that history, I’d be ordering a new MRI within the hour."
"I can't just drag her in here and force her into the machine," Oscar says, pacing the small room now. "She’s not my patient. She’s my partner. If I push this and I’m wrong, I destroy the trust we’ve built. If I don't push it and I’m right... I don't even want to finish that thought."
"You’re caught between the doctor and the boyfriend," Lando says, his voice uncharacteristically soft. "That’s a hell of a place to be, mate."
"It’s a nightmare," Oscar corrects. "I operate on people’s brains every day, but I can't even look at the woman I love without wondering if her brain is failing her again. And the worst part? I don't know if I’m looking for the truth or just trying to convince myself I’m crazy."
George nods slowly. "The fact that you’re scared means you’re paying attention. Keep watching her. And if you’re right, Oscar... you’re going to have to be the doctor, not the boyfriend. You know that better than anyone."
"Mate, you know the policy," Lando says, pacing the small office, his voice echoing off the sterile walls. "Doctors don't touch their own. Not when it's family, not when it's partners, and definitely not when it’s someone you’re this close to. You’re compromised, Oscar. You’ve been compromised since she walked out of that ICU."
Oscar rubs his face with both hands, the friction of his palms against his stubble audible in the quiet room. "I know the damn policy, Lando. But she’s mine. If I just hand her over to a random resident or some stranger who doesn't know her history, they’re going to miss the nuance. They’re going to miss the baseline."
"And if you do the scan yourself?" George pipes up, leaning against the desk, his voice calm but firm. "You’re looking at your partner through a filter of fear. You’ll either see things that aren't there because you're terrified, or you’ll overlook the obvious because you're desperate for her to be okay. It’s bad medicine, Oscar. It’s not just a rule, it’s for your own sanity."
Oscar lets out a long, jagged sigh, pacing toward the window and looking out at the parking lot where he knows your car is parked. "You're right. Both of you. I know you're right. It’s just... it’s her."
"I'll do it," George says, his voice dropping the teasing tone entirely. "I’ll run the intake. I’ll order the imaging under my own credentials. You can't be in the room, but I’ll make sure she gets the priority she deserves. I’ll be objective, I’ll be thorough, and I’ll be honest with you about every single pixel of that scan. But you have to step back."
"George is the best guy for it, Oscar," Lando adds, his hand resting on his friend's shoulder. "He’s as sharp as you, and he doesn't have the emotional baggage. Let him handle the clinical side."
Oscar stares at the floor, his brain clearly grinding through a thousand different scenarios, trying to find a way to maintain control that he knows he’s already lost. Finally, his shoulders slump. He looks at George and gives a slow, singular nod.
"Okay," he says, his voice thick with a mix of frustration and begrudging acceptance. "You're right. I can't be objective with her. I'm too close to it."
"Good," George says, already pulling out his tablet to look at the department’s afternoon availability. "We’ll get her in for an 'unrelated' follow-up. Keep it low-key, don't spook her."
"I have to talk to her tonight," Oscar says, his eyes focused on the door. "I can't just trick her into an MRI. She’s smart, and she’s going to know something is up the second she sees George instead of me. I need to be the one to tell her why this is happening. I just... I need to figure out how to do it without making her feel like her life is falling apart again."
"Don't lie to her," Lando says quietly. "She’s been through enough to know when you're bullshitting. Just tell her you’re worried, and that for your own peace of mind, you need a second set of eyes."
Oscar nods, his expression haunted. "Yeah. I’ll tell her. Tonight."
— ✦
Door clicks shut behind you, and you immediately drop your bag, stumbling into the kitchen with a hand pressed hard against your temple. "I don't know what it is, but this headache is actually trying to kill me today. I think my boss is actively siphoning my spinal fluid."
Oscar is standing by the counter, holding a glass of water, his face unreadable. He doesn't offer a joke, and he doesn't tell you to sit down. He just watches you, his eyes tracking every flicker of pain on your face.
"I need you to see George tomorrow," he says. His voice is flat, devoid of its usual warmth.
You blink, taken aback. "George? As in, Dr. Russell? The neurosurgeon? For a headache? Oscar, that’s insane. I’m just stressed. I’m not going to waste a specialist's time because I’ve been staring at a screen for eight hours."
"You aren't just stressed," Oscar says, and his voice spikes with an intensity that stops you in your tracks. He sets the glass down with a sharp clack on the marble. "I’ve been tracking this, and I’m done pretending it’s normal. You forgot your keys three times this week. You lost the thread of a conversation we had five minutes prior. You couldn't find our front door this morning."
You feel your face go hot, defensive heat rushing through you. "So I’m a little scatterbrained! That doesn't mean I have a tumor, Oscar! You’re looking at me like I’m a lab rat because you’re still obsessed with the surgery you did months ago. You’re projecting, okay? You're just being a paranoid surgeon."
"I'm being a doctor who is terrified because I know exactly what the red flags look like!" he snaps back, his composure finally fracturing. He steps toward you, his hands gesturing sharply. "Do you think I want to believe there's something wrong? I would give anything to believe you’re just tired. But I’m not blind, and I’m not going to sit here and watch you slip away while you play it off as a 'long week at work.'"
"Slip away? Really?" You let out a harsh, incredulous laugh, crossing your arms over your chest. "You’re acting like I’m dying. I’m just human. I’m forgetful, I’m overworked, and I’m currently dating someone who treats every minor inconvenience as a neurological crisis. It’s patronizing, Oscar."
"It’s not patronizing, it’s care," he says, his voice dropping into a dangerous, quiet growl. "I’ve been keeping a list in my head of every lapse, every headache, every moment you get lost in your own apartment. And every single time, I’ve prayed that I was wrong. But I’m not. And you’re too stubborn to admit you’re scared, too."
"I’m not scared!" you shout, though your voice cracks. "I’m just tired of you dissecting my brain every time I misplace my wallet! Why can’t you just be my boyfriend instead of my doctor? I don't need a consult, I need you to just—"
"I can't be just your boyfriend when your life might be on the line!" he cuts you off, his eyes flashing with a mix of fury and raw, exposed pain. "You think I like this? You think I like standing here, forced to act like a professional when my whole world is shaking? I am trying to save us from a disaster, and you are fighting me every single step of the way because you're too proud to admit you aren't okay."
You stare at him, stunned into silence by the sheer ferocity in his tone. The headache is throbbing in rhythm with your heart, and for a terrifying second, you can't even remember the argument you were just having. You just know that he’s looking at you with a desperation that breaks your heart, even while you want to scream at him to stop.
"If you won't see George for yourself," he says, his voice low and vibrating with a terrifying finality, "then see him for me. Because I can't do this anymore. I can't live in this house, watching you disappear, and pretend like everything is fine."
— ✦
Hospital hallways seem longer, colder, and infinitely more suffocating when you aren't the one volunteering, but the patient waiting for a verdict. You’re sitting on the edge of the exam table in George’s office, your legs swinging rhythmically, trying to distract yourself from the hum of the overhead lights. Oscar is standing by the window, his back to you, his shoulders locked in a grip of iron. He hasn't looked at you since George walked out with the results in his hand, and the tension in the room is thick enough to choke on.
George steps back inside, holding the tablet with the scan results. He doesn't look at you first; he looks at the scans. His expression is the professional, inscrutable mask of a man who has delivered thousands of life-altering sentences. He sighs, a quiet, weary sound, and finally turns to face you.
"The imaging shows a delayed hydrocephalus and some focal compression," George says, his voice steady but heavy. "It’s a direct complication from the initial trauma. It’s what’s causing the memory lapses and the persistent pressure headaches. We need to go back in, and we need to do it soon."
Everything goes quiet. The words don't seem to make sense. Go back in. Like it’s a routine maintenance check, not a crack in your skull.
"Surgery?" you ask, your voice sounding small. "Again?"
Oscar is across the room in a heartbeat, dropping to his knees in front of you, his hands gripping yours so tightly it almost hurts. His eyes are wide, glassy with a sudden, devastating surge of guilt. "I’m sorry," he whispers, his voice breaking. "I should have seen it. I should have ordered the scans the moment you mentioned the headaches. I was so caught up in being your partner that I failed you as a doctor. I'm so, so sorry."
"Oscar, don't," you say, reaching out to touch his face. His skin is clammy, his breath coming in uneven hitches. "You didn't know. Nobody knew."
"I am the expert!" he explodes, his voice rising in panic, the clinical detachment totally shattered. "It’s my specialty! I’m supposed to protect you, and instead, I watched you struggle for weeks while I was too busy being scared. I should have been faster. I should have been better."
He looks up at George, his eyes fierce and pleading. "I’m doing the surgery. I’m the only one who knows the topography of her brain from the last time. I’m the one who closed her up. I’m doing it."
George steps forward, his hand coming down firmly on Oscar’s shoulder, forcing him to stand up. He doesn't let go of his grip, anchoring him to the floor. "No. You’re not."
"George, I am the lead on this—"
"You’re not the surgeon on this case, Oscar," George interrupts, his tone cutting no room for debate. "You are completely compromised. Look at your hands."
You look down. Oscar’s hands are shaking—a fine, rapid tremor that would make holding a scalpel a death sentence. He’s white as a sheet, his pupils dilated with shock.
George looks at you, his eyes softening just a fraction. "I need you to head home and get some rest. There’s paperwork in the front office, and I have a team ready to prep everything for tomorrow. I need to have a private conversation with Dr. Piastri about the specifics of the procedure."
"But—" Oscar starts, his voice raw.
"Go home," George repeats, turning his gaze back to Oscar with a look of absolute, immovable authority. "That’s an order, colleague. You need to step out of the surgeon’s chair and be a partner for the next twenty-four hours. Can you do that?"
Oscar looks at you, his entire body trembling, his mouth opening and closing as if he’s trying to swallow the reality of the situation. He looks terrified—more terrified than you’ve ever seen him in his scrub gear.
"I'll be right outside," Oscar mumbles, his voice barely audible. He looks like he’s about to shatter.
"No," George says gently, nudging you toward the door. "Go with her. Stay with her tonight. I’ll call you when I’ve finished the plan. But you are not stepping foot in an OR until this is over."
You walk out of the office, Oscar trailing behind you like a ghost. He doesn't hold your hand. He doesn't speak. He just follows you out into the corridor, his eyes fixed on the back of your head as if he’s trying to make sure you don't disappear into thin air. You feel like you’re walking toward your own execution, but looking at Oscar—the man who usually holds the world together—crumbling into pieces because he realizes he’s helpless to save you—that’s the part that really hurts.
— ✦
The Office of the Chief of Neurosurgery is cramped, smelling faintly of old coffee and high-stakes politics. You’re waiting in the car downstairs, but Oscar is currently standing in the center of the Chief’s office, hands balled into white-knuckled fists. The surgical board is watching him, their faces masks of professional neutrality, but he doesn't care.
"I am the lead on her case history," Oscar says, his voice dangerously steady. "I performed the initial craniotomy. I know the scar tissue, the adhesion patterns, and how her brain responded to the anesthesia. No one else has that data."
The Chief, a man who has seen it all, sighs and sets his pen down. "Oscar, we all know you’re the best we have. But you are not a neutral party. She’s your partner. You’re far too emotionally compromised, and that is a direct violation of surgical ethics. Russell is a world-class surgeon. He’s taking the case."
"George is a brilliant surgeon," Oscar concedes, his jaw twitching. "But he hasn't been in that brain. I have. I’m the best person for this procedure, and denying her the best possible chance of recovery because of a policy is a mistake."
"It's not about the policy, it's about the patient's safety," the Chief fires back. "Your hands were shaking in George’s office earlier, Oscar. Do you think I didn't see the report? If you go into that OR, you’re a liability, not an asset."
Oscar feels the blood rushing to his ears, a hot, frantic hum that makes it hard to focus. He stops trying to be the calm, calculated surgeon. He lets the mask slide off.
"You think I don't know that?" Oscar asks, his voice dropping to a jagged, desperate whisper. He leans over the desk, his composure finally collapsing. "I know I’m compromised. I’ve known it for weeks. But she’s my life. You’re asking me to hand over the person I love most in the world to someone else because you’re worried about protocol? I’m not asking you as a surgeon. I’m telling you as a man who is absolutely terrified that if I’m not the one holding the scalpel, she won't wake up."
"Oscar—"
"I am one of the best neurosurgeons in this country," he continues, his voice rising, raw and unsparing. "I have saved hundreds of people who were far worse off than she is. And you’re telling me that because I care about her, I’m suddenly incapable of doing my job? I don't care about the board. I don't care about the risk to my career. I just need to know she’s okay."
"That is exactly why you cannot do it," the Chief says softly, his tone hardening. "If you make one tiny error—one microscopic slip because you were distracted by the fact that it's her face on that table—you will never forgive yourself. And she will never recover. You need to be her partner tonight, not her doctor. George is the one who will be her surgeon."
Oscar stands there, chest heaving, looking at the older man like he’s just signed a death warrant. The fight is leaking out of him, replaced by a cold, hollow dread. He’s spent his whole life believing that being the best meant being the one in control, but he’s never been more aware of his own limitations.
"She’s scared," Oscar says, his voice sounding small, lost. "She’s so scared, and she’s trying to be brave for me. I just... I can't be in the waiting room while someone else is working on her. How am I supposed to sit there and do nothing?"
"You don't do nothing," the Chief says, standing up and walking around the desk to put a hand on Oscar’s shoulder. "You show up for her. You stay by her side when she wakes up. That is what she needs from you right now. Not a surgeon who is one panic attack away from a catastrophe."
Oscar closes his eyes, a single, sharp breath escaping him. He knows he’s lost. He knows George is the better choice for the procedure, even if his heart refuses to accept it.
"Fine," Oscar whispers, the word tasting like ash. "But if there’s a single complication—if George even hesitates—I’m coming into that OR."
"He won't hesitate," the Chief says firmly. "Go to her, Oscar. She’s waiting for you."
— ✦
The balcony feels like the edge of the world, a small, concrete rectangle hovering over a city that’s still moving, unaware that your own personal orbit is about to tilt off its axis. You’re huddled in a thick wool blanket, knees pulled up to your chest, staring at the streetlights below. Oscar is sitting right beside you, his shoulder pressed firmly against yours, his hand gripping yours so tightly his knuckles are white. He hasn't moved for an hour, his gaze fixed on a distant flicker of neon, his jaw set in a line of constant, suppressed agitation.
"I’m sorry," you say, the words feeling heavy and thick in your throat. You turn to look at him, searching his profile for that familiar, calm composure, but it’s gone. He’s raw, completely stripped of the professional armor he usually wears like a second skin. "I’m sorry I kept pushing you away. I kept acting like you were just being a paranoid surgeon, like I didn't want to admit something was actually wrong. I should have listened to you. I should have trusted you when you said it wasn't just stress."
Oscar turns his head slowly, his eyes dark, rimmed with the exhaustion of a man who hasn't truly slept since the MRI. He shakes his head, an abrupt, jerky motion. "No. Don't do that. Don't you dare take the blame for this. If anyone’s at fault, it’s me. I was the one who did your follow-ups. I was the one who saw you every single day. I told myself it was just fatigue, just the grind, because I wanted so desperately for you to be back to normal. I failed you, and that’s a weight I’m going to be carrying for a long time."
"You didn't fail me, Oscar," you insist, shifting closer, trying to thread your fingers through his. "You were just… you were too close to it. You were the boyfriend, not the doctor. And honestly? I wouldn't have wanted anyone else to be the one taking care of me those first few months. You saved me then. You gave me back a life that I’m still living."
He lets out a harsh, jagged laugh, looking away again. "I didn't save you enough, clearly. Now we’re back at square one, and I’m sitting on a balcony while someone else has to go in and fix what I left behind."
"You trust George, don't you?" you ask, squeezing his hand.
He goes stiff, his thumb tracing frantic, aimless patterns against your palm. "George is the best. I know that. If I didn't think he was the best, he wouldn't be in my circle, and he certainly wouldn't be allowed anywhere near your surgical chart. He’s meticulous, he’s faster than I am in some areas, and he doesn't have the same emotional baggage. He’s going to be perfect."
"Then I trust him, too," you say, trying to force a small, watery smile. "And besides, if he messes up, I know you’ll hunt him down and ruin his career. I’ve seen how you and Lando treat him when he loses a bet. I’m in good hands."
Oscar finally looks at you, his eyes searching yours with such an intense, aching vulnerability that it makes you want to cry. He lifts your hand, pressing a soft, lingering kiss to your knuckles. "I know he’s good. I know it with my head, logically, statistically. But that’s not the problem. The problem is that it’s not me. I’m terrified that if I’m not the one holding the instrument, if I’m not the one seeing the tissue, I won’t know if you’re safe until the moment you wake up. I need to be the one to ensure you’re still… you."
"I’ll still be me," you whisper, leaning your forehead against his shoulder. "I promise. We’re going to get through this, and then we’re going to go on that camping trip you wanted. We’re going to sleep for a week. We’re going to be boring and regular and absolutely nothing will be happening in a surgical theater."
"I just want you back," he murmurs, his voice cracking. He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin. "I don't care about the surgery. I don't care about the success rates. I just want you to wake up and look at me and be you. I’m so scared, more than I’ve ever been in my life."
"I'm scared too," you admit, the truth finally coming out. You feel him shudder against you. "But we’re doing it together. Even if you’re not in the room, you’re going to be right there the second I open my eyes. That’s all that matters."
He holds you tighter, as if he can anchor you to the earth, to this specific moment, forever. He knows the risks, he knows the fragility of everything, and he knows that tomorrow morning, he has to hand you over to someone else. It’s a torture he can’t even begin to describe, a helplessness that cuts through all his medical training and leaves him as vulnerable as any of the patients he’s treated. But for now, here on the balcony, in the quiet, he just holds on, and you hold him back, both of you waiting for a morning that feels like a cliff edge you have to jump off, together.
— ✦
Hospital corridors are a blur of white and antiseptic, but you’re already being prepped, your mind starting to drift under the influence of the initial sedation. You catch one last glimpse of the three of them near the nurses' station—Oscar, George, and Lando. They’re huddled in a tight, frantic circle, completely ignoring the hustle of the floor around them.
Oscar has his hands shoved deep into his pockets, his posture rigid, shoulders hunched up to his ears. He isn’t talking like a colleague right now; he’s talking like a man whose heart is being held by a string.
"I know the protocol, I know the drill, I know the fucking anatomy," Oscar is saying, his voice tight and uneven. He looks at George, his eyes wide and bloodshot, desperate for a guarantee he knows he can't actually get. "But you have to watch the adhesion near the temporal lobe. It’s thinner than the imaging suggests. Please. You have to be careful with it. If you nick that, the bleed is—"
"Oscar," George says, stepping into his space, his hand firm on Oscar’s arm. "Breathe. I’ve seen the scans. I know the terrain. I’m not going to rush, and I’m not going to take any unnecessary risks. I’ve got her."
"And Lando," Oscar pivots, grabbing the front of Lando’s scrubs, his knuckles white. Lando, usually the one with a joke ready, just looks back with a grim, steady intensity. "Keep her stable. Don't let her pressure spike. If she starts to drift too deep, bring her back immediately. Please, Lando. You’re the best at this—just... just keep her here. Don't let her go anywhere."
Lando nods, his grip tightening on Oscar’s shoulder. "I’m not taking my eyes off the monitors, mate. I’ll keep her right where we need her. She’s not going anywhere on my watch, I promise."
Oscar lets out a ragged, choked sound—half-sob, half-breath—and he finally breaks. It’s not the composed, detached surgeon people expect; it’s just a guy, terrified and unraveling in front of his two best friends. He’s crying, openly, his shoulders shaking as he buries his face in his hands for a split second before forcing himself to look back at them.
"I can't lose her," he pleads, his voice cracking, stripped of all pride and authority. "Please. I’m begging you. Save her. If you save her... I owe you everything. Just... just bring her back to me."
George looks at Lando, a silent communication passing between them—a vow that goes beyond medicine, beyond career, and into the territory of brotherhood.
"We’re going to do exactly what we’ve done a hundred times before," George says, his voice low and rock-solid. "We’re going to be perfect, Oscar. Go wait for her. We’ll come find you the second we’re closed."
"You better," Oscar whispers, his voice trembling. "I’m going to be right outside that door. Do not make me come in there."
Lando gives Oscar a rough, grounding squeeze on the arm. "Go. Get out of here before you make us all lose our nerve. We’ve got this."
You see them move toward you then, their faces hardening back into the professional masks they wear to survive. Oscar lingers for a second, catching your eye as the gurney starts to move. He looks like he’s aged ten years in ten minutes. He steps up, leaning over so he’s directly in your line of sight, his face inches from yours.
"I’ll be right here," he says, his voice barely a tremor. He reaches out, brushing his thumb across your cheek with a gentleness that hurts. "When you wake up, I’m the first thing you’re going to see. I love you."
"I love you too," you whisper, the sedative already pulling you down into the dark. "Don't be a hover-parent while I'm out."
He manages a weak, shaky smile, his eyes shining. "No promises."
He stands back, his hands clenched into fists at his sides, watching until you disappear through the double doors of the OR. He doesn't move. He stands there in the silence of the empty hallway, a surgeon without a patient, a partner waiting for his other half, just staring at the wall where the lights have turned to "IN PROGRESS."
— ✦
Plastic chairs in the waiting area are the most uncomfortable invention known to man. Oscar sat in this room a thousand times as a visitor, a student, or a colleague popping in to deliver a chart, but sitting here now, waiting for you, feels like being skinned alive. Oscar stares at a faded poster on the wall detailing the stages of heart disease, his mind utterly incapable of processing the text. He’s spent years telling families that "no news is good news," but sitting in this chair, those words feel like an insult. Silence isn't absence of pain; it's a suffocating weight that pushes down on his chest.
His legs won't stay still. He stands, walks to the vending machine, buys a coffee he knows he won’t drink, stares at the humming mechanism, and then walks back to his seat. He’s lived in this world long enough to know exactly what’s happening on the other side of those double doors. He isn't just waiting; he’s hallucinating the surgery in real-time.
They’ve made the incision by now, he thinks, his eyes tracking a fly buzzing near a fluorescent light. They’re retracting the scalp. They’re burring the bone. They’re getting to the dura.
A sudden, sharp spike of guilt tears through him. Did he miss a subtle sign in your last check-up? Maybe there was a slight delay in your response time that he chalked up to your exhaustion. Maybe if he’d been more aggressive with the imaging three weeks ago, you wouldn't be under anesthesia right now. He knows the medical reality—complications like yours are statistically rare, impossible to predict, and entirely out of his hands—but his brain refuses to accept the math. He feels like a criminal who got away with a mistake that’s now being paid for in your blood.
"You need to sit down, Dr. Piastri," a nurse says, walking past him. He doesn't even realize he’s been pacing the perimeter of the room like a caged animal. He just mumbles an apology and sinks back into the chair, clutching his cold coffee cup.
His fears are spiraling into territory he’s never had to navigate before. It isn't just about survival—that’s the surface-level terror. The real nightmare is the aftermath. What if you wake up and the version of you that loves him is buried under a layer of deficit? What if the spark that made you tease him about his cooking or laugh at his obsession with watch repair is gone? He realizes with a sickening jolt that he isn't looking at a surgical procedure; he’s looking at the potential erasure of the person he’s tethered his life to.
"Twenty minutes," he mutters to himself. He checks his watch. It’s been forty minutes since the last update he imagined, and the gap is already feeling like a canyon.
Every time the heavy doors at the end of the hall hiss open, his heart performs a frantic, painful kick against his ribs. He looks up, hope and dread colliding, only to see a transport orderly or a janitor. Each time, the disappointment is almost physical, a lead weight dropping into his stomach.
He thinks about the hundreds of families he’s stood in front of, delivering updates with that practiced, calm professionalism. He’s always been proud of his ability to remain objective, to stay "the surgeon." Now, he feels like a fraud. He understands, with a sudden, brutal clarity, the look in their eyes—that wild, animalistic desperation that he used to find disruptive. He promises himself that if he ever gets through this, if he ever gets to walk back into an OR, he will never, ever be that detached again. He will touch their arms. He will look them in the eye. He will hold space for the madness they’re enduring.
"Where are they?" he whispers, his voice cracking. He pulls his phone out, then puts it away, then pulls it out again. No calls. No news.
He starts counting seconds, trying to distract himself from the vivid imagery of a retractor slipping or a vessel failing to clot. He hates that he knows the terminology. He hates that he knows the risks. Ignorance would be a mercy, but he has to suffer through every step of the procedure in his mind.
They should be at the lesion by now. He closes his eyes, trying to force his mind to be quiet, to be a surgeon, to be anything other than a man waiting for his life to either start again or end. He realizes, with a crushing sense of humility, that all his awards, all his specialized training, and all his status in the hospital mean absolutely nothing. He’s just a man in a waiting room, praying for a miracle, and for the first time in his career, he’s terrified that statistics don't give a damn about who you are. To the hospital, you’re a case. To him, you’re the only reason he feels like he’s actually living. And the thought of being in this room without you—of walking back into that apartment alone—is a void so dark he can’t even begin to look into it.
— ✦
Hours have bled into one another, turning the waiting room into a blur of sterile tile and flickering fluorescent hums. Oscar has long since stopped tracking the minutes. He’s just a statue of nerves, eyes glued to the double doors that feel like they’ve been sealed shut for a century.
When those doors finally hiss open, his heart does that familiar, painful lurch. George is walking toward him. He’s still in his scrubs, his hair matted from the surgical cap, but he’s wiped the worst of the blood off his forearms. Oscar stands up, but he can’t read a damn thing in George’s eyes. They’re tired, guarded, professional.
"George?" Oscar’s voice comes out as a ragged, desperate rasp. He can't even get the rest of the question out.
George stops a few feet away, letting out a long, heavy exhale that seems to deflate his entire frame. For a second, he just stares at Oscar, and Oscar feels like he’s about to pass out from the sheer weight of the anticipation. Then, George breaks into a faint, exhausted smile.
"She’s fine, Oscar," George says, the words simple and clean. "The operation was a total success. We got all the compression relieved, and the tissue looks exactly as we hoped it would."
The sound that leaves Oscar’s throat isn't even human; it’s a broken, shuddering gasp. The adrenaline that has been keeping him upright for the last twelve hours just evaporates, leaving nothing but hollow space in his chest. His knees give out—completely, unceremoniously—and he hits the plastic chair so hard it clatters against the floor.
"Is she..." Oscar starts, his hands shaking so violently he has to shove them between his knees to stop them. "Are you sure? Is she awake?"
"Lando’s still in there," George says, moving closer and placing a steadying hand on Oscar’s shoulder. "He’s doing the reversal now. He’s waking her up, getting the tube out—the standard protocol. He’s taking his time, making sure she’s comfortable before they move her into recovery. She’s stable, Oscar. She’s really okay."
"Thank God," Oscar whispers, his head dropping into his hands. He’s laughing and crying all at once, a messy, ugly, uncontrollable sound. "You're sure? No complications? No deficit?"
"She’s stable, Oscar," George repeats, his voice firm, grounding. "I know you’re a surgeon, but try to be a boyfriend for five minutes and listen to me. The surgery went well. She’s safe. Just... let Lando do his job, and in a little while, you’ll be able to see her."
Oscar nods, his breath coming in sharp, uneven hitches. He’s completely drained, his body feeling like it’s been put through a meat grinder. He can feel the tears tracks on his cheeks, cold and stinging, but he doesn't care. He just leans back against the wall, staring at the ceiling, feeling his heart rate finally start to settle back into a rhythm that isn't bordering on cardiac arrest.
"I need to see her," Oscar says, his voice still shaky. "I need to know it's her. That it's really her."
"You will," George promises, giving his shoulder a final, firm squeeze. "Go get some water, wash your face, and get yourself together. I’ll come get you when she’s in recovery. But for now? Just breathe, mate. You’re done."
Oscar nods, closing his eyes. He’s still terrified, he’s still exhausted, and he knows the recovery road is going to be long—but for the first time in what feels like an eternity, the world isn't tilting. He’s here. You’re alive. And he’s going to be the first person you see when you open your eyes.
— ✦
Soft beeping of the monitors is the only thing anchoring you to reality. You feel heavy, like your limbs are made of lead, and every breath takes a conscious effort. Sunlight has long since faded from the room, replaced by the low, amber hum of the night-lights. You blink, your eyelashes sticking together, and struggle to focus on the figures hovering by the end of your bed.
Oscar is there. He’s slumped in a chair, his scrubs rumpled, his hair a total mess. He looks like he hasn't slept in a month, his eyes fixed on you with an intensity that’s almost painful to witness. Behind him, standing tall and looking every bit the composed, clinical professional, is George. He’s holding your chart, checking the vitals on the wall monitor one last time before he gives a curt, satisfied nod.
Your brain is still half-submerged in the fog of anesthesia, but as the pieces start to lock back into place, a mischievous, albeit slightly delirious, thought bubbles up. You remember the last time you were in this exact position. You remember the post-op confusion, the weird, fuzzy warmth, and the way you had looked at Oscar and confidently declared him to be your boyfriend.
You see the way Oscar’s hands are shaking, how he’s leaning forward as if he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he lets go of the bedrail. The guilt and the raw, unadulterated terror radiating off him are almost too much to bear. You want to fix it. You want to see that rigid, terrified set of his jaw finally break.
You let out a soft, breathy groan, shifting your gaze away from Oscar. You look directly at George, letting your eyes widen just a bit, playing the part of the beautifully confused patient.
"Hey," you whisper, your voice raspy and thin. You look at George, blinking slowly. "Who’s he?"
You tilt your head toward Oscar, who freezes. His entire body goes rigid, his face draining of what little color it had left.
George catches the flicker of a smile you’re trying to hide, and he doesn't miss a beat. He looks at you, then at the man beside him who looks like he’s about to have a full-blown cardiac event.
"Who, him?" George asks, his voice smooth and utterly serious. He taps the chart against his palm. "That’s just the resident, I think. Or maybe a guy who wandered in from the cafeteria. Why, do you know him?"
Oscar’s mouth drops open. "George—what? No! It’s me, it’s Oscar!" He turns to you, his eyes wide and bordering on manic. "Baby, it’s me. It’s Oscar. You’re... you’re joking, right? Please tell me you’re joking. Tell me you recognize me."
You keep your face perfectly neutral, turning your head back to George. You reach out a trembling, IV-bruised hand, pointing a shaky finger at George. "Are you... are you my boyfriend?"
Oscar lets out a sound that’s half-gasp, half-sob, his hands fumbling as he tries to grab your shoulders, but he stops himself, terrified to hurt you. "George, tell her! Tell her I’m the one! Don't you dare play along with this, mate, I will end you!"
George looks at you, his lips twitching into that smug, aristocratic smirk he gets when he’s about to win a bet. He leans in, placing a hand on the bed rail, and looks at you with faux-adoration. "Well, I suppose I could be. I do like to think I’m quite the catch. But we’ve only just met, haven't we? Do you remember our anniversary?"
"George, I am going to kill you," Oscar hisses, his face turning a shade of red that rivals the exit signs. He looks like he’s caught between wanting to tackle George and needing to keep his hands off you to ensure you’re stable. "She’s post-op! Don't gaslight her! This isn't funny!"
You can’t hold it anymore. A bubble of genuine, wheezy laughter escapes your chest. It hurts your stitches, making you wince, but the sight of Oscar’s complete and utter breakdown is worth every second of it.
"Oh my god," you wheeze, laughing until your eyes water. "You should see your face, Oscar. You look like you’re about to call a code blue on yourself."
Oscar freezes. He stares at you, his breath hitching in his throat as the realization washes over him. He looks at George, who has already retreated to the doorway, suppressing a loud laugh of his own.
"You," Oscar breathes, his relief so profound he seems to physically sway. He leans his head against the edge of the mattress, his shoulders finally dropping as he lets out a long, ragged exhale. "You absolute menace. I thought... I thought you were serious. I thought the surgery had wiped everything."
"I’m still me," you say, your voice soft and tired now that the prank has run its course. You reach out, your hand finding the back of his neck, pulling him closer so you can rest your forehead against his. "Still me. Still remember you. And still stuck with you."
Oscar closes his eyes, pressing his face into the side of your neck, his hand coming up to gently, carefully cradle your head. "Don't ever do that again. I mean it. I’ve aged a decade in the last thirty seconds."
"Worth it?" you whisper.
He lifts his head, and the look in his eyes—the raw, unfiltered love mixed with the remnants of his terror—is enough to make you ache. He kisses your temple, his lips lingering there for a long time.
"Yeah," he murmurs, his voice thick with emotion. "Worth it. Just... stay with me. Okay?"
"Always," you promise, closing your eyes and drifting back toward sleep, his warmth the only thing that matters in the quiet of the room.
✦ genre: smut, established relationship, halloween(?) vibes, horror movie night gone wrong (or very right), playful roleplay, comedy if you squint, aftercare
✦ warnings: 18+, mdni, roleplay, ghostface mask kink, praise kink, dirty talk, humiliation, pet names, shy!reader, teasing, orgasm denial, fingering, p in v sex, choking, rough sex, mask kink, horror movie references (Scream), reader questioning every life decision afterward, oscar being an absolute menace
✦ wc: ~9k+
a/n: requested!✨️ idk if i did ghostface right or wtvr bc im also not a huge horror fan, myself. 😭 hope you still e joy this tho, or not. totally understandable 😭
Oscar tilts his head to the side.
It’s an exact, terrifying copy of the motion the killer just made on the screen. The slow, calculating tilt. The absolute stillness.
"You're lying," Oscar murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly purr that vibrates right against your skin. "You're soaking wet just sitting here looking at this mask, aren't you?"
You are currently wedged so hard into the cushions of the couch that you’re practically melting into the upholstery, half of your body tucked securely behind Oscar. The rain is hammering against the glass outside like an overactive drummer, making the whole apartment feel like a trap.
On the TV screen, Scream is barely even getting started, but you’re already treating Oscar’s left arm like a personal bulletproof vest. You’ve got both hands locked in a death grip around his bicep, your knuckles turning white as you bury the lower half of your face right into the crook of his neck.
"You're going to cut circulation off in my arm, you know," Oscar murmurs, his chest vibrating against your shoulder as he speaks. He tilts his head down slightly, a warm, lazy smirk pulling at the corner of his mouth. "We’re literally just at the opening scene. Nobody’s even been chased yet."
"Shut up," you whisper back, your voice muffled against his skin. You squeeze your eyes shut for a second, then crack one open to peek through the gap between his forearm and your own fingers. "You promised this one wasn't that bad. You lied. You're a pathological liar."
"I said it was a classic," he chuckles, lifting his free hand to lazily run his fingers through your hair, gently tugging at the strands near your nape. "Big difference. Besides, look at you. You love this."
You let out a tiny, high-pitched squeak as the music on screen dips into that familiar, suspenseful string arrangement. Ghostface suddenly steps out into a dark hallway, the blade of the hunting knife catching the pale light with a sharp, metallic glint. The killer stands entirely still, tilting his head with that uncanny, robotic slowness.
Your entire body goes rigid. You press yourself harder into Oscar’s side, your thighs shifting nervously against the sofa cushions.
Your heart is hammering against your ribs, but as you stare at the frozen, terrifying figure on the screen, a weird, unfamiliar heat blooms right in the pit of your stomach. It’s not just pure panic anymore. There’s this heavy, magnetic pull twisting up through your chest, making your cheeks burn and your ears ring. You bite down hard on your lower lip, your eyes wide and completely locked on the TV.
Oscar shifts beside you, his gaze sliding away from the screen and landing directly on your face.
He notices the way your breath hitches. He tracks the bright, flush pink creeping up your neck and spilling across your cheeks. He watches how your pupils dilate as you stare at the screen, totally transfixed by the sheer menace of the masked killer. A slow, knowing glint sparks in Oscar's eyes, and that lazy smirk widens into something much sharper, much more dangerous.
"Oh," Oscar breathes out softly, leaning his head back against the cushion as realization hits him. "Look at you. You're actually mesmerized by him, aren't you?"
You snap your head toward him, your eyes going wide. "What? No. I am terrified. I am literally having a heart attack right now, Oscar—"
"Mhmm," he hums, cutting you off. He doesn't look convinced at all. In fact, his eyes darken with a sudden, playful challenge. "Give me two seconds."
Before you can even blink or protest, Oscar slides out from under your grip. The sudden loss of his heavy, grounding warmth makes you shiver, and you pull your knees up to your chest on the couch, wrapping your arms around yourself. You watch him push himself up from the sofa and disappear down the hallway toward the spare room.
The TV flickers, casting long, eerie shadows across the living room. You swallow hard, your pulse thudding heavily in your throat.
Clack.
You jump at the faint sound, your head whipping toward the hallway.
Oscar steps back into the living room, moving with an exaggerated, predatory slowness. In his hand, catching the dim ambient light from the television, is the replica Ghostface mask he bought as a stupid gag souvenir earlier in the week.
Before your brain can even process a single coherent thought, he’s right in front of you. He drops down onto one knee right beside the couch, leaning in close, and slips the molded white plastic mask right over his face.
The air drops out of your lungs.
The terror and the uncanny, chilling nature of the blank, screaming expression suddenly collide with the deep, aching heat pooling between your legs, short-circuiting your brain entirely. It’s insane. It doesn't make any sense. The hollow, dead-eyed stare of the plastic mask should make you run for the hills, but knowing it's Oscar underneath, knowing those warm, teasing eyes are staring right at you from behind that dead-eyed facade, makes your head spin.
You let out a shaky, stuttering breath, pressing your thighs together tightly underneath your sweatpants to try and quell the sudden, intense ache down there.
Oscar leans in closer, the hollow eye sockets of the mask inches from yours. When he speaks, his voice drops an entire octave, dragging out low and rough from deep inside his chest.
"Do you like him that much?" he whispers, the distorted tone scraping against your nerves in the best possible way. "Are you getting a little thrill out of watching him stand there?"
You swallow hard, your hands gripping the fabric of your pants so tightly your knuckles ache. You can't find your voice. Your natural shyness slams down on you like a ton of bricks, locking your jaw tight. You just shake your head frantically, your chest rising and falling in rapid, shallow bursts.
Oscar tilts his head to the side.
It’s an exact, terrifying copy of the motion the killer just made on the screen. The slow, calculating tilt. The absolute stillness.
He slowly raises one large hand, his fingers spreading out as he reaches up. You stop breathing entirely as his warm fingertips brush against your jawline. The contrast between the freezing, expressionless plastic inches from your nose and the scorchingly hot, familiar touch of his hand on your skin sends a violent shiver straight down your spine. He traces the line of your jaw down to your chin, his thumb lightly stroking over your trembling lower lip.
"You're lying," Oscar murmurs, his voice a low, gravelly purr that vibrates right against your skin. "You're soaking wet just sitting here looking at this mask, aren't you?"
Your face bursts into a violent, burning red. Heat rushes straight to your core, making you squirm helplessly against the cushions. You instinctively cross your legs tighter, pressing your thighs together in a desperate attempt to friction away the unbearable sensitivity blooming between your legs.
"O-Oscar..." you breathe out, your voice cracking pathetically. You want to deny it, you want to shove him away and act like a normal, functioning human being, but your body is completely betraying you. You are practically melting into a puddle right in front of him.
"Look at you," he whispers, his hand sliding down from your jaw, trailing slowly down your neck, over your collarbone, and resting heavy and warm right on the outside of your thigh. He gives the flesh a firm, deliberate squeeze through the fabric. "Look how easily I can make you fall apart without even touching you properly."
You let out a soft, helpless gasp, your head dropping back against the back of the couch.
"You're so damn shy," Oscar continues, shifting closer, his masked face hovering just above yours. The dark, eerie plastic blocks his expression, but you can feel the heavy, heated weight of his stare burning right through it. "You're loving every second of this, don't you? You're just too stubborn, and way too shy, to actually admit it out loud."
"I'm not..." you lie weakly, though the tremor in your voice completely gives you away. Your hips twitch slightly against the sofa as his thumb traces slow, agonizing circles right over the sensitive crease of your hip.
"Quiet house," Oscar whispers, leaning in so close his breath fans hot against your ear. The distorted, menacing rasp of his disguised voice sends a jolt of pure electricity straight to your lower stomach. "Nobody else is home. It's just you, me, and the storm outside."
He pauses, letting the heavy silence of the room stretch out for a second before he finishes, his voice dropping to a low, possessive growl.
"I’m going to make you scream tonight. And it’s going to sound so beautiful in this quiet house."
Your heart hammers furiously against your ribs, a wild, breathless panic and an overwhelming, desperate need crashing together inside you. You can feel the wet heat soaking through your underwear, completely undone by the dirty talk and the creepy, masked stranger looming over you.
Oscar slowly lowers his gaze, his eyes tracking the way your thighs tremble and rub together beneath his hand, watching you fall completely apart under his spell.
His large, warm hand slides up your thigh, his fingers spreading wide right over the center of your sweatpants. He cups your heat firmly through the thick fabric, pressing hard enough to make you gasp so sharply your lungs burn.
You jerk upward against the cushions, your back arching off the sofa as a white-hot jolt of pleasure shoots straight up your spine.
"Oh—fuck," you breathe out, your fingers flying up to grab frantically at his shoulders, your nails digging right through his shirt.
Oscar lets out a low, deep hum of pure satisfaction from behind the white plastic mask. The distorted rumble of his approval vibrates right against your pelvis, making you quiver.
"There it is," he whispers, his voice low and dark. He slowly rotates his palm, grinding your own sweatpants against your slick, throbbing core. "I can feel how wet you are. Such a good little girl. Trembling just because the killer looked at you."
Your face burns so hot you feel like you might actually combust. The sheer embarrassment of being talked to like this, while he's still wearing that creepy, blank-eyed Ghostface mask, makes you bury your face into his shoulder, whining softly. You want to disappear into the couch cushions, but at the same time, your hips chase his hand, craving more pressure.
"Oscar, please..." you whimper into his shirt, your voice small and desperate.
"Please what?" Oscar taunts gently, his thumb tracing a slow, agonizing circle right over your bundle of nerves. He shifts his weight, sliding his knees further apart to wedge himself squarely between yours. "Use your words. Tell the killer what you want."
You bite down hard on your lower lip, your face flaming. The embarrassment locks your throat up completely. You stay dead silent, shaking your head against his shoulder because there is no way in hell you are saying dirty things out loud, even if it is just Oscar playing a game.
"Mute, huh?" Oscar chuckles, a dark, teasing sound. "That’s fine for now. I’ll take that as a sign to keep going."
With his free hand, Oscar reaches down to the drawstring of your sweatpants. He hooks his finger under the knot, gives a quick, sharp pull, and slides the fabric down your hips in one smooth motion, dragging your underwear right along with them. The sudden rush of cool air hits your bare skin, making you shiver, before his warm hand replaces it, sliding directly between your thighs.
You let out a loud, breathless gasp, your knees flying up to try and clamp shut around his wrist.
"Uh-uh," Oscar murmurs instantly, pressing his weight down to keep your legs pinned wide open and completely exposed to him. "Keep them open for me, baby."
You freeze, your chest heaving as you realize you have zero control right now. Oscar lowers his head, the hollow eye sockets of the mask hovering just inches from your stomach, before he slowly pushes a single finger inside you.
The contrast of his warm, slick skin sliding into your tightly clenched heat makes your toes curl so hard they cramp. You let out a high, ragged moan, your head tipping back against the top of the couch as your whole body goes rigid.
"God, you're tight," Oscar praises, his voice a gravelly whisper. He curls his finger upward, pressing right against your most sensitive spot with slow, deliberate precision. "Look at how good you're taking him. You love having the killer's fingers inside you, don't you?"
"O-Oscar, stop—ah, fuck," you sob out, your hands clutching helplessly at his bicep as a massive wave of heat crashes over you.
"That's fast, but not yet," he warns darkly, his pace picking up just a fraction. He pushes in a little deeper, curling his finger again and again in a steady, rhythmic stroke that makes your vision blur at the edges. "You don't get to come yet. You're going to sit here, look at this mask, and take every bit of it."
He pulls his finger mostly out before sliding it back in with a wet, heavy sound that makes your stomach flip with lust. The pleasure is building so fast, pooling dangerously low in your belly, pushing you closer and closer to the edge. You squeeze your eyes shut, panting wildly, your hips bucking up weakly against his hand to chase the friction.
"Open your eyes," Oscar commands, his tone dropping into something terrifyingly absolute.
You force your heavy eyelids open, staring straight up at the blank, screaming expression of the Ghostface mask looming right above you.
"Look at me," he murmurs, his thumb rubbing soothingly over your hip while his finger keeps up that slow, torturous rhythm inside you. "Tell me you're a good girl for the killer. Say it."
Your face is burning up, your heart hammering a million miles an hour. You are so close to the edge you can practically taste it, your body begging for release, but your stubborn shyness fights back, keeping your mouth clamped shut in pure mortification.
"No?" Oscar hums, his pace stuttering and slowing down just enough to keep you right on the agonizing precipice of an orgasm without letting you fall over it. He deliberately pulls his finger completely out, leaving you empty, aching, and shivering wildly in the cool air.
"Ask for it," Oscar whispers, leaning down so his masked mouth brushes against your bare stomach. "Tell me you want the killer to finish you off."
You let out a pathetic whine, your hips following his retreating hand instinctively.
"Playing hard to get, huh?" Oscar murmurs, a low chuckle vibrating against your stomach through the plastic mask. "That's fine. We have all night. I can just keep playing with you until you finally break."
Before you can even try to form a coherent thought or drag a word past your dry throat, Oscar slides his hands under your hips. He grips your waist firmly and flips you completely around on the couch.
You let out a startled, breathless gasp as your front is suddenly pressed down flat against the cushions. Your knees slide apart, and your bare bottom is pushed up into the air, completely exposed and vulnerable to the open room.
You bury your face directly into a throw pillow, your cheeks burning so hot you're pretty sure you’re glowing in the dark. You just want to melt right through the fabric of the sofa.
Right behind you, the cushion dips heavily under Oscar’s weight as he shifts.
You hear the heavy, muffled rustle of his clothes moving, followed by the soft sound of his breathing right behind your ear. Then, you feel the warm, heavy rush of his breath trailing directly down your lower back, moving over your bare skin, right down to your aching, swollen heat.
You freeze entirely, your toes curling deep into the carpet where your feet dangle off the edge of the couch.
Oscar presses his face close, inhaling deeply right against your folds.
A heavy, low groan escapes his throat. "God, you smell so good, princess," he whispers, his voice thick, rough, and completely saturated with lust. "You're soaking wet for big, bad Ghostface, aren't you? Just leaking all over the place. Look at what you're doing to yourself for a guy in a plastic mask."
Your entire body flushes a violent, throbbing crimson. You squeeze your eyes shut and press your face deeper into the pillow, whimpering softly.
"Please," you choke out, your voice muffled and trembling pathetically as your hips twitch on their own accord. "Oscar... please..."
"Please what?" Oscar taunts gently, his breath hot against your sensitive skin. He doesn't move to give you what you want. Instead, he reaches around, his large, warm hand wrapping firmly around your hip to hold you still. "Tell me what you want the killer to do to you. Use your voice, my darling."
You bite down hard on the corner of the throw pillow, your jaw locking tight. You know exactly what you want, you want him inside you so badly your body aches, but the utter embarrassment of saying it out loud makes your throat seize up. You can't do it. You stay completely silent, shaking your head against the cushion.
"Still won't say it?" Oscar murmurs, a dark, wicked edge to his voice. "Stubborn little brat."
You hear the distinct, sharp sound of a zipper sliding down.
A second later, you feel the heavy, rigid weight of Oscar pressing up against your backside. He’s completely bare now, his thick, hard length bumping once against your damp, aching entrance in a teasing, punishing stroke that makes you gasp loudly into the pillow.
"You're making the killer very, very hungry, doll" Oscar whispers, leaning in so the plastic mask brushes lightly against the curve of your lower back.
He slowly drags the tip of his length down your slick folds, tracing the sensitive seam before sliding back up, coating himself entirely in your wetness. He repeats the motion with agonizing slowness, a deliberate, sliding tease that makes your hips instinctively push backward, desperate to catch him.
"Oh, fuck," you sob out, your hands bunching up the fabric of the couch cushions until your knuckles turn white. "Oscar, please—"
"Shh," he hushes you, his voice dropping into a dark, gravelly purr right by your ear. "Ghostface is going to ruin you. Say goodbye to your pretty little pussy, because he's going to tear it right up."
Oscar doesn't just push inside you; he takes his absolute, agonizing time.
The tip of his heavy, throbbing length presses firmly against your entrance, and he slides inward just a fraction of an inch. He halts completely, letting his heat flush against your bare skin while he waits, feeling the way your inner muscles instantly clench and grip around him in a desperate, involuntary reflex.
"So fucking tight," Oscar groans softly, his voice a gravelly scrape against the back of your neck.
He pushes in another slow, agonizing inch, pausing again to let you adjust to the sheer stretch of him. Every single nerve ending in your lower body is screaming, singing with a white-hot ache that makes your vision swim. He is moving so excruciatingly slow, dragging out every single second as if he wants to torture you from the inside out.
You let out a ragged, frustrated whimper into the throw pillow. The slow pace is driving you completely out of your mind.
Unable to take another second of the endless waiting, your hips violently buck backward on their own accord, driving yourself down and swallowing the rest of his length in one hard, greedy rush.
Oscar lets out a sharp, surprised gasp at the sudden movement, his hands immediately flying down to grip your hips with iron-tight fingers, anchoring you right where you are.
"Impatient, aren't we?" Oscar murmurs, a dark, wicked amusement bleeding through his tone. "Couldn't wait for the killer, huh?"
Before you can even try to form a coherent reply, Oscar pulls almost all the way out, only to slam right back into you with a heavy, wet smack that echoes off the couch cushions.
"Ah—fuck, Oscar!" you scream into the pillow, your entire body jolting forward from the sheer force of the thrust.
He doesn't give you a second to catch your breath. He catches a punishing rhythm right then and there, his hips snapping forward with brutal, relentless speed. He fucks into you hard, fast, and impossibly deep, every single thrust knocking the wind straight out of your lungs and sending shockwaves of blinding pleasure straight to your core.
The steady, heavy sound of skin slapping against skin fills the room, mixed with your own loud, shattered moans and Oscar’s rough, ragged panting from behind the mask.
"Look at you take it," Oscar praises roughly, his voice vibrating through the plastic of the mask as he buries himself inside you to the hilt. He hits that one exact, wicked spot over and over again with every single thrust, pushing you closer and closer to a total, earth-shattering edge. "Such a good thing for the killer. Take it all, baby. Take every inch of him."
The relentless, punishing rhythm keeps going for several minutes, the couch shaking beneath you with every heavy, deliberate impact of his hips slamming against yours. Your body is burning all over, slick with sweat and completely overridden by the raw, animalistic heat of the moment.
Just when you feel like you are flying entirely apart, Oscar suddenly shifts his pace. He lets out a deep, ragged breath and abruptly slows his movements down, sliding out of you with a slow, agonizing drag before pressing back in with a deep, stretching roll of his pelvis.
He does it again, drawing out the stroke so deliberately that every single ridge and contour of him scrapes against your hypersensitive inner walls.
"So good," Oscar murmurs, his voice dropping into that dark, gravelly purr right against the shell of your ear. The plastic mask bumps softly against your cheek with every word he speaks. "Look at how your walls are just milking every inch of the killer. You're squeezing me so tight, baby. Are you trying to trap him inside you?"
A violent shiver rips straight down your spine, your whole body convulsing at the filthy, possessive praise.
Your brain feels scrambled, scrambled in the absolute best, most dizzying way possible. A chaotic, breathless thought flashes through your mind, wild and unfiltered: God, why am I liking this so much right now?
Ghostface is a horror movie icon, a terrifying, knife-wielding lunatic who’s supposed to make you run screaming in the opposite direction. But right now, that exact same masked killer is burying himself deep inside your body, owning you completely on the living room sofa. The absurd, twisted contrast between horror and absolute, filthy pleasure makes your head spin on its axis. You don't care anymore. Let the killer ruin you. Let him wreck your pussy, let him destroy you completely, you don't give a single damn as long as he keeps moving, as long as he gives you more, more, and more.
You need him to push you over the edge so badly your chest aches with it.
When Oscar slows down even further, pausing entirely with just the heavy, thick heat of him resting fully inside you, your patience completely snaps. You can't handle the stillness. You can't handle the waiting.
With a desperate, choked little whine, you aggressively grind your hips backward, actively initiating the movement on your own for the first time. You shove yourself right back onto him, taking every single millimeter of his length back inside with a frantic, greedy hitch of your waist.
Oscar lets out a sharp, surprised intake of breath, the sound muffled heavily by the mask.
"Oh, fuck," Oscar groans, his hands tightening instantly on your hips like a pair of vice grips, anchoring you firmly as he realizes you're taking total control. "Feisty now, are we? You want the killer to finish the job, don't you?"
Oscar responds to your desperate push by matching your rhythm, but he slows it all the way down, turning every single inch of movement into a slow-motion torture test. He hooks his heavy, thick length deep inside you, then draws back so lazily that you can feel every individual ridge, every millimeter of heat slipping away, before he presses back in with agonizing precision.
He hits that exact, swollen bundle of nerves hidden deep inside your walls, pressing his thumb down firmly into the crease of your hip at the exact same time.
A choked, helpless sob tears out of your throat, your fingers clawing frantically into the sofa cushions as your whole body arches in response.
"Still won't answer me, huh?" Oscar whispers, his voice dropping into that dark, gravelly purr right beside your ear. The molded plastic of the Ghostface mask scrapes softly against your cheekbone with every syllable he speaks. "Still too shy to tell the killer what you want? Look at you, biting your lip so hard you're going to make it bleed. You want him to ruin you, don't you? You want him to destroy you so badly you can't even form words."
Your brain is spinning off its axis, trapped in a chaotic, feverish loop of pure lust and lingering, agonizing shyness.
You desperately want to scream the words out. You want to turn around, grab the lapels of his shirt, and beg him, plead with him to wreck your body, to ruin your pussy until you can't even remember your own name. You don't care about the rules, you don't care about how ridiculous this whole scenario is. You just want to surrender completely to the man behind the mask.
Thinking about it, just an hour ago, you were hiding your face in his bicep, terrified out of your mind by a standard, predictable horror flick, using him as your human shield like you always do. You’ve hated horror movies your entire life. You’ve always despised the blood, the jump scares, the sheer panic of it all. You always hated the terror.
And now? Now you are taking the killer—your boyfriend playing dress-up in a stupid joke-shop mask—deep inside your body, loving every filthy, degrading second of it so intensely it practically hurts. The sheer perversity of the thrill sends a heavy, dizzying rush straight to your head. You are liking this way, way too much. It’s entirely wrong, completely warped, and so overwhelmingly arousing you feel like you might actually lose your mind.
"Oscar..." you breathe out, your voice trembling into the fabric of the pillow, so small and pathetic you can barely hear it yourself. "Please... please..."
"Please what, kitten?" Oscar murmurs, his pace remaining frustratingly, meticulously slow. He slides in an inch, pauses, twists his hips just enough to grind against that one spot that makes your vision turn blinding white, and then slides back out. "Use your voice. Tell the killer how much you love having his cock inside you. Tell him how good he feels."
The way he says it, so filthy and raw, yet laced with that underlying, honeyed sweetness that is so uniquely, unmistakably Oscar, destroys what little composure you have left. That’s just how he is. Even when he’s talking absolute filth, even when he’s pretending to be a masked lunatic terrorizing you in a quiet house, his tone carries this warm, adoring undertone that makes your heart swell just as fast as your core aches. He’s taking care of you even while he’s destroying you.
"I... I can't," you sob quietly, your hips twitching on their own, chasing a friction he refuses to fully give you. "I'm too... oh, God, Oscar..."
"You can," he coos softly, the contrast between the terrifying white mask and his tender, soothing tone breaking your defenses completely. He shifts his weight, leaning his chest flat against your back, wrapping his free arm around your waist to pull you even tighter against him. "You're doing so well for him. Such a good, obedient little girl. Taking every inch of the killer like it's nothing. You like that, don't you? You like knowing he's the one breaking you open right now."
He rolls his hips in a slow, circular motion, dragging himself across your sensitive core with deliberate, agonizing cruelty. He keeps you right on the razor-thin precipice of an orgasm, building the pressure until your chest heaves and your lungs burn for air, but he steadfastly refuses to let you cross the finish line.
"Oscar, please make me come," you cry out, the shyness finally shattering entirely under the weight of the unbearable pleasure. "Please, just ruin me—make me come, I need it, I'm begging you—"
Hearing you finally crack, hearing those desperate, broken pleas finally tear past your lips, completely changes everything.
Oscar lets out a deep, heavy growl that vibrates right through the plastic of the mask pressed against your spine. All that slow, agonizing torture vanishes in a single heartbeat, replaced by a sudden, raw rush of absolute hunger.
He shifts his grip on your hips, his fingers digging so hard into your flesh they leave warm, phantom bruises, anchoring you down into the sofa as he lunges forward.
He starts fucking you harder, faster, and infinitely deeper, his hips slamming against your backside with a heavy, relentless rhythm that knocks the breath clean out of your lungs.
"That's it," Oscar breathes out, his voice turning rough, gravelly, and entirely feral in your ear. "Take it, baby. Take every single bit of him."
The sound of flesh slapping against flesh fills the air in a rapid, chaotic cadence, mixed with the wet, heavy slide of skin and your own high, shattered whimpers. Every single thrust is brutal and deep, hitting that exact, sensitive core over and over again with punishing precision until your vision whites out completely. You can feel your entire body shaking, your muscles locking and unloosing in a wild, frantic response to the onslaught.
"F-fuck, Oscar—!" you scream out into the pillow, your hands clawing blindly at the cushions as your hips push back frantically to meet every single one of his savage lunges.
Oscar doesn't hold back anymore. He loses himself entirely to the rhythm, panting heavily, his breaths coming in hot, ragged gasps right against the shell of your ear.
"God, you're taking him so well," Oscar groans, his voice hitching as he buries himself all the way to the hilt, pulling back only to slam right back into you with staggering force. "Look at this. Look at how this killer's cock fits inside your pretty little pussy. Just sliding right in, stretching you out, wrecking you just like you wanted."
A violent flash of pure, scalding heat rushes straight to your face. The sheer, explicit filth of his words, spoken in that dark, distorted Ghostface voice, yet carrying that unmistakable, possessive edge of his adoration, makes your stomach flip over itself.
You are so utterly embarrassed your ears are burning red, your skin prickling with goosebumps from head to toe, but the shame only acts like fuel tossed straight onto an open fire. It turns you on so intensely, so deeply, that your brain completely short-circuits. You can't formulate a single defensive thought. You can't argue back. You can't even tell him to stop. You don't want him to stop.
All you can do is arch your back higher, pressing your weight back into him like a starved animal, letting out loud, pathetic moans that spill endlessly into the throw pillow.
"That's right, doll, just take it," Oscar praises, his tone dropping into a possessive snarl as he picks up the pace even more, driving into you with a wild, desperate urgency that matches your own. "Tell the killer how much you love it. Look at how wet you are, look at how you're milking him—you're such a good, filthy little girl for him, aren't you?"
The relentless friction, the heavy, overpowering weight of his body pinning you down, and the dirty, degrading praise crashing over you like a tidal wave push you right to the absolute precipice. Your toes curl so hard they cramp, your inner walls clenching around his thick length in a violent, involuntary spasm that signals the edge of a massive, earth-shattering release.
The sudden, violent clenching of your inner muscles around his length makes Oscar pull out of you with a wet, heavy slide that leaves you shivering and gasping into the empty air.
He grabs your waist, his hands warm and firm, and flips you over onto your back before you can even process the loss of contact.
With a quick, deliberate flick of his wrist, Oscar reaches up and yanks the white plastic Ghostface mask off his face, tossing it carelessly aside onto the floor where it clatters loudly against the rug.
"There you are," he whispers, a breathtaking, crooked grin stretching across his face as he looks down at you. His eyes are dark, heavy-lidded, and completely blown out with lust, staring right into your flushed, breathless face.
He doesn't slide back inside you just yet. Instead, he lowers his weight down over you, bracketing your head with his arms, and presses his lips directly to yours.
The kiss starts slow, deep, and agonizingly tender. His tongue sweeps lazily across your lower lip before slipping inside, tasting like the heavy heat of the room and pure, unadulterated want. While his mouth claims yours, his hand leaves your waist, tracing a slow, deliberate path down the curve of your ribs, across your flat stomach, and straight down between your thighs.
He doesn't stop kissing you, even as his fingers part your damp folds. He talks right against your mouth, his lips brushing yours with every syllable he murmurs.
"You're doing so well for me," he whispers softly, his voice a low, gravelly hum against your lips.
His thumb finds your swollen, hypersensitive clit and begins to trace slow, agonizingly soft circles over it. A violent tremor tears through your thighs, your legs instantly parting wider as a high, choked gasp escapes into his mouth.
Oscar breaks the kiss, sliding his lips down your chin, trailing hot, wet kisses across your throat and down the delicate skin of your neck.
"You're such a good girl," he purrs against your pulse point.
He presses his teeth down gently, nipping at the skin of your neck just hard enough to leave a sting, before migrating upward to the shell of your ear. He flicks his tongue lightly over the sensitive curve, sending a fresh wave of goosebumps rippling across your skin, right before he drops his voice to a dirty, filthy whisper.
"You're my sexy little slut, aren't you?"
A loud, pathetic moan rips out of your throat, your head tossing back against the couch cushions as his thumb rubs another slow, punishing circle over your clit.
God, fuck. Looking up at him now, seeing his actual face, the familiar slope of his nose, the messy strands of hair falling across his forehead, those gorgeous eyes looking down at you with raw, possessive adoration, makes the reality of it hit you ten times harder. This is your Oscar. Not some stranger, not a movie killer, but the man you love, completely undone and looking at you like you hung the stars, while simultaneously reducing you to a trembling, whimpering mess on the living room rug.
Seeing him without the mask, seeing the real man behind the perverted game, suddenly slams your natural shyness right back into your chest like a physical blow. Your face flares up a brilliant, burning crimson, your cheeks heating until they practically sting.
Ignoring your hesitation, Oscar slides a single, slick finger deep inside your hot, welcoming folds.
"Tell me again," he murmurs, his eyes locking onto yours as he curls his finger upward. "Tell me what you want me to do to you."
You snap your eyes shut, your face burning so hot you feel like you might combust. The mortification of saying it out loud while looking straight into his eyes is almost too much to bear. You keep your mouth clamped tight, biting your lower lip until it hurts, shaking your head against the cushions.
"Don't be shy," Oscar chides softly, though there is a dark, demanding edge to his tone.
He slowly fucks your pussy with his single finger, moving in and out with a wet, steady rhythm that makes your hips instinctively buckle upward. You chase the pressure automatically, your body betraying your locked jaw as you chase every single inch of friction he gives you.
When you still stay stubbornly silent, only letting out soft, broken whines, Oscar stops moving his finger inside you just enough to torture you.
"Use your words for me, bunny," he whispers, leaning down to press a warm kiss to your cheekbone.
He slowly slides a second finger in right beside the first, stretching you wider, filling you up and making your vision blur at the edges.
"Tell me what you want."
He starts moving his fingers again, fucking your pussy with a slow, deliberate rhythm that is absolute psychological torture. At the same time, his kisses begin a slow trail down from your ear, dropping lower to your neck, and then grazing over the sensitive skin of your breasts, his lips sucking lightly at your flesh while his hand tortures you below.
"If you want to come, you better speak, doll," he murmurs against your skin, his voice thick with absolute authority. "Tell the killer—tell me—what you want."
The combination of the filthy, degrading words, the intense physical pleasure ripping through your lower stomach, and the agonizing delay of your release finally pushes you past your breaking point. The shyness cracks, splintering into a million pieces under the weight of your own desperate need.
You open your eyes, looking up at him with swimming, dilated pupils, your voice trembling and breathless as the words finally tumble past your lips in a rush.
"I want it," you sob out, your hands flying up to grip tightly at his shoulders. "I want you to keep talking to me like that—please, Oscar, call me your slut, call me whatever you want. Rip my pussy apart, fuck me until I can't walk. Kiss my neck, bite my breasts, don't stop—just ruin me, please, make me come, I'm begging you—"
A dark, victorious grin breaks across Oscar’s face.
"That's my girl," he praises, his voice rough with absolute pride as he pulls his fingers out of you and surges forward, sinking his heavy, thick length straight back inside your body to the very hilt in one single, punishing lunge.
The second those words leave your mouth, every single shred of restraint Oscar was holding onto completely snaps.
He doesn’t just move anymore, he attacks. He grabs you by the hips, his fingers digging in so hard it leaves phantom imprints, and slams into you with a brutal, feral hunger. He fucks you like an absolute animal, like a monster unleashed, driving into you harder, faster, and deeper than he has all night.
The heavy sound of skin crashing against skin fills the air in a rapid, deafening rhythm, entirely drowning out the sound of the rain thrashing against the glass outside.
"F-fuck, Oscar—!" you scream out, your voice cracking completely.
He doesn't let up. He leans down over you, his chest pressing heavy against yours, and starts trailing wet, searing kisses all along your jawline, down your throat, and right over the delicate skin of your collarbone. He sucks hard at the sensitive flesh of your neck, his teeth grazing over your pulse point just as his hips snap forward, hitting that exact, wicked spot deep inside you with agonizing perfection.
The pleasure is so sharp, so overwhelming and blindingly intense, that you instinctively arch your back off the cushions, your spine bowing like a drawn bow. You throw your head back and let out a loud, uninhibited moan, so piercing and desperate that you swear to God the neighbors can hear every single sound right through the walls, storm or no storm.
You don't even care. You don't care about the neighbors, you don't care about how loud you are, and miraculously, you don't even care about coming yet. The release feels secondary, miles away, because right now you just want this. You want him to keep fucking you like this, rough, heavy, and completely unhinged, making you feel like you are nothing and everything to him all at the same time.
"That's my fucking girl," Oscar growls right into your ear, his voice rough, gravelly, and saturated with raw ownership. "Take it all, you like it when the killer ruins you, don't you? Look at how good you take his cock, just a greedy, beautiful little slut—"
The filth rolling off his tongue, mixed with the sheer, driving friction of his body, emboldens you in a way that blows your natural shyness entirely to dust. You are burning up from the inside out, completely intoxicated by the power of the moment.
You claw your hands up his back, your fingers hooking into his shoulders, and pull him down closer, your voice dropping into a breathless, reckless demand right against his mouth.
"Choke me," you pant out, your eyes locking onto his with absolute desperation. "Oscar, please—put your hand on my throat, choke me right now, fuck me harder—"
Oscar lets out a harsh, ragged curse that catches in the back of his throat. A dark, wild glint flashes in his eyes, and he doesn't hesitate for a single microsecond.
He yanks his right hand away from your hip, sliding it up your ribs, over your chest, and wraps his large, warm fingers firmly around your throat. He doesn't squeeze too hard, just enough to press you securely into the cushions, anchoring you completely as he redoubles his frantic pace.
"You want me to choke you, you little whore?" Oscar snarls, his hips hammering into you with unrelenting, savage force. "You want the killer to put his hands around your neck while he destroys you?"
"Yes—oh, God, yes," you sob out, your breathing hitching as his thumb presses gently over your windpipe, restricting your air just enough to send a dizzying, electric shock straight to your core.
The combination of the rough grip on your throat, the dirty praises pouring from his lips, and the heavy, relentless pounding of his body against yours shatters what little sanity you have left. You lose your mind entirely. You are begging, pleading, crying out for more, more, more, your hips bucking up to meet every single thrust with a frantic, animalistic energy that completely erases the shy, quiet girl you were just an hour ago.
"Please, Oscar, please, don't stop, wreck me, tear me apart, make me yours—" you chant over and over again, your voice breaking into ragged gasps as he fucks you harder and deeper, driving you straight toward the edge of oblivion.
Oscar doesn't give you a single second to catch your breath, his hand remaining firmly clamped around your throat while his hips snap forward with an intensity that threatens to unhinge your pelvis. Every single lunge is deeper, harder, and more punishing than the last, his thick length sliding all the way in to hit that exact, agonizingly sensitive sweet spot buried deep inside your walls. The friction is a blazing fire, searing through your nerves and making your entire body vibrate with a white-hot hum.
"That's it," Oscar growls, his voice ragged and breathless as he stares down into your flushed, wide-eyed face. "You're doing so fucking well for me. Look at you. I'm so proud of you, bunny."
Hearing those words, the genuine, adoring pride woven right into the filthy, rough commands, sends a violent, electric shock straight to your core. Your inner muscles instantly contract, convulsing in a tight, merciless clamp around his length that makes Oscar throw his head back with a sharp, guttural gasp.
"Fuck—you're squeezing me so tight," he pants, his thumb rubbing a soothing, possessive circle over your windpipe while his other hand keeps your waist locked in place. "Do you like that? Do you like being praised by the killer, doll? Do you like hearing how good you are?"
You can't even force a word past your lips anymore. Your throat is completely tight, your chest heaving wildly as you stare up at him, completely undone. All you can manage is a frantic, desperate nod, your eyes spilling over with a sudden rush of heat as your head rolls back against the cushions.
"Good girl," Oscar praises again, his tone dropping into a low, addictive purr that wraps around your brain like silk. "Such a good, greedy little bunny for me. Taking every inch of the killer like you were made for it."
He alters the angle of his thrusts just a fraction, rolling his hips upward with a slow, heavy grind that hits your sweet spot with surgical precision every single time. The overwhelming pleasure crashes over you in massive, repeating waves, pushing you higher and higher up the mountain until the edges of your vision start to blur into bright, blinding white light.
"Oscar—I'm—oh, God—" you sob out, your fingers clawing desperately at his shoulders, your hips bucking up to meet him in a frantic, unhinged rhythm.
"Come on, then," Oscar urges, his voice thick with absolute worship as he accelerates the pace, driving into you harder and faster with relentless, unstoppable force. "Let go for me, baby. Show the killer how completely you can fall apart."
The world completely narrows down to the heavy, frantic friction of his body against yours and the blinding, white-hot pressure coiling impossibly tight in your lower stomach.
Oscar senses the exact second you reach the edge. Instead of rushing you or letting you slip over it, he slows his pace just enough to draw out the torture, his hips rolling into you with a deep, deliberate grind that makes every single nerve ending in your body flare up in a blinding panic of pleasure.
"That's it," Oscar groans, his voice a gravelly whisper right against your ear as his hand still rests firmly around your throat. "Let go, bunny. Give it to me."
You throw your head back, your lungs burning for air as your entire body locks up. A high, shattered cry rips straight out of your throat, completely uninhibited, as the orgasm hits you like a freight train.
Your inner walls violently spasm, milking him over and over again in rapid, cascading contractions that ripple straight down to your toes. The intensity of it is so staggering your vision goes completely black at the edges, your fingers digging deep into his shoulders with enough force to leave bruises.
The moment he feels your core clench around him, milking him helplessly at the peak of your release, Oscar completely shatters.
He lets out a deep, guttural growl that vibrates through his entire chest, his hips slamming forward one last time with a heavy, final thrust. He buries himself as deep as humanly possible, holding himself completely still inside you as he spends himself, groaning your name aloud as he shoots hot and heavy straight into your pulsing heat.
"F-fuck... yes," Oscar gasps, his body trembling violently against yours as he milks every last drop of your mutual release, his breath coming in hot, ragged pants against your skin.
For a few long, breathless moments, neither of you moves. The heavy weight of his body pins you securely to the sofa cushions, your chest rising and falling in sync as the aftershocks of the orgasm continue to ripple through your tired muscles.
Slowly, the frantic energy bleeds out of the room. Oscar’s hand relaxes on your throat, his fingers sliding up to cradle the back of your head before he presses a slow, tender kiss right against your sweaty temple. He lets his weight settle fully over you, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath, his lips brushing softly against your skin with every exhausted exhalation.
And then, as the adrenaline rapidly drains from your veins, reality comes crashing back down on you like a ton of bricks.
The utter, paralyzing wave of shyness hits you all at once.
Your face burns a violent, scorching red. The terrifying, vivid memory of what you just did, how you screamed, how you begged him to choke you, how you practically whined for him to wreck your body, flashes through your mind in horrifying technicolor. You said all those things. You, the quiet, naturally shy person who can barely order extra fries without turning into a stuttering mess, just spent the last twenty minutes acting like a completely unhinged, filthy animal for your boyfriend.
Mortification washes over you in a hot, suffocating wave.
Without a second thought, you desperately try to vanish. You wrap your arms tightly around Oscar’s broad shoulders, your fingers bunching up in his shirt, and you violently yank him down, burying your face as deep as you possibly can right into the crook of his neck. You squeeze your eyes shut, your cheeks burning so hot against his skin that you’re pretty sure you’re leaving a scorch mark.
"Oh, my God," you groan miserably, your voice muffled heavily against his shoulder as you try to shrink into a microscopic size. "Don't look at me. Just let me die right here. Just throw me in the trash."
Oscar lets out a low, chest-deep chuckle, the vibration of his laughter rumbling right against your cheek. He shifts slightly, wrapping his arms fully around your waist and holding you securely against him, completely refusing to let you hide.
"Die?" Oscar teases softly, his voice still thick and raspy from the post-orgasmic haze, though there’s an undeniable streak of absolute fondness woven right through it. He presses another lingering, warm kiss to the side of your head, his thumb lazily tracing soothing circles across your bare lower back. "Why would you want to do that when you were just being the absolute best girl for the killer?"
"Shut up," you whine, pressing your face even harder into his neck, your toes curling in deep embarrassment. "I hate you. I literally hate you so much right now. I am never speaking again."
"Mm-hmm, sure you aren't," Oscar hums, a lazy, victorious smile clear in his voice as he tightens his embrace around you, completely content to just hold you there while the rain continues to hammer against the glass outside.
You stay welded into the crook of Oscar's neck for a long, quiet stretch, breathing in the scent of his skin and the faint trace of sweat, letting the heavy, rhythmic rise and fall of his chest slowly ground you. The living room is completely still except for the steady drumming of the rain against the glass.
Oscar doesn't rush you. He just keeps one heavy arm wrapped securely around your waist, while his other hand moves in slow, comforting circles up and down your bare back, his fingers tracing the line of your spine.
After a few minutes of just letting your breathing settle back to normal, Oscar shifts slightly. He tilts his head down, pressing his lips softly to the top of your head, before his low, gentle voice breaks the quiet.
"Hey," Oscar murmurs softly, the teasing edge completely gone from his tone, replaced by something entirely tender and careful. "You okay down there?"
You let out a tiny, muffled hum against his skin, refusing to budge an inch.
Oscar gently reaches up, his fingers sliding under your chin to nudge your face, trying to coax you out of your hiding spot. When you resist, stubbornly pressing your forehead back into his shoulder, he lets out a quiet, understanding sigh and just rubs his thumb soothingly over your cheekbone.
"Seriously, talk to me," Oscar whispers, his tone turning genuinely concerned. "Was all of that okay? The mask, the dirty talk, me being rough... you can be completely honest with me. I know you get way too shy sometimes, and I just want to make sure you didn't freeze up earlier and didn't know how to tell me to stop."
Hearing the genuine worry and care wrapped up in his voice makes your heart do a complicated, tender little flip.
Right on cue, a fresh wave of blinding embarrassment rushes straight to your cheeks, hot and heavy. You let out a muffled groan and immediately try to tuck your face back into his neck, burying yourself as deeply as humanly possible.
God, why do you always hide on him?
It’s an automatic reflex at this point. Whenever you feel overwhelmed, whenever your shyness reaches its absolute peak, you instinctively retreat straight to him. Because deep down, underneath all the teasing and the ridiculous horror movie roleplay, he has somehow become your absolute safest place in the entire world. The one person where you can completely fall apart and know you won't be judged.
Even though right now, you are dying of sheer mortification.
"I'm not uncomfortable," you whisper finally, your voice muffled so heavily against his skin that it sounds like it's coming from underwater.
"Are you sure?" Oscar asks gently, his thumb still tracing slow circles on your cheek. "Because you were pretty quiet at the end there, and—"
"I liked it," you blurt out, cutting him off before your courage completely evaporates.
You slowly, reluctantly peel your face away from his neck, your eyes sliding up to meet his. Your cheeks are burning a violent, brilliant red, and you bite down hard on your lower lip, staring anywhere else in the room except directly into his gaze.
"You... liked it?" Oscar asks, a slow, disbelieving, yet deeply amused smile starting to pull at the corner of his mouth.
"I didn't just like it," you mumble, your voice dropping to a tiny, mortified squeak as you squeeze your eyes shut again. You press your forehead against his chest, clutching tightly at his shoulders. "I... I loved it. All of it. Even the stupid mask. Even you calling me a slut. I loved every single second, okay? Are you happy now?"
Oscar bursts out laughing, a warm, bright sound that shakes his entire chest.
"Every single second?" he teases, tightening his arms around you and pressing a long, affectionate kiss right to your burning temple. "Even when I choked you?"
"Shut up," you whine, playfully hitting his chest with a weak fist while a massive, helpless smile breaks across your own face. "I am never letting you pick a movie again as long as I live."
"Sure you will, bunny," Oscar hums, his voice dripping with pure, teasing adoration as he pulls you closer. "Scream 2 is on next weekend anyway."
after one very good night together, oscar piastri finds himself with two problems: he has no way of contacting you, and he can’t stop thinking about you.
genre: rom-com, he falls first and hard, friends with benefits to lovers, idiots in love (per usual).
warnings: fluff to the point of diabetes, oscar piastri being catastrophically down bad, friends with benefits who are very bad at being casual, stolen hoodies, mutual pining and poor decision-making, dry humour, soft kisses, and public yearning, a concerning amount of fond staring, implied sexual content, happy ending, obviously.
word count: 10k
a/n: after throwing away two different versions of this exact story, i’m finally handing this one over to you! this one genuinely fought me every step of the way, but i made it through. this idea actually wasn’t mine in the first place. it came from this request, so thank you so much, anon, for sending it in! there are probably still a few little mistakes here and there, and a million things my perfectionist brain would still love to tweak, but at some point i had to let it go. i had so much fun writing this in the end, and i really hope you have just as much fun reading it ❤️🩹
The first thing Oscar feels when he wakes up is a pleasant ache all over his body.
Which part of him feels the most sore? Hard to say. He’s used to physical exertion, but maybe, for the first time in his life, he’s actually reached his limit. I mean… things really did get a little out of hand. But how could they not have? He had nothing to do yesterday, neither did you, and wow… wow…
A small sleepy smile tugs at his lips as he lets himself sink back into the mattress. Nice. His eyes remain closed, and he’s so close to drifting back to sleep… so close… sleep is already catching up to him again, but—
You jolt upright like you’ve just been struck by lightning, and when you reach for your phone on the nightstand, your next “fuck!” comes out even more desperate.
There’s no time to waste. Your body is running on pure adrenaline as you bend down to grab your panties first, pulling them on with impressive speed, then your bra, your jeans, your shirt… Your movements are frantic, and Oscar has only managed to push himself up in bed enough to rub at his eyes and try to keep up as you whirl around the room like a hurricane, looking for your socks.
“What… what’s happening?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
You don’t even look at him as you finally tug your socks on and jump off the bed, dropping to your knees to reach for the sneakers that somehow ended up underneath it.
“I got a text. I have ten minutes to get to work. Shit. It was supposed to be my day off,” you complain, tying your laces.
Your hoodie. Oh my God. How many layers had you even been wearing last night? Where is it?
Oscar gets up. Calmly, he walks to the other side of the room and picks up his hoodie, which had been hanging over the back of the desk chair.
“Here. Don’t worry about giving it back,” he says, holding it out to you.
Your shoulders relax a little, and your hands close around the fabric before you shrug it on.
“Sorry for rushing out like this. Last night was really good, Oscar. Seriously,” you say, already heading toward the bedroom door. In a second, you’re in the living room, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and then you’re already at the front door, running your hands through your hair. “I loved meeting you. Hope you have a great day. Bye, cutie!”
And you blow him a kiss.
Oscar, naked and slightly bewildered, gives you a lopsided smile and a little wave, watching as you rush out of his house and straight into whatever morning disaster had stolen you from his bed.
From that distance, he can see through the front windows, past the curtains, the moment you reach the curb and wave down your Uber. Once you’re inside that car and it’s pulling away toward whatever address your job requires of you, Oscar finds himself officially alone.
He clears his throat, as if someone might be there to witness his pitiful state, and turns on his heel, heading to the bathroom.
He can say with a certain amount of pride that he left you with something to remember him by. He’s a perfectionist, deliberate by nature, which means the marks he left behind won’t be visible to the world, nothing that would give away exactly what happened inside those four walls to anyone looking from the outside, but you’ll notice them. That’s enough for him. When you look at yourself in the mirror, there they’ll be: two on either side of your waist, four on your stomach, and the faint little trail along the inside of your thighs. Ah, yes. He remembers those. Remembers how his mouth ended up there, making you sigh louder and—
No. Hang on. That’s too much.
Oscar needs to turn on the shower. Cold setting.
The water comes down over him in a steady cascade, doing what it can to freeze those thoughts in his mind before they have the chance to become a far more immediate part of his bloodstream. And once that happens, there’s only one direction they’ll go. Down, down, down. And how humiliating would it be to spend the rest of the day in that condition?
Fuck.
Oscar Piastri is reliving the final moments of his night with an intensity that can’t possibly be healthy.
He presses his wet forehead against the wall and closes his eyes. He’s really trying… but his hand already knows exactly where to go.
The thing about Oscar is that he’s not an impulsive man. If anything, the opposite is true. Everybody knows that. Calm and collected have been the two words trailing after him ever since he became relevant enough for the media to care. It’s his thing. His whole brand, really. Oscar Piastri: Calm & Collected™.
Only once in his life has he taken that particular fact about himself and thrown it straight out the window, consequences be damned. How did that happen?
The night before, in what was a completely justifiable course of action, Oscar had been lingering in the corner of the club, near the bar, a glass of his favorite tropical yellow drink in hand, when your voice cut through the air:
“Is that any good?”
He turns, the rim of the glass still pressed to his lips halfway through a sip. The first thing he notices is the purple and blue light catching on the glitter dusted across your cheeks. It's an interesting look. Artistic, somehow. He finishes the sip and lowers the glass.
The long lashes framing your eyes are still there. So is your gaze. Steady. Unbothered. Fixed on him.
"It's alright," he says, leaning back against the wall.
A hum of approval leaves you as you step a little closer.
"I was thinking about getting a drink too. Got any recommendations?" you ask, using that sweet, faintly distracted tone accompanied by a small smile that seems to be saying far more than the words themselves.
"I'm not sure I'm the best person to be giving that kind of advice," Oscar replies, taking another sip of his drink.
You tilt your head slightly, your smile growing just a little wider.
"I thought you were an expert. You've been standing here for a while."
That gets his attention. Oscar tips his head back slightly, narrowing his eyes as though he’s trying to solve a particularly complicated case.
"You've been watching me," he says at last.
The mischievous smile spreading across your face is answer enough.
"Have I?" you reply, slipping past him to look over the selection of drinks displayed behind the bar.
It takes exactly ten minutes for Oscar to end up at the back of the club, your hands tangled in his hair, both of you kissing like it’s a competition to see who can be more impatient.
His hands are everywhere.
Mostly because he can't seem to decide where he wants to touch you first. Jesus Christ. He's never kissed anyone like this before. There's so much heat, so much urgency, that neither of you notices when his hand slides down to your ass.
You both notice when he squeezes.
And he definitely notices the muffled sound you make against his mouth.
"Did you drive here?" you ask somewhere between kisses.
"Taxi," he murmurs. "Alcohol."
"Hm. Good call."
His mouth finds yours again immediately.
A few seconds later—
"Your place?" you ask.
"Okay.”
So, yeah. Right. It had been a good start to a good night that ended a little too abruptly, but… well, that’s okay. Oscar isn’t even thinking about it. He’s definitely not thinking about how he would’ve liked to bring you into his kitchen for a nice cup of coffee, maybe make you scrambled eggs because it’s simple enough to pull off and still might somehow surprise you, and talk about what the rest of your week was going to look like and all that.
He’d kiss you again.
Well, he’d want to. Obviously. If you wanted to. After breakfast, of course. And then he’d take you to the shower and the two of you could… you know. Again. Yes. Right. He would like that.
As he makes his way over to the simulator, though, he goes back over the morning in his head. Tries to figure out what happened. Because you weren’t upset with him. You weren’t angry at him. God, what kind of massive ego would Oscar have to think that anything about that morning had been his fault? You got called into work on your day off, and even then, you were still sweet enough to blow him a kiss on your way out.
Knowing all of that, why is he still so disappointed?
Oscar turns on the simulator, waits for the screen to light up, and settles into the seat. When he lets out a slow breath, he makes himself a promise: he’s going to let it go.
At some point in the middle of the night, Oscar is sitting on the bed while you’re walking back from the bathroom. The only thing on your body is his t-shirt.
You stop halfway across the room, hands settling on your waist as you look at him with one eyebrow raised and a small smile on your face.
“What?” he asks, squinting at you.
You shrug and shake your head. Don’t say anything. You just climb back onto the bed and make your way over to him.
“I want to kiss you again,” you say, swinging one leg over either side of his lap before wrapping both arms around his neck.
Oscar arches an eyebrow too.
“I think you can kiss me again.”
“You think?” you ask, resting your forehead against his.
“I thought you were tired,” he murmurs, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“Oh, I lied,” you whisper, leaning in to press your lips to his through your own smile.
His arms wrap around your waist, and then his hands slip beneath the hem of the t-shirt, his fingers gliding slowly upward and sending shivers racing across your skin. And the two of you have touched each other like this so many times since you got there, but Oscar still hasn’t gotten tired of the sound that leaves your mouth when he reaches the middle of your back and pulls you even closer against him.
Maybe Oscar isn’t actually all that good at keeping promises he makes to himself, because it’s already halfway through the next day and you still haven’t texted him. He doesn’t want to think about it, but he does anyway.
That’s not even the worst part.
At some point that morning, while taking out the trash, Oscar realized the two of you never exchanged numbers. Of course you’re not going to text him. But even if you did have his number, would it really be a problem if you didn’t text him? Oscar likes to think not.
He calls Lando.
“Hey, mate!” Lando greets, sounding a little distracted. “You left the club pretty early that night.”
“Hey,” Oscar says back, pinning the phone between his ear and shoulder so he can wash his hands at the kitchen sink. “Uh, yeah. I… went home.”
Lando laughs.
“With a girl. I saw,” he says, and Oscar straightens up, clearing his throat.
“Right. Yeah. You… you saw her with me?”
“Of course, mate. You literally waved goodbye to me as a warning, remember?”
Yes, Oscar had forgotten that.
“Do you… Do you think you know who she is?”
“Like, if she’s an influencer or something? Mate, I don’t think so,” Lando says, and Oscar can practically picture him shaking his head. “Anyway, I’ve gotta go deal with something. But good for you, though. Glad you had fun. I know these shiny party things aren’t really your scene.”
A small smile tugs at Oscar’s mouth.
“Yeah. It was fun,” he admits.
“Right. And about the girl, if I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.”
“No worries. See you, mate.”
And finally, the call ends.
Oscar locks his phone, slips it into his pocket, and heads into the living room. He drops onto the couch, turns on the TV, and tries, really tries, to focus on the action movie playing in front of him, where some woman is busy throwing herself from one building to the next.
The only problem is that she looks a little too much like you.
You’re sitting on top of him, hands braced against his chest. His own hands rest on your thighs, thumbs stroking over your skin while you look down at him, again and again.
“You’ve got so many freckles,” you say, lifting a finger to touch a few scattered across his chest.
Oscar nods, a tiny smile pulling at his lips.
“I do. I think it’s genetics mixed with sun exposure,” he explains without much thought, because that’s simply what he’s always assumed.
Your head tilts to the side as you reach up to touch the small constellation along his neck. Oscar swallows.
“I once heard this theory that freckles show up in the places where your soulmate used to kiss you most in a past life,” you say, continuing your careful little exploration as your fingertips brush softly over his cheek.
Oscar closes his eyes.
“I didn’t know that,” he murmurs.
You let out a small laugh and lean down to press a quick kiss to his lips.
“I think your soulmate must’ve loved you very much in your past life,” you say.
And just like that, the conversation is over, because Oscar is kissing you again, and you kiss him back without even thinking.
He’s been running for hours now.
Oscar glances at the time and, yes, a full two hours.
His hair is soaked with sweat, and his t-shirt is even worse. Honestly, he’s pretty disgusting, if he stops to think about it. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps running, slipping past people like a guided missile — except he doesn’t actually have anywhere programmed to go.
Oscar just runs.
He called his trainer earlier to say he’d be doing his cardio outside today, which surprised the man enough, but he said it was fine as long as Oscar actually did it. Of course Oscar was going to do it. He just needed to get out for a while.
The pace of his feet only starts to slow when he turns onto a familiar street.
It’s not really a run anymore, just a slow walk along the cobbled street of the shopping district where some of the best clubs in the city are tucked away. Not exactly the kind of place people go for a casual stroll, but no one in Monaco would question it — the country is small enough that any stretch of road can be justified if you try hard enough.
He stops in front of that club.
The one where he met you three days ago.
“Can I help you with something?” the bouncer asks, giving him the flat, unreadable look of someone who’s had to deal with every kind of drunk in Monaco.
Oscar blinks at him, a little thoughtful, because he doesn’t really know how he ended up there, let alone what exactly he wants to ask.
But he has to ask something.
“There’s a girl who comes here. We met a few days ago, and I was wondering if maybe she’d shown up again after that, or if… if she’s a regular. If you remember her,” he says.
The man just raises his eyebrows and waits.
Oscar describes you to him. First name, age, height, job, eye color, what you were wearing, the way your gaze looks, the makeup you had on… everything he knows.
Then he waits.
The bouncer shrugs.
“No clue, mate. A lot of people come through here.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. How could he not recognize you with a description like that? Of course, Oscar doesn’t say any of that. He just nods politely and says,
“Right. Thanks.”
That, apparently, is the end of his walk home. Oscar decides he’d rather take an Uber back.
With one arm wrapped around your waist, Oscar keeps you tucked against him. Your body is still full of little aftershocks, still humming with the kind of pleasure that hasn’t fully faded yet, leaving you with nothing but a deep, sleepy need to stay exactly where you are — warm, boneless, and held against him.
Oscar lets out a very, very satisfied laugh and slides his other hand down to your hip.
“You okay?” he asks, his nose brushing into your hair.
“Hmm… yes,” you mumble, stretching out the word in a soft, sleepy little sound that makes him tighten his arm around you. “I’m slowly coming back to the real world.”
“I’ll wait,” Oscar murmurs, and you nod against him. “We should probably take a shower.”
You snuggle in closer.
“Can we stay like this for a little longer?” you ask in a whisper.
How was Oscar supposed to deny you anything?
“Of course we can,” he replies, and you melt against him.
It’s been two weeks, and Oscar doesn’t think about that night anymore. Or about the fact that, somewhere in the city, you’re out there living your life. Maybe wearing his favorite hoodie — the one he’s probably never getting back. The idea is ridiculous, obviously, and not something he spends any real time dwelling on.
So he carries on as if nothing ever happened, which is how he’s ended up at the supermarket, standing in the pasta aisle with a thoughtful look on his face. He's pretending he has any clue what separates one type of pasta from another, even though he already knows he’s leaving with five boxes of spaghetti either way.
That's when a woman passes by him.
Oscar’s head snaps up, and he turns so quickly it’s almost embarrassing, because for one stupid second, he’s sure that—
Oh.
No.
She doesn’t look anything like… anyone he knows.
Oscar goes still for a moment, then turns back to his cart and drops the boxes of pasta inside, red as a bell pepper as he heads for the checkout.
“Hi… are you Oscar Piastri?”
He blinks, sliding the gas nozzle back into place before turning toward the little girl staring up at him with huge brown eyes.
“Sorry, she… she spotted you from over there and really wanted to come say hi. I hope we’re not bothering you,” her mother says.
The smile that spreads across Oscar’s face is slow, but entirely genuine. He shakes his head and glances down again, this time noticing the orange cap in the little girl’s hands, with the number 81 stitched across the front.
“I don’t actually have a pen on me to sign—”
“Here.” Her mother quickly holds one out.
“Thanks,” Oscar says, taking both the pen and the cap. “Alright, what’s your name?”
“Estelle.”
“Estelle? That’s a beautiful name,” he says, scribbling his autograph across the cap before handing it back to her.
Her mother lifts her phone to take a picture, and Oscar steps closer to the little girl, smiling as he raises a thumbs-up for the camera.
“Did you get it?”
“Yes, I did. Thank you so much, Piastri.”
“Yeah, thanks, Piastri! Hope you actually win next year, at least.”
Her mother looks instantly mortified, but Oscar just laughs as he hands the pen back to her.
“I’m hoping to win too,” he says, giving Estelle a friendly pat on the top of the head. “Soon.”
The two of them wave goodbye and start to turn away, and Oscar lifts his head to watch them go… only to catch sight, all the way across the station, of someone very, very familiar climbing into a car and pulling the door shut.
For one long second, he just stands there in the middle of the gas station.
His McLaren is still parked by the pump. A line is starting to form behind it. Fuck. There’s a line. But—
He blinks.
It’ll be quick. There are other pumps.
He doesn’t think.
Oscar bolts past the two girls in such a sudden rush that even the attendants stop what they’re doing to stare. He keeps going, one step after the other, because Oscar only ever runs like this when he’s training, except now he has somewhere to be, and you’re getting farther and farther away, and if he doesn’t catch you now, maybe he never will.
He needs to know how you are.
And you’re right there.
And he’s almost there. And your engine is already turning over and—
Oscar is completely out of breath.
He comes to a stop beside your car, one hand braced against the hood, the other on his knee. This is so wildly out of character for him that he nearly passes out from the sheer realization of what he’s doing and where he’s doing it. Jesus Christ. One second. Calm down.
Your door swings open. He knows because he hears it.
Oscar shouldn’t be this affected. He has athlete lungs. Twenty-five years on this earth without ever touching a cigarette.
Fuck.
“Oscar?” you say, your brow furrowing as you hurry toward him. “Oh my God. Oscar!”
Finally — and very slowly — Oscar straightens up enough to look at you.
“Are you okay?” you ask, your hands flying to his shoulders, mostly because he still isn’t saying anything and he’s pale as a ghost, which is starting to genuinely scare you.
But he just blinks. Looks down at your hand.
“I am,” he says with a nod. “I’m okay.”
You’re not entirely sure you believe him, but you let your hands fall away anyway. Back at the station, a chorus of car horns starts going off, and the attendants have gathered in a small cluster, all waving impatiently for him to hurry up. Oscar looks mildly horrified.
“Wait here, okay? Don’t leave,” he says, lifting a finger toward you even as he’s already moving. “I need to get my car out of there, but I’ll be right back.”
Your eyes blink once, but you… you nod.
Okay.
Oscar hurries back toward the gas station, murmuring quiet apologies to a few people on the way before finally making it to his car and pulling it out of the way.
Oscar comes back a minute later, shutting the door of his McLaren with a little more force than necessary before making his way toward you.
You’re still standing beside your car, arms folded loosely over your chest now, watching him with a look that lands somewhere between concern and confusion.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
Oscar clears his throat.
“So,” he says, a little breathless still. “Hi.”
You blink at him.
“Hi,” you echo, like you’re not entirely sure this qualifies as a normal greeting after whatever the hell that was two minutes ago.
His mouth twitches.
“Sorry about the…” He gestures vaguely behind him, as if that explains anything. “Running.”
Your eyebrows lift.
“Right,” you say slowly. “I was going to ask.”
Oscar glances away for half a second, then back at you.
“Yeah. No, that’s fair.”
And there it is — the smallest hint of embarrassment settling over his face, enough to make something warm flicker in your chest before you can stop it.
“I just—” He stops, exhales through his nose, and tries again. “I saw you getting into your car and thought if I let you leave without saying anything, I’d probably regret it.”
The way he says it makes you let out a breath.
“You idiot,” you say simply.
Oscar arches an eyebrow.
“You didn’t have to leave half of Monaco annoyed at you because of me,” you say, shaking your head before uncrossing your arms and stepping forward to wrap him in a hug. “This is how you’re supposed to greet someone, see?”
Shaking his head, he lets out a quiet laugh. Oscar isn’t even sure he’s allowed to do this, but he wraps his arms around you too, and the hug is a little awkward, a little clumsy — mostly because the two of you barely know each other and… yeah. You barely know each other. The thought makes him frown.
“How are you?” he asks, pulling away slowly.
You shrug.
“Normal. Fine. I’ve been working on a few new projects for uni this week,” you say, a little dreamily, gathering your hair in one hand as the wind keeps blowing it out of place. “I was actually on my way to get lunch. Do you want to come with me? It’s better than standing out here. My hair’s about two seconds away from sticking to my lip gloss and turning into a complete disaster.”
Oscar blinks because… did he hear you right? Lunch? You just asked him to lunch? As if the past two weeks hadn’t existed at all? As if they hadn’t been their own special little version of hell on earth?
“Yeah,” he says a little too quickly.
Then he clears his throat.
“Yeah. Sure. If you want.”
And because apparently he’s determined to make this worse for himself, he adds, a touch too late to sound normal:
“I mean— yes. I’d like that.”
A quiet laugh slips out of you at that, but all you say is,
“I’ll be right in front of you. No running this time, okay?”
As you walk back to your car, leaving Oscar behind, he rolls his eyes — but he’s smiling so hard it completely ruins the effect.
He drives slowly behind you, following your car through the streets of Monaco toward whatever lunch spot you had in mind. It’s not far, but it gives Oscar more than enough time to think. Or, more accurately, to sit there in a state of mild disbelief. For one brief second, he genuinely considers the possibility that he’s hallucinating. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe he hit his head somewhere between the petrol station and the parking spot. Maybe this is one of those bizarre out-of-body experiences people talk about, because up until today, you had been nothing more than a very good memory in his head — and now you’re leading him to lunch. Lunch. A thing you invited him to. With your own mouth.
Despite everything, Oscar really had thought there was a decent chance he’d never see you again.
By the time you pull into a parking space and step out of the car, he’s still sitting behind the wheel of his own, staring at you from that short distance like he’s trying to come up with some logical explanation for why this is happening at all. You walk over after a second, leaning down just enough to tap twice against his window.
“Come on,” you say.
Oscar drags his tongue over his bottom lip and nods, like that somehow makes him look less like a man who’s currently being led around by divine intervention.
As you walk into the restaurant, you head in front first to speak to the host, explaining that the reservation had originally been for one, but that you had a last-minute guest. He looks ready to say that won’t be possible — right up until he catches sight of Oscar and his eyebrows lift. Alright, then. He can come in.
You nod, and the two of you are led to your table, Oscar offering the man a grateful nod of his own while still biting the inside of his cheek, because he still hasn’t quite gotten used to how easily doors open for him.
And then, finally, you’re seated. One across from the other.
Oscar hadn’t actually thought that far ahead.
Your hand goes straight for the menu, and Oscar tries not to look at you too much. Predictably, he fails. Your lashes stay lowered as your eyes move from one option to the next, widening with interest whenever something catches your attention and narrowing again whenever something sounds questionable enough to make you pull a face. Your cheeks are pink, and you tap the edge of one nail against your tooth while you think.
“Do you eat seafood?” you ask after a moment, still scanning the menu.
“Yeah,” Oscar says. “Why?”
Now you finally look up at him.
“Because I kind of want the shrimp bucket,” you say. “But it’s way too much food for one person. Do you want to split it with me?”
A small smile appears at the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding once. “I’d like that.”
You smile too and close the menu, then lean forward to rest your cheek against your hand.
Now it’s your turn to look at him. At his hair, his soft face, the freckles scattered across his skin…
“It’s been a little while since that night, hasn’t it?” you say. “If I’d known you were going to be here, I would’ve left your hoodie in the car.”
Oscar shakes his head.
“I told you not to worry about that.”
You smile faintly.
“So how’ve you been?” you ask. “Did you go back to the club? You said Lando likes going there.”
“Not really,” Oscar says. Not in the way you mean. “Lando’s more into that sort of thing than I am.”
You nod.
“Right.”
“What about you?” he asks. “Did you go back?”
“No, no. I haven’t had time,” you say. “Like I said, these projects have completely taken over my life lately—”
A waiter appears beside the table, and you glance up with a quick smile.
“Oh, hi. We’ll get the shrimp bucket, and…” Your eyes flick back to Oscar. “What do you want to drink, Osc?”
Osc.
His smile widens, just a little.
“The berry Italian soda, please,” he says. “Non-alcoholic.”
You nod and turn back to the waiter.
“And mine can just be strawberry, please.”
The waiter writes it down, and you thank him softly before he walks away.
“I love this restaurant,” you say, glancing around before your attention catches on an elderly couple tucked away in the corner. Oscar notices the little smile on your face and follows your gaze.
They’re adorable. The man is holding an analog camera, and his wife is posing like someone who knows, without a doubt, that she’s adored.
“They look happy,” Oscar says, tilting his head slightly.
Your nose scrunches with a smile as you turn back to him.
“They really do. They come here all the time.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
“So you’re a regular.”
A tiny smile tugs at your mouth.
“I’m a creature of habit.”
That earns a quiet laugh from Oscar.
“I’ve never been here before,” he says, glancing up at the decorations hanging from the ceiling. Everything about the place feels so… oceanic. A wash of blue and white, starfish painted along the walls, dark wood everywhere.
You grin.
“Yeah, they really commit to the theme.”
Oscar’s mouth twitches.
“I’m a creature of habit too,” he says. “I usually stick to the restaurants in the city centre.”
Your eyes widen.
“The ones that are basically lit entirely by candlelight?”
He shrugs.
“They’re charming.”
That pulls a soft laugh out of you.
“I’ve never been to any of them. People have recommended them to me, but I just never got around to it.”
“Maybe we—” He stops himself, already knowing exactly where that sentence was headed. But Oscar pushes on anyway. “If you ever think it sounds nice, maybe we could go there sometime. I imagine it’s better with company.”
Seeing the look on your face, Oscar realizes with a flicker of nerves that you’re actually considering what he said. And when you nod, all soft expression and soft eyes, he feels his shoulders loosen.
“I’d love that,” you say.
A small smile tugs at the corner of Oscar’s mouth.
“Yeah?” he says, like he just needs to hear it one more time.
Your smile deepens.
“Yeah.”
If Oscar could, he’d probably put this afternoon somewhere near the top of the list of the best days of his life. He can’t quite explain why, but maybe it has something to do with the fact that two weeks of waiting have finally led him here — to the realization that you’re still the same person who laid your head on his chest and asked for five more minutes.
How exactly is anyone supposed to recover from that kind of experience?
Well. Oscar doesn’t have an answer.
The question only gets worse over Italian sodas and fried shrimp, when you point at the sauce on his cheek with a laugh. The table is full of laughter after that, and the two of you talk about everything. And when you lean in to hear his answer to whatever question you’ve just asked, Oscar almost lets himself believe you keep asking and asking and asking just because you like the way he explains things.
Later, when you lead him to the back of the restaurant to show him the view of the sea, you point at a gull gliding back and forth overhead and say,
“That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
But Oscar looks down at you and, for the first time that afternoon, feels the urge to disagree.
The days pass easily.
You don’t do anything out of the ordinary. Work, home, university. University, work, home. Lunch squeezed into whatever break the day happens to give you. The same routine, the same schedule, the same familiar little rush from one place to the next.
But now there’s something extra tucked into the middle of it all — a nice surprise that, if you’re being honest, you really hadn’t seen coming.
Ever since that lunch with Oscar, when you gave him your number so he could actually arrange the dinner the two of you had talked about, things have been… fun.
Which isn’t exactly shocking. He is nice; you already knew that much. You’d spent a night together, after all. A very intense night, actually. Intense enough that every now and then, when the memory sneaks up on you at the worst possible moment, your cheeks go warm because you genuinely don’t know who you were that night. Some insatiable little menace must have taken over your body. It’s the only explanation that makes any sense.
You hadn’t meant for any of it to turn into more than that. A handsome guy at a bar, one good night of sex to work the tension out of your system after a string of exhausting days and the thousand things you always seem to have on your plate, and… well. That was supposed to be it. A solid plan. A very reasonable plan.
Then Oscar had quite literally run after you and nearly passed out in the process, leaving you a little stunned and far more charmed than you should probably admit.
So now, apparently, this is your life.
On your way into work, you stop halfway across the courtyard because a gull is circling overhead, and your first thought, naturally, is that Oscar needs to see it. You pull your phone from your pocket, angle the camera upward, and snap a picture before sending it off with the caption:
look. they’re following me now.
He replies two minutes later.
have you considered the possibility that they’re spying on you?
You lift an eyebrow, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you head for the door and type back:
gulls aren’t spies. pigeons are.
His answer comes through almost immediately.
have you ever seen a baby gull?
And honestly, you don’t have a response to that. Not one that matters, anyway. All you can do is laugh under your breath as you pull the door open, because no — now that he’s mentioned it, you’ve never actually seen a baby gull in your life.
“Well, look who’s in a good mood,” Bonnie, the woman at reception, says.
You glance up, still smiling as you make your way toward the staff room.
“Just having a good week,” you reply.
And you’re not lying.
The day goes by nicely. Work is exactly what it’s always been too, nothing's new. The schedule is predictable, your break happens at the same time it always does, but there’s something particularly entertaining about knowing that, at around four in the afternoon, you can pull out your phone and text someone that Susan from finance is cheating on her husband with Robert, the man who delivers the chemicals for the photo developers.
Oscar seems especially horrified by the replies he sends back, and when he says that maybe he should tell Susan’s husband, you let out a laugh so loud that the girls in the booth immediately tell you to keep it down. You nod, covering your mouth with one hand as you text back, you’re getting me into trouble here. He answers almost immediately with a simple okay, sorry, and somehow that’s enough to leave a small smile lingering on your face.
Yes. Yes, things have been nice.
His break is almost over, which means you won’t be in the same city for much longer. Soon enough, he’ll go back to travelling the world in his tight little racing suit — as you so kindly pointed out to him. Oscar had smiled at that one and made sure you knew it by sending back a bright little 😁.
This gives you an idea.
It’s a silly one. Probably a little more compromising than you’re giving it credit for. But you and Oscar are friends now, aren’t you? And you’ve already slept together once. It was good. Very good. So what harm could a second night together really do, when he’s about to spend so much time away? It wouldn’t be anything new. If anything, it might even help. Oscar has an exhausting job. You have an exhausting job.
It takes him fifteen minutes to reply to your suggestion with a simple okay. Then it takes him an hour and a half to show up at your door.
Glancing around before opening it, you suddenly wonder if you might’ve backed yourself into a corner a little. It’s not as though you were trying to be subtle about why Oscar was here, but maybe the low yellow lighting and the slow music are making the whole thing feel a touch more deliberate than you meant it to. A flicker of embarrassment runs through you, and you hurry over to your phone, biting the inside of your cheek as you hit pause.
Okay. Better. Your shoulders loosen, and you head for the door.
“Hi,” you say, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you pull it open.
Oscar looks ridiculous.
Ridiculously attractive, to be specific.
You’re not blind. You knew that from the first time you saw him leaning against that wall at the club, all soft eyes and unfairly pretty mouth. And when he gives you that crooked little smile, whatever lingering doubt you had evaporates on the spot.
This was absolutely the right decision.
God, you’re a genius.
“Hi,” he says back.
Your eyebrows lift, just a little, because suddenly you’re not nervous anymore. Not really. What you don’t know is that Oscar’s heart is beating so fast it might actually give up from exhaustion at any moment.
You tilt your head toward the inside of the house, silently inviting him in.
The door clicks shut behind you as you head for the couch. Oscar follows, glancing around with that curious, slightly charmed look on his face, but in the end, his attention settles back on you. He walks over and sits beside you.
“So…” he says, flicking you a quick glance. “Do you want to talk?”
The little look on your face already answers for you, but you say it anyway.
“We already talk all the time.”
Oscar laughs.
It’s low and warm and quietly melodic, and then he reaches for you, because suddenly he understands that he can. That he’s allowed to. That you want this just as much as he does. Christ, you invited him here.
You shift closer and swing your legs over his hips, and you know he loves that. He told you so that night. He told you so many things and nothing at all, and somehow, you remembered every single one.
“I want to kiss you,” he says, his eyes dropping to your mouth.
“I think you can kiss me,” you reply, repeating the same thing he’d said to you nights and nights ago.
His smile widens.
“You think?”
“I’m pretty sure you’re not tired, so I’m not going to keep following the script. I haven’t worn you out yet,” you murmur, lifting your hands to his cheeks.
And Oscar becomes quite certain that he could die right there and still be perfectly happy about it in the afterlife.
He leans in, and he already knows exactly what to do.
You part your lips for him straight away, because this kiss was never supposed to be soft. No. It was always meant to burn.
Fuck. Yes. This is it. This is exactly what Oscar had been looking for for the past two weeks, and when you push his head back against the sofa and take over the kiss with an intensity that makes his grip tighten around your waist, he’s fairly sure he’s just been launched into another dimension.
One that smells like you. Feels like you. Has you everywhere.
This is casual, Oscar reminds himself. Just one more night before he leaves. Normal sex. With someone he trusts. A way to let off steam. Right. Of course. Sure.
Yes. He knows that.
He eases you back against the couch. Oscar is in control now. Or at least, that’s the plan. But the second he presses into you and hears that hungry little sound disappear into his mouth, he forgets what the word control is even supposed to mean.
You’ve just gotten out of the shower. Together.
Now you’re lying on your side, facing Oscar, wearing the hoodie you stole that morning before leaving his place — and he’s quietly losing his mind over the fact that it doesn’t smell like him anymore. Now it’s just you.
He’d love to steal it back, though not because he misses it.
“What are the next few weeks going to look like?” you ask softly, your index finger tracing absent little patterns over the freckles on his chest.
Oscar slips a hand beneath the hem of the hoodie and rests it on your waist, and you immediately pull a face when his fingers meet your skin.
“Your hand is freezing,” you complain.
He just laughs.
“Two races back-to-back,” he says, his thumb stroking over your waist, “and then two weeks without one.”
Your eyes lift to his.
“Two race weekends in a row?”
Oscar nods.
“And you like that?”
He raises an eyebrow.
“The racing part?”
You nod.
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“It’s my favourite thing in the world,” he says.
Your fingers pause over his chest.
“What does it feel like?”
You shift a little closer into the bed, settling in as you wait for his answer, your eyes fixed on his. Oscar bites the inside of his cheek for a second, thinking, then blinks up at the ceiling.
“I think…” he says slowly. “I think it’s probably the closest anyone can get to real freedom.”
Your expression softens.
“And maybe a little like flying,” he adds. “If flying came with lower back pain.”
A laugh slips out of you.
“It hurts that much?”
“Oh, yeah.” He nods. “Feels like someone stuffed me into a sardine tin and then stretched me out with medieval torture equipment.”
That makes you laugh properly.
“Wow. Sounds lovely.”
“It is,” Oscar says, smiling. “I told you. It’s my favourite.”
Your expression softens again, and without really thinking about it, you nudge your forehead against his shoulder in a quiet little request to be held. Oscar immediately wraps an arm around you.
“Then I think you need to sleep, you sardine-tin masochist,” you murmur, your eyes already drifting shut. “It won’t do for McLaren’s best driver to show up exhausted.”
He goes still for a second, breathing a little mechanically.
“Sleep here?”
“Hm.” You tuck yourself in closer. “I’m not about to kick you out after you gave me some of the best orgasms of my life for the second time. That would just be rude.”
The heat that rushes into his cheeks is so immediate he’s half-convinced there might actually be smoke coming out of his ears.
“Oh my God.”
You burst out laughing and melt further into him.
“You’re so puritanical when you talk. It’s adorable.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“Hm. Alright, then. Say something outrageous.”
Oscar thinks. Really thinks.
“Sex.”
You gasp.
“Wow.”
Now it’s his turn to laugh, low and helpless, as he pulls you in a little tighter.
“Go to sleep,” he says.
“Okay,” you mumble, already halfway there as your body goes soft against his.
And Oscar can’t quite believe this day is real — that you, of all people, are curled up against his chest, wearing his hoodie while you drift off to sleep.
When he closes his eyes, he already knows exactly what he’ll be dreaming about.
The two race weeks go by fast, but not kindly. Oscar feels every second of them.
Neither of them turns out quite the way he would’ve liked. In one, both he and Lando end up with DNFs. In the other, he drags home a hard-earned P5 in the rain after starting P9, in what had already been one of the worst qualifying sessions imaginable — helped along by three DNFs ahead of him and an overtake dramatic enough to earn its own replay. The whole thing is such complete chaos that Oscar isn’t entirely sure how he makes it out alive.
In the middle of all that, though, even knowing he’s exhausted from briefings, late-night team meetings, and complaints that never seem to go anywhere, Oscar still finds one way or another to reply to you.
He loves the voice notes you send him, especially the ones where you tell him that one wet corner he took nearly sent your heart straight out of your chest. And then, naturally, you decide to drop a bomb in his lap.
A photo.
You’re wearing a McLaren shirt you bought, one exactly like his. His number on the front. His number on the back. Big enough to leave absolutely no room for interpretation. The “fuck” that slips out of Oscar is so loud that half the garage turns to look at him. He actually has to apologise.
And when he finally gets back home, you call him and ask if he wants to celebrate.
“I’d love to,” he says, setting his suitcase down by the wall. “What exactly are we celebrating?”
“Your marriage to P5,” you reply. “I saw people on Twitter saying you’re very attached to that position. Apparently you only cheat on it with the occasional P7.”
Oscar shakes his head, but a helpless laugh escapes him anyway.
“That’s ridiculous,” he says. “People should mind their own business.”
You hum.
“Rude. Your fans won’t like hearing that you’re this badly behaved.”
“And are you planning to tell them?”
“Only if you don’t agree to go out and celebrate with me,” you say. “I’ve got an idea, and I’d hate for it to go to waste.”
Oscar goes soft immediately. He still has no idea how to say no to you.
“Alright,” he says. “Let’s do it.”
“Yay.”
With a small smile still tugging at his mouth, he hangs up and goes to get ready.
“When you talked to me for the first time at the club, what was your first thought?” you ask, peering at him over the enormous witch-hat-shaped cotton candy in your hands.
Oscar pretends to think about it, but he already knows the answer. He reaches over to tear off a piece of your cotton candy, and when you immediately protest with an indignant, “Hey!”, he says,
“I thought, who’s this lunatic asking me for drink recommendations?”
“Lunatic?!” you gasp. “My God. You’re so rude.”
A quiet little laugh slips out of him, and by then the two of you are already making your way toward the shooting stall, because apparently that’s the next attraction you’ve decided you need to learn how to play.
Oscar hadn’t even known there was a festival in town with a fairground attached. It had been a long time since he’d been to one of these.
“Do you realise you’ve called me rude twice today?” he asks, clearly amused as he hands the tokens over to the guy at the stall.
You set your cotton candy down on the little ledge, take your toy gun, and shrug.
“Maybe you should reflect on that.”
“Me?” he asks, picking up his own.
“Yes, you. You’re the one being rude.”
Oscar laughs and ducks his head, squinting through the sight. You copy him, bending down a little beside him. When you fire your first shot, one of the bottles topples over immediately. Oscar misses by half an inch.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, straightening up to see what went wrong.
“Ha! Okay. Again,” you say, already adjusting your stance for the next shot.
In the end, Oscar gets two strikes, and you only manage one.
You decide immediately that this is so, so unfair and inform him that, as compensation for the absolute tragedy of your performance, he’s going to have to give you the giant dolphin he won. Oscar complains, obviously, but somehow still ends up carrying two absurdly oversized stuffed animals — one enormous heart and, of course, the dolphin you’d already claimed for yourself — while you tug him along by the elbow toward the photo booth.
Oscar loves seeing you like this. All bright-eyed and happy, wandering around the fair like an overexcited little kid.
You slide onto the bench inside the booth, pull the stuffed animals in between the two of you, and then reach for Oscar’s hand to get him to sit down beside you.
“Do a good pose,” you warn him before pressing the start button. “And none of that thumbs-up thing you always do.”
“What’s wrong with—”
“Look!”
You grab his cheek and squish it, forcing his mouth into a pout while you do one of your own.
The next photo catches Oscar mid-laugh, with you wearing the most delightfully mischievous little smile. Then there’s one of both of you looking straight at the camera, and another where each of you is hugging one of the stuffed animals.
In the end, the two of you somehow end up at the top of the Ferris wheel, entirely because it was Oscar’s idea. Nothing could be more cliché than this, he’d thought. But then you were leaning over to look at the city below, pointing off into the distance with a bright little, “I can see my house from here!” and Oscar decided he didn’t care even a little bit.
At some point during the ride, though, things get a little out of hand. Because you turn to him with a look that means absolutely no good, then lean in close to his ear and whisper an idea so scandalous that the only thing Oscar manages in response is biting down on his own lip before kissing you hard and letting his hand drift somewhere very, very dangerous.
Oscar doesn’t do things like this. And, if you’re being honest, neither do you.
But when your mouth falls open and you have to hide your face in the curve of his neck to muffle the sound trying to escape, you find yourself thinking that maybe — yes — you could get used to doing things like this.
Of course you fuck that night. And the night after that. And the one after that, and the one after that too. What started as a one-night thing after the club — no strings, no expectations — turned into a second night with no strings attached, and then into weeks of no strings attached, until suddenly you have no idea what’s going on anymore.
Because now you’re lying in Oscar’s bed, and tomorrow he has to leave for a race week, and all you can think about is how much you don’t want to be here without him.
His eyes are closed, and he looks peaceful in that way only Oscar ever seems to manage. In that way you’ve somehow learned to recognise, and—
Oh, fuck.
You’d rather not think about it, so instead you just close your eyes, curl your arms around him, and breathe in the soft scent of the cologne he wears — the one that, somewhere along the way, became your favourite.
When you wake up, it’s to the sound of Oscar moving around the room, gathering his things and carrying them out to the living room.
And you can tell he’s doing it as slowly as humanly possible so he won’t wake you, because the room is still dark and he’s trying to see everything by the light of his phone torch alone.
“Morning?” you mumble, rubbing one eye with the back of your hand.
Oscar stops mid-step, looks over at you with his head tilted slightly to one side, and smiles.
“Morning,” he says. “Did I wake you?”
There’s a faint note of guilt in his voice.
You shake your head and yawn, reaching out to tug him closer by the hand.
“You’re leaving already?”
He nods and comes back to sit in the empty space beside you. Your hand curls around his forearm.
“And you weren’t even going to say goodbye.”
Oscar wrinkles his nose.
“I didn’t want to interrupt your sleep.”
“You were going to leave me lying here in your bed while you went off travelling,” you say. “Don’t you protect your belongings?”
A quiet laugh slips out of him as he glances down at the fingers absently stroking his arm.
“Of course I do. But half of them are already at your place, so…”
You hum.
“Fair enough.”
Your eyes are still heavy with sleep, and your grip on his arm loosens a little, but you lift a finger and tap your forehead.
“I want a kiss here.”
Oscar smiles like an absolute fool and leans in. Honestly, how can someone be this needy? He presses a kiss right where you pointed.
“Here?” he asks, and then drops one onto your cheek. “I’ll leave one here…” Then the other. “And one here too.” The tip of your nose. “Here.” And finally, your lips. “And one here.”
You’re smiling by then, one hand curled around the back of his neck, and when you open your eyes properly, you tilt your head to the side and nod.
“That’s better,” you say. “Now you can go.”
He leaves one last kiss on your forehead before getting to his feet.
“But I’ll be back,” he says. “You won’t even have time to miss me.”
Oh, but you will. You definitely will.
“Okay,” you murmur.
And when Oscar finally leaves, you let yourself go limp against the bed, staring at nothing as you wonder what the hell you’re supposed to do with your life now that you’ve somehow managed to ruin everything.
He’s absolutely brilliant that weekend.
You watch Oscar cross the finish line from pole position with the giant stuffed dolphin hugged to your chest, and the very first thing you do afterwards is grab your phone and text him:
DIVORCE FROM P5!!!!!!!!! 🎉🎉🎉🎉
Watching the podium celebration is a little harder. Mostly because, honestly, how is he allowed to look like that while the Australian anthem is playing?
Half an hour later, he replies with a simple:
celebration?
And you send back whatever you want! before promptly dropping onto the rug on your back and staring up at the ceiling.
You’ve been doing that a lot lately.
As if the ceiling might suddenly decide to give you some kind of answer. It never does. Not even one.
Outside the restaurant, the one he promised he’d take you to, tucked into the middle of the city and glowing softly with candlelight, Oscar takes your hand.
He’s wearing a suit. He hates suits, but he told you he put one on because, once, you mentioned seeing a photo of him in one and thinking he looked really handsome. So now he’s standing there in a suit he doesn’t even like, his fingers threaded through yours like this is the easiest thing in the world.
Like it doesn’t pull at something deep in your chest.
He reaches for your chair and waits until you sit so he can gently push it in, then takes the seat beside you, not across from you, beside you, and orders for both of you, wine included, because tonight is a real celebration, isn’t it?
“Pole position,” you say, propping your head up on one hand as you look at him. “That deserves a proper celebration.”
Oscar has so much to say about it.
About the race weekend, about the way the team helped him get there, answering every question you ask mostly because you like listening to him explain things. He talks and talks, and all you can think is that you have no idea how people still insist he’s quiet, or reserved, or hard to read, because no one gets this version of him. Not like you do.
And in the end, when he finally runs out of things to say, he just looks down with a small, lovely smile and says,
“Yeah. Pole position. Pretty cool, huh?”
A soft laugh slips out of you as you look at him. Honestly, he’s unbelievable.
“Yeah,” you say, all fondness. “Pole position is very cool.”
He lifts his eyes to you and squints a little.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Am I?” you ask, and he leans in closer.
“I don’t care,” he says, and steals a quick little kiss that makes your stomach turn over.
The food arrives, and the conversation keeps going.
It’s the same easy rhythm that always leaves you warm all over, full of butterflies, the same dry little jokes that make you laugh far more than they probably should, day after day after day, and it’s… perfect. Everything about it is perfect.
Then his hand disappears beneath the table and finds yours again, threading your fingers together like it’s second nature by now, and you look at him as you swallow hard.
Defeated. Ruined. Your heart in pieces.
He looks back at you, and you… You wish that look could stay forever. You wish it meant exactly what yours does.
By the time the two of you step back outside, the whole thing feels almost cinematic: a street in Monaco at night, all soft yellow lights and a couple dressed far too well for their own good.
“Osc?” you call, turning to look at him.
“Hm?” he says, stopping immediately so he can listen.
How are you supposed to say this without making a complete disaster of yourself in the process? Your eyes are already threatening to spill over, and you have to blink hard and tip your chin up just to keep the tears where they are.
“I—I…” you start, your voice already trembling as it fights to stay steady. “I don’t think we can keep doing… this.”
Oscar blinks, and you watch his shoulders drop.
“What?” he asks, patient, waiting.
But you don’t want to explain. You don’t want to talk. Your mouth is already wobbling into a cry, one tear slipping free despite your best efforts, and you’re lifting your fist to wipe at the corner of your eye while Oscar is about two seconds away from panicking.
“This,” you say helplessly. “Casual. I don’t want to force anything, but I can’t… I can’t—” You swallow hard, trying to breathe through it. “I can’t keep doing this casual thing with you. Going to your place, wearing your clothes, walking around holding your hand and seeing you wear… wear something just because you know I like it…” Your voice drops, smaller now, barely holding together. “And keep pretending that…”
His chest rises and falls, quick and shallow. Oscar is still waiting.
You lower your voice until it’s almost a whisper.
“Keep pretending I’m not in love with you.”
Oscar goes completely still, like his whole body is rebooting in real time.
He lifts a hand, asking for a second, and you — who were quite literally crying a moment ago — sniffle and stare at him, suddenly very confused by the reaction. He scratches the top of his head.
“Can you…” he starts, clearing his throat. “Can you say that again?”
Your arms fall uselessly to your sides. You blink once. Then again.
“I…” Your voice comes out small and uncertain. “I can’t keep pretending I’m not… in love with you?”
His eyes widen. He clears his throat again, bites at the tip of his thumb like he’s trying very hard to hide a smile, and says,
“You know, this is actually kind of funny…”
What?
“Because I—” He swallows hard. And then he looks at you, all soft around the edges. “Oh, my God…”
He lets the breath out of him slowly, tucks his hands behind his back because they’re shaking, and then finally…
Finally.
“I’m in love with you too.”
And now it’s your turn to stop functioning entirely.
“W-What?” you ask, blinking at him as you try, and fail, to make sense of any of it.
Oscar just shakes his head.
His hand comes to rest at your waist, and right before he kisses you — right before his mouth finds yours in a way that says far more than either of you has managed all night — he murmurs softly,
“I’m in love with you. Like a complete idiot.”
And somehow, all at once, everything falls into place. You hold onto him as you kiss him back, your knees going weak beneath you.
“Fuck casual,” he whispers when he pulls away just enough to speak.
A soft laugh slips out of you.
“Oscar…”
“My God,” he murmurs, smiling so helplessly it nearly does you in.
You’re grinning by then, all warmth and relief and something so fond it almost hurts, and you kiss him again. And again. And one more time, just because you can.
“My Oscar?” you whisper back.
He rests his forehead against yours, looking for all the world like a man who’s lost a battle and doesn’t mind one bit.
“Your Oscar.”
“OSCAR PIASTRI NEW GIRLFRIEND?”
That’s the giant headline currently making you smile so hard your cheeks hurt. Oscar notices immediately and, naturally, becomes suspicious.
“What are you looking at?” he asks, eyes still on the television as his fingers drift lazily through your hair, now that you’re stretched out with your head in his lap.
You don’t answer. You just turn your phone around so he can see the screen.
Oscar glances at it, lifts an eyebrow in a very poor attempt at pretending not to care, and then — about two seconds later — a little smile appears at the corner of his mouth.
“You like that,” you say, thoroughly entertained.
He looks down at you, still absentmindedly playing with your hair.
“You would too,” he says, far too pleased with himself, “if you had a girlfriend like mine.”
You let out an offended little huff and drop your phone onto the couch before lifting your face to glare at him, though it’s hard to look very irritated when your heart is trying to melt out of your body.
“I can’t make fun of you when you’re being all cute like that.”
A second passes. He doesn’t say anything.
Then another.
“I think we should do a hard launch.”
You go still.
“Since when do you know what a hard launch is?”
Oscar shrugs like this is a perfectly normal thing for him to say.
“Do you want to?” you ask, suddenly a little shy. “Tell everyone, I mean.”
He nods.
Your smile sneaks back immediately, and you hide your face against his stomach before he can see too much of it.
“You get shy too, you know,” he murmurs.
“Shut up.”
Oscar laughs softly and bends down to steal a kiss from you anyway.
Your friends were determined to get you your driver’s license after two failed attempts, so they hired the best driving instructor in Monaco to fix your… driving situation. You expected strict lessons and zero patience. What you didn’t expect was falling for the guy trying to teach you how to drive.
pairing. driving instructor! Oscar Piastri x fem! reader.
YOUR COMPLETELY NONEXISTENT DRIVING LICENSE HAD BECOME A RUNNING JOKE IN YOUR FRIEND GROUP. Not a cruel one—just the kind that kept coming back like a bad sequel. Mostly because you had actually tried. Twice. And somehow, against all logic and the laws of probability, you had failed both times.
Eventually, you made peace with it. Maybe driving just wasn’t meant for you. Maybe the universe had looked at you behind the wheel and said, “Absolutely not.” Honestly, it felt responsible to accept that. You told yourself you were doing the world a favour by staying far away from anything with an engine.
Your friends, however, did not share this peaceful acceptance.
Every time you needed to go somewhere, you ended up asking one of them for a ride. At first, it was casual. Then it became routine. Then it became… expected. And lately, those rides had started to come with looks. The kind of looks that said we adore you, but please, we are begging you, do something about this.
Which is probably how you ended up here.
Sitting in a tiny café, across from your friends, all of whom were staring at you with a level of focus normally reserved for interventions or cult meetings. No one was scrolling. No one was chatting. They just sat there, watching you like they had rehearsed this moment.
You didn’t like it.
Not even a little.
There was something about the seriousness on their faces that made your stomach twist, like they had already made a decision about your life and were now preparing to present it to you in a PowerPoint. You didn’t know what was coming, but you were almost certain it wasn’t going to be fun.
“Can you please just tell me what’s going on?” you groaned, leaning forward as you looked between them. “You’re all staring at me like I’m about to be voted off the island. It’s getting weird.”
“Your driving license…” Alex began carefully.
No. Absolutely not.
You didn’t even let her finish. Your eyes rolled before you could stop them, your head tipping back as you let out the kind of sigh usually reserved for tax season. Of course. It always came back to that.
“If this is an intervention, I’m leaving,” you muttered, grabbing your drink like it was emotional support. “I’ve accepted my fate. I don’t drive. It’s better for society. We’ve discussed this many times.”
“That’s exactly the problem,” Alex said.
You froze mid‑sip, lowering your cup slowly. “…how is that a problem?”
“Because,” Lily said, sharing a look with the others, “you’ve accepted it a little too much.”
You stared at them, unimpressed. “I’m being realistic.”
“You’re being lazy.”
“I am not being lazy,” you shot back, sitting up straighter. “I tried. Twice. And both times ended in disaster. At some point, you have to accept when something just isn’t meant for you.”
“You mounted a curb,” Rebecca reminded you.
“It was a high curb,” you said immediately.
“It was average.”
“It felt high in the moment.”
Another look passed around the table. You didn’t like that look. It had the same energy as people silently agreeing to unplug a bomb.
Your eyes narrowed. “Why do I feel like you’ve all talked about this without me?”
“Because we have,” Alex said, far too casually.
You blinked. “…you what?”
“It wasn’t a long discussion,” Lily added quickly. “More like a shared realization.”
“That I’m a danger to the roads?” you deadpanned.
“That you need help,” Rebecca corrected.
You leaned back in your chair, arms crossing on instinct. “I don’t like where this is going.”
“That’s unfortunate,” Alex said, almost apologetic. “Because it’s already happening.”
That was not a good sentence. Not in any universe.
“…what did you do?” you asked slowly.
Their smile was the only answer you needed to know you were absolutely, completely doomed.
No one answered right away.
That was never a good sign. In fact, it was usually the moment right before your life took a sharp turn you did not approve of.
Alex glanced at the others like they were silently choosing a sacrifice, and your suspicion spiked. You straightened in your seat, bracing yourself like someone about to hear bad medical news.
“…Alex,” you warned.
“Okay, don’t get mad—”
“I’m already mad.”
“You don’t even know what it is yet.”
“I can feel it,” you shot back. “Just say it.”
There was a tiny pause. The kind that stretched just long enough to make your stomach drop.
Then—
“We found you a driving instructor.”
You stared at them.
Blank. Emotionless. The kind of stare that came from your soul leaving your body for safety reasons.
“…you did what?”
“A driving instructor,” Alex repeated, as if saying it slowly would somehow make it sound less horrifying. “A really good one, actually.”
You blinked once. Twice. Your brain tried to reboot and failed.
Then you let out a short, disbelieving laugh. It didn’t sound healthy. “No. No, you didn’t.”
“We did,” Lily said, far too cheerfully for someone delivering a death sentence.
Your heart sank. Your palms went warm. Your whole body felt like it was trying to climb out of itself.
“No, because that would mean you completely ignored everything I just said about me not driving.”
“You’re not not driving,” Alex said, like this was some kind of motivational speech. “You’re just… temporarily bad at it.”
“Temporarily?” you echoed, staring at him like he’d grown a second head. “It’s been years.”
“Growth isn’t linear.”
You dropped your head into your hands, dragging your palms down your face as if you could physically wipe away the situation. Your chest felt tight in that familiar, annoyed‑but‑also‑tired way, the one that came whenever your friends decided they knew what was best for you. “I cannot believe you,” you muttered, even though a small part of you absolutely could. This was exactly the kind of thing they would do.
“It’s already booked,” Rebecca said, far too casually for someone detonating your entire week.
Your head snapped up so fast your neck almost cracked. “I’m sorry—what?”
“Your first lesson,” Alex said, like she was announcing a weather update. “It’s tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?!” Your voice shot up without your permission, your whole body jolting like someone had plugged you into a wall socket. “You booked it without even asking me?!”
“We knew you’d say no,” Lily said gently, like that made it better.
“Because I am saying no!” you fired back, heat rising in your chest. You could feel your pulse in your ears. You could feel the panic starting to creep in, that old familiar dread of being behind the wheel, of messing up again, of proving everyone right about you being hopeless.
Alex winced, but she didn’t back down. She never backed down when she thought she was doing the “right thing,” which was honestly one of her most annoying qualities. “Just try one lesson.”
“No.” You crossed your arms, grounding yourself, trying to build a wall out of sheer stubbornness.
“One.”
“No.”
“Please.”
You rolled your eyes, crossing your arms as you leaned back slightly, trying to put some emotional distance between you and the disaster unfolding in front of you. “What about the instructor?”
Lily’s smile widened in a way that immediately set off alarm bells in your head. She looked far too pleased with herself, like someone who had just pressed a big red button and was waiting to see what happened. “The best in Monaco. Seriously. He’s helped people way worse than you.”
You blinked.
Slowly.
“…way worse than me?”
“I didn’t mean—”
“You definitely meant that.”
“I meant inexperienced,” she corrected quickly, though the tiny wince on her face told you she absolutely meant what she said the first time.
You let out a short, disbelieving laugh, shaking your head as you leaned even further back in your chair, as if sliding away from the table might somehow save you. Your chest felt tight, your stomach twisting with that familiar mix of dread and annoyance. “No. No, absolutely not. I’m not doing this again.”
There was a brief pause. The kind of pause that said they had expected resistance, but maybe not this level of immediate, dramatic refusal. They exchanged another look—the kind that made you feel like a toddler refusing vegetables.
“Come on,” Lily tried again, her voice softening just a little, like she was trying to coax a scared animal out from under a bed. “At least hear us out.”
“I have heard you out,” you said, gesturing vaguely at all of them, your frustration bubbling up. “You found some mystery instructor, decided I’m a lost cause, and signed me up without asking. That’s the summary, right?” You threw your hands up, exasperated. “What is even his name?!”
“His name is Oscar. He’s calm, patient, young—” Rebecca started.
You didn’t even let her finish before your eyes rolled so hard it felt like a full‑body reaction. The kind of eye roll that came from years of friendship and deep, exhausted disbelief.
“—and very good at what he does,” she added quickly, like that tiny detail was supposed to magically fix everything.
“Low bar,” you muttered, mostly to yourself, though you knew they heard it.
“Lowkey your type…” Alex cut in, far too casually, like she was tossing out a harmless observation instead of lighting a match and dropping it straight into your bloodstream.
You froze.
Just for a second.
Because of course they said that. Of course they went there. Your friends never missed a chance to make your life harder in the name of “help.”
Your gaze snapped back to them, sharp and immediate, your whole expression tightening. “My type?” you repeated, narrowing your eyes. “You don’t even know my type.”
Alex raised a brow, the picture of confidence. “Don’t I?”
Before you could argue, Lily leaned in with the kind of look that said she had receipts. “You literally like the exact opposites of yourself, girl. Don’t lie to us.”
And the worst part?
Your stomach did a tiny, traitorous flip.
Because you knew exactly what she meant—calm, quiet, steady guys who looked like they could fix a car and your emotional issues in the same afternoon. Guys who didn’t talk too much, didn’t show off, didn’t make everything dramatic. Guys who made you feel safe without even trying.
Exactly the kind of guy they would think this Oscar was.
Exactly the kind of guy who could ruin your life a little.
And you hated that they knew that.
The worst part of all of this?
You had actually started thinking about it.
Not the driving. Definitely not that. The idea of you behind a wheel still made your stomach twist in that familiar, unpleasant way. But the instructor… that was a different story. Meeting someone who, according to your friends, was apparently calm and patient and had his life together? Someone who could teach people how to drive without losing his mind? That was… concerning. Mostly because it sounded suspiciously like the exact type you pretended you didn’t have.
And even worse—if this whole thing didn’t work out, at least you might meet someone new. Someone interesting.
You pushed that thought away so fast it practically skidded across the floor of your brain.
Nope. Not thinking about that. Not getting your hopes up. Absolutely not.
“If I show up tomorrow and this man is weird, or rude, or—” you paused, narrowing your eyes as the paranoia kicked in, “—or in on this, I’m blaming all of you.”
“He’s not weird,” Alex said confidently, like he had personally run a background check.
“That’s not reassuring,” you muttered, because it wasn’t.
“You’re going to love him,” Lily added, sounding far too sure of herself.
You stared at her.
Then at Alex.
Then at the rest of them, who all looked way too pleased with themselves for people who had just ruined your weekend.
“…I hate all of you,” you said flatly.
Lily only smiled, completely unfazed. “Tomorrow. Ten a.m. Don’t be late. I’ll send you the adress.”
You groaned, dropping your head into your hands, already feeling the weight of this terrible, terrible idea settling on your shoulders. You could practically see your future: panic, embarrassment, maybe a small emotional breakdown in a parked car. Perfect.
And yet… a tiny part of you wondered what Oscar looked like.
You shut that part down immediately.
────────────
You were early.
That was the first bad sign.
You didn’t do early. You barely did “on time.” Your natural state was somewhere between almost late and technically not late if you squint at the clock. But today, somehow, you were here with ten whole minutes to spare, standing outside the driving school like you were about to take an exam you hadn’t studied for and definitely didn’t sign up for.
You checked your phone for the fifth time.
9:53.
“…great,” you muttered, your voice flat. “Perfect. Love this for me.”
Your friends had been far too confident about this whole situation. You’re going to love him, they’d said, like that meant anything. Like you weren’t about to meet a complete stranger and trust him with your life, your nerves, and your already questionable driving abilities. The thought alone made your stomach twist.
You let out a slow breath, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you looked around, trying to convince yourself this was fine. Normal. Manageable. Just one lesson. You could survive one lesson. Probably. Hopefully.
Right?
The door behind you opened.
“Hey.”
You turned.
And for a moment—just one, tiny, traitorous moment—your brain completely stopped working.
Because the man standing there was… not what you expected.
Not even close.
Calm was the first thing you noticed. Not the fake kind people put on to seem impressive, but the real kind. The kind that settled around him like a quiet aura, like he didn’t need to raise his voice or wave his arms to be taken seriously. He just existed, steady and unbothered, and somehow that was enough.
Then came everything else.
Neat. Put‑together. Brown hair that looked soft in a way you immediately pretended not to notice. Brown eyes that were warm but focused, like he actually paid attention to the world around him. A slightly serious expression, but not in a cold way—more like someone who thought before he spoke. Someone who didn’t rush. Someone who noticed details.
And unfortunately, someone who was very, very easy to look at.
Your heart did a small, confused flip.
This was… not ideal.
Not ideal at all.
You blinked once.
Then again.
And then you very quickly reminded yourself to stop staring before you made this even more embarrassing than it already was.
“…you’re my driving instructor?” you asked, your voice coming out a little softer, a little less confident than you wanted.
He nodded. “Oscar.”
Just Oscar. Simple. Calm. Like he didn’t need anything more than that.
Of course.
You straightened a little, trying to force your brain to catch up. “Right. Hi. Hello.” You gave a tiny, awkward wave you regretted instantly. “I’m Y/n—well, you probably already know that. I’m the problem.”
There was a small pause.
Then—just barely—he smiled.
“I’ve heard,” he said.
You narrowed your eyes. “From who?”
“Your friends.”
Of course. Traitors. Every single one of them. You were going to yell at them later.
You huffed, crossing your arms like that would protect you from the embarrassment. “I hope they told you the full story.”
“They gave me an idea.”
You raised a brow. “And?”
His gaze stayed on you, calm and steady in a way that made you feel strangely exposed. Not judged. Just… seen. Like he was already trying to understand you, not your mistakes.
“I think I can handle it,” he said.
Something about the way he said it—so sure, so gentle—made your stomach do a small, confused flip you absolutely did not approve of.
You shoved that feeling away immediately.
“Wow,” you said, deadpan. “Confidence. Love that for you.”
And he smiled again, just a little, like he already knew you were going to be trouble—and didn’t mind at all.
He didn’t react much, just tilted his head a little, like he was already taking in the entire situation and quietly deciding what to do with it. He had that calm, steady energy that made you feel both seen and slightly judged in the gentlest way possible.
“Ready to start?” he asked.
You let out a slow breath, staring at the car like it had personally ruined your life. “No,” you admitted honestly. “But let’s go anyway.”
He nodded once, completely unfazed, and stepped aside with a small gesture toward the car parked nearby. “Then we’ll take it step by step.”
“Step by step,” you repeated under your breath, as if saying it enough times might magically make you believe it.
“Exactly.”
You started walking, and you were painfully aware of him following just behind you. Not too close, but close enough that you could feel his presence. It was distracting in a way that made absolutely no sense, which somehow made it even worse. Your brain was already doing too much.
When you reached the driver’s side, you stopped.
Just stared at the door.
For a moment, it genuinely felt like the car was staring back at you too, judging you, remembering every curb you’d ever mounted.
“…this is where things usually go wrong,” you muttered.
“Then we’ll take it slower,” he said from beside you, voice steady.
You turned your head to look at him. “You say that like it helps.”
“It should.”
“It doesn’t.”
There was a small pause. Not awkward. Just quiet. A soft kind of silence that made you feel like he was giving you space instead of waiting for you to fail.
And then, for the first time since you’d met him, you caught something subtle in his expression—something close to amusement. Not obvious, not dramatic, but definitely there. A tiny spark of it.
“Let’s try anyway,” he said.
You looked back at the car.
Then at him.
Then back at the car.
Yeah.
This poor man had absolutely no idea what he had just signed up for—and you weren’t sure whether to warn him or let him find out the hard way.
“Alright,” you said, mostly to yourself, like you were trying to hype up a very unconvincing version of you. “How hard can it be.”
Oscar didn’t answer that, which was probably the smartest thing he could’ve done.
You opened the car door and slid into the driver’s seat, and suddenly everything felt too real. Too official. Your hands didn’t know where to rest, your feet felt like they were in the wrong place, and your brain was loudly reminding you that you had failed this exact situation before. Twice.
Oscar walked around and got into the passenger seat, and the moment he settled in, the space felt smaller. Not in a bad way—just… closer. More focused. Like the air shifted and now you were very aware of him sitting beside you, calm and steady while you were quietly falling apart.
You swallowed, staring straight ahead like the windshield might offer emotional support.
“Okay,” he said, voice soft and even. “Seat first.”
You blinked. “Seat?”
“Yeah. Adjust it so you can reach the pedals comfortably.”
You nodded quickly, grabbed the lever, and pulled the seat forward—way too far forward.
Your knees nearly hit the steering wheel.
You froze. “…that’s probably too much.”
Oscar glanced over, the corner of his mouth almost lifting. “Slightly.”
“Right.”
You pushed the seat back a little. Then a little more. Then too much. Then forward again. It was a whole journey, but eventually it felt… okay. Not perfect, but not terrible either.
You leaned back, hands resting lightly on the steering wheel, your heart thumping a little too fast for something as simple as sitting.
This was fine.
This was manageable.
This was only mildly terrifying.
“This is already exhausting,” you admitted, letting your head fall back against the seat for a second.
“We haven’t started yet.”
“Yeah, I know. That’s the problem.”
There was a tiny pause, like he was deciding whether to laugh or stay professional. He chose professional. Mostly.
“Foot on the brake,” he said.
You nodded and placed your foot where he told you, trying to look like a functioning adult and not someone who was seconds away from panicking.
“Good. Now the key.”
You stared at the dashboard like it was written in another language.
“…the key,” you repeated, buying yourself time.
He nodded again, patient as ever.
You picked it up, your fingers already a little shaky as you slid it into the ignition. Your heart thumped harder, like it knew what was coming.
“This is the part where everything goes wrong,” you warned him, half‑serious, half‑terrified.
“It won’t,” he said simply.
You gave him a look. “You say that like you’ve seen me drive.”
“I’ve seen worse.”
“Wow. Encouraging.”
“Turn the key,” he said, ignoring your sarcasm with impressive skill.
You took a breath. A deep one. The kind you take before doing something brave or stupid.
Then you turned the key.
The engine roared to life.
You flinched so hard your shoulders jumped, your whole body tensing like the car had shouted at you.
“…okay,” you said, gripping the wheel a little tighter like it might try to escape. “Why is it so loud.”
“It’s supposed to be loud,” he replied, completely calm, like this was the most normal conversation in the world.
“I don’t like that it’s loud.”
“You’ll get used to it.”
“I don’t think I will.”
Another small pause. You could practically feel him choosing patience over honesty.
“Put it in drive,” he instructed.
You looked at the gear stick.
Then at him.
“…I’m sorry in advance,” you said, because it felt safer to warn him before the chaos started.
He gave you a look that almost—almost—looked like he was bracing himself. “Just take your time.”
You nodded, shifting the gear into drive.
The car didn’t move.
You frowned at it like it had betrayed you. “…is it supposed to do something?”
“It will,” he said.
You pressed the accelerator—just a little.
The car lurched forward like it had been waiting for the chance to scare you.
You gasped. “OH—NO—”
“Brake,” Oscar said quickly.
You slammed your foot down on the brake, and the car jerked to a stop so hard your whole body jolted.
Your heart was racing. Your palms were sweating. Your soul briefly left your body.
Oscar stayed perfectly calm.
You stared straight ahead, eyes wide, heart still thumping like it hadn’t caught up to the fact that the car had stopped.
“…I didn’t like that.”
Oscar exhaled quietly, glancing at you with that steady, unbothered calm that made you feel both ridiculous and strangely safe.
“Again,” he said.
You turned your head slowly, like you needed to confirm he really meant that. “Again?”
“Yes.”
“…you’re very calm about this.”
“I have to be.”
You huffed, gripping the wheel again, trying to convince your hands to stop shaking. “Okay. Again.”
You took a breath—deeper this time, trying to settle the panic buzzing under your skin—and pressed the accelerator.
The car moved.
Not violently. Not like it wanted to throw you into a ditch. Just… forward. Smooth. Controlled. Like it had finally decided to behave.
You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding, your shoulders dropping a little as the tension eased.
For the first time, it didn’t feel like the car was trying to kill you.
For the first time, you felt like maybe—maybe—you weren’t completely hopeless.
“Oh my god,” you whispered, a shaky kind of disbelief slipping into your voice. “I’m actually doing it.”
The car was moving—slow, steady, unbelievably controlled—but still moving. You kept your eyes locked on the road like looking anywhere else might break whatever fragile magic was happening.
“I think I’m getting the hang of it,” you added, though your tone made it sound like you were trying to convince yourself more than him.
Beside you, Oscar stayed quiet for a moment, just watching you with that calm, steady focus that somehow made your chest feel tight.
Then, in that same soft voice, he said, “You’re doing well.”
You scoffed immediately. “You don’t have to lie to me.”
“I’m not.”
You shot him a quick look. “I just tried to start the car like three times and almost launched us into a wall.”
“That was once,” he corrected.
“Twice.”
“Once and a half.”
A short laugh escaped you before you could stop it, your shoulders loosening just a little. “You’re being way too generous with me.”
“I’m being accurate.”
“Accurate,” you repeated, turning your eyes back to the road. “Right. Sure. Next thing you’ll tell me is that I’m a natural.”
And beside you, you could feel—not see, but feel—the quiet smile he was trying not to show.
There was a brief pause.
Then—soft, steady—
“Maybe,” he said.
You blinked, turning your head slightly. “Maybe?”
He nodded once, completely serious. “With more practice.”
You narrowed your eyes at him. “Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting?”
“I’m suggesting you should do more lessons.”
You let out a loud, disbelieving laugh. “Oh, absolutely not.”
“Why not?”
“Because this,” you gestured vaguely at the car, “is already a lot. I think I’ve done enough.”
“You’ve driven for thirty seconds.”
“And that was thirty seconds too many.”
Oscar glanced at you, and this time, there was no hiding it—the smallest hint of a smile tugged at his lips.
“You’re not as bad as you think,” he said.
You raised a brow immediately. “That sounded suspiciously like something you say before delivering bad news.”
“It’s not.”
“Mm. I don’t trust you.”
That earned a real laugh from him—quiet, warm, the kind that slipped under your skin before you could stop it.
You looked at him again, half‑annoyed, half‑something else entirely. “You do realize you’re going to regret that?”
Oscar smirked while looking at you, eyes soft but certain. “I don’t think so.”
────────────
You weren’t even supposed to be here.
Well—you were. Technically. You needed groceries. That was normal. Responsible. Adult‑ish.
What wasn’t normal was the fact that you had been standing in the same aisle for three full minutes, staring at two nearly identical pasta sauces like they were ancient riddles meant to test your worthiness.
“…what is even the difference,” you muttered, picking one up, then the other.
One had basil.
The other also had basil.
Useless.
You sighed, put them both back, then immediately picked them up again because apparently even the simplest decision was too much for your brain today.
This was fine.
Everything was fine.
You just needed to step back, clear your head, and—
You took one small step backwards.
And walked straight into someone.
Solid.
Very solid.
“Oh—” you startled, spinning around, your heart jumping from the sudden contact. “Sorry, I didn’t—”
The apology died in your throat.
Of course.
Of course it was him.
Oscar stood there, calm as ever, holding a basket like this was the most normal place in the world to run into your driving instructor—the same man who had watched you nearly launch a car into a wall.
Your brain short‑circuited.
Because of course the universe would do this to you.
“You again?” you said, staring at him like he had just materialized out of thin air—again.
“Me again.” He shrugged lightly, completely unbothered, like running into you in the middle of a grocery store was the most normal thing in the world. Like this happened all the time. Like he hadn’t just watched you nearly drive into a curb two days ago.
You blinked once, slow. Then narrowed your eyes, suspicion settling in like a cat making itself comfortable.
“…are you following me?”
His lips twitched—just barely, but enough to tell you he was fighting a smile. “I was here first.”
“That is exactly what someone who is following me would say.”
“I can assure you,” he said calmly, “I’m not.”
You studied him for a moment, trying to read his face, trying to decide whether he was lying or just naturally suspiciously calm. After a few seconds, you let out a small huff, crossing your arms around the two jars you still hadn’t chosen between.
“This is suspicious.”
“It’s a grocery store.”
“That doesn’t make it less suspicious.”
He tilted his head slightly, eyes dropping to the items in your hands. “Still deciding?”
You looked down at the jars, then back at him, feeling your face heat with the kind of embarrassment that only came from being caught struggling with pasta sauce by someone who had already witnessed your driving skills.
“Try this one,” he said, holding out a jar like he actually knew what he was talking about.
You looked at him, suspicious. “Why?”
“It has more basil.”
You squinted at him. “You can tell that by looking at the label?”
“I can tell by reading it.”
You narrowed your eyes, not convinced in the slightest. “You just want me to stop struggling.”
“Maybe.”
“…rude.”
His lips twitched—the smallest hint of a smile he was definitely trying to hide. “You asked for help.”
“I did not.”
“You were struggling.”
“That’s different.”
He looked at you with that calm, steady expression he always seemed to have—the one that made you feel like he was quietly amused but too polite to say anything. It was annoying. And weirdly comforting. And annoying again.
“…just try it,” he said, voice soft but firm, like he already knew you were going to listen.
You huffed, dramatic and defeated, and reached out to take the jar from him. Your fingers brushed his—just a quick, light touch—but it was enough to send a tiny spark of awareness up your arm. Enough to make your brain freeze for half a second.
You ignored that. Immediately. Aggressively.
“…fine,” you muttered, clutching the jar like it had personally offended you. “But if this tastes bad, I’m blaming you.”
“I can live with that.”
He said it so simply, so calmly, like the idea of you blaming him for pasta sauce wasn’t even a little bit intimidating. Like he didn’t mind being responsible for your choices—or maybe he liked it.
You paused, staring at him like you were trying to figure out what planet he came from.
“…you’re very confident for someone who has seen me drive.”
His expression softened just a little at that—not a smile, not quite amusement, just something warm slipping through the calm. “I still think you’ll get better.”
You rolled your eyes, but this time there was a small smile tugging at your lips, the kind you tried to hide but couldn’t quite push down. “Nah,” you said simply, shaking your head. “I don’t think that’s happening.”
“Well,” he said, calm as ever, already stepping back like this was the most natural ending to a conversation, “see you tomorrow.”
You frowned, confused. “Wait—what? You’re saying that like it’s a fact.”
“It is,” he replied without hesitation.
“You don’t even know if I’m coming.”
His gaze met yours—steady, certain, almost annoyingly sure of you. “I think you will.”
That was… frustrating.
And unsettling.
And weirdly warm in a way you absolutely did not want to think about.
You watched as he turned to leave, moving down the aisle with that same quiet confidence he always seemed to carry. No rush. No awkwardness. Just easy steps, like he already knew how the rest of the day would go. Like he already knew you’d show up tomorrow.
“…looking forward to it,” he added over his shoulder, almost casually, like it wasn’t going to echo in your head for the next hour.
You blinked.
Once.
Twice.
Then you snapped your attention back to the shelves, grabbing the first random item your hand landed on just so you had something—anything—to do.
“Same,” you muttered under your breath before you could stop yourself.
A beat passed.
You frowned slightly. “…I guess.”
But even as you said it, even as you tried to brush it off, you couldn’t ignore the small, annoying feeling blooming in your chest—the one that felt suspiciously like anticipation.
And the fact that you were already thinking about tomorrow.
────────────
You were on time.
Again.
Which honestly felt like a personal achievement, the kind you wanted to brag about but couldn’t, because that would require admitting you cared. And you absolutely did not care. Obviously.
You stood outside the car with your arms loosely crossed, trying very hard to look casual, relaxed, unbothered—like you weren’t even a little bit looking forward to this. Because that would be embarrassing. Painfully embarrassing.
What would be even more embarrassing—far more embarrassing—was admitting that you had woken up earlier than necessary, taken extra time getting ready, and then stood in front of the mirror questioning your entire existence for longer than you’d ever admit out loud. Not because you wanted to impress Oscar. No. Definitely not.
And it was absolutely not because you had spent a good chunk of last night watching YouTube tutorials titled things like “How to Start a Car Without Panicking” and “Beginner Driving Tips That Won’t Make You Cry.” That would be insane.
You were just… prepared.
Overprepared, maybe.
But still. Prepared.
You shifted your weight from one foot to the other, pretending to study the car like you were evaluating it, like you were the one in charge here. But really, you were listening for footsteps, for the sound of someone approaching, for that calm voice that had somehow gotten stuck in your head since yesterday.
You weren’t nervous.
You weren’t excited.
You weren’t thinking about him.
You were just here to learn.
That was all.
At least, that’s what you kept telling yourself.
The sound of footsteps pulled you out of your thoughts.
You straightened almost instantly, trying to look casual, like you hadn’t just been standing there rehearsing how to say “hi” in a normal human way. You even adjusted your stance a little, pretending you were just… existing. Naturally. Effortlessly. Not waiting.
Oscar walked up a moment later, calm as ever, like he hadn’t just stepped directly into the middle of your carefully constructed illusion of I woke up like this. His presence had that same quiet weight it always did—steady, grounding, annoyingly soothing.
“Morning,” he said.
“Morning,” you replied, maybe a little too quickly, a little too bright. You tried to play it off, but you could feel the warmth creeping up your neck.
His eyes flicked over you—brief, subtle, but enough to make you suddenly hyper‑aware of everything. Your outfit. Your hair. The fact that you had definitely tried harder today than you wanted to admit.
“…you look ready,” he added.
You froze for half a second, your brain scrambling for a response that didn’t sound like a confession.
“Yeah,” you said, aiming for casual and landing somewhere closer to suspiciously casual. “I just… threw this on.”
A lie.
A complete lie.
But he didn’t call you out. He just nodded like that made perfect sense, like he believed you.
And before you could stop yourself—before you could think, filter, or protect your dignity—the words slipped out.
“And I’m in a pretty good mood today.”
Oscar raised a brow, the corner of his mouth lifting just slightly. “That’s surprising.”
You stared at him, offended and flustered at the same time, your heart doing that annoying little jump it had started doing around him.
“Wow,” you said, crossing your arms even though it didn’t help. “Okay. Rude.”
But he was still looking at you—calm, steady, a little amused—and somehow that made your chest feel warm in a way you didn’t want to examine too closely.
Because the truth was simple.
You were in a good mood.
And he was absolutely the reason why.
You slid into the driver’s seat like you’d done it a million times, even though your brain was frantically flipping through every YouTube tutorial you’d watched last night. Your hands moved with confidence you absolutely did not feel, and you tried to pretend this was normal. That you were normal.
This was fine.
You could do this.
Probably.
You reached for the key with a level of determination that bordered on delusion.
“So, key first—” you started, slipping it into the ignition.
“Seatbelt first, princess.”
You froze.
Slowly. Very slowly.
You turned your head to look at Oscar Piastri, who was sitting there like he hadn’t just casually dropped a word that sent your entire nervous system into chaos.
“…sorry?”
He didn’t look fazed at all. Not even a little. Just calm, composed, like calling you that was the most natural thing in the world. Like he hadn’t just set your brain on fire.
“You were about to start the car without your seatbelt on,” he said, completely unfazed.
You blinked.
Once.
Twice.
“…I was testing you,” you said quickly, grabbing the first excuse your brain could reach.
He raised a brow, amused. “Testing me?”
“Yes,” you nodded, committing far too hard. “To see if you’d notice.”
“And?” he asked, leaning back slightly, clearly entertained now, like he was watching you dig your own grave and enjoying every second.
You paused.
This was the part where you should have a plan.
You did not.
“…you passed,” you said finally, like that had been the plan all along.
A small smile tugged at his lips—soft, subtle, but definitely there.
“Good,” he said.
There was a beat of silence, warm and a little charged.
Then, softer—almost teasing—
“You can start by putting your seatbelt on, though.”
You let out a quiet breath, muttering, “Yeah, yeah, sorry, Mr. Professor.”
But as you reached for the seatbelt, you could feel his eyes on you—steady, calm, and just a little amused. Not mocking. Not judging. Just…watching you in a way that made your chest feel warm and your stomach twist.
And annoyingly—
frustratingly—
you felt yourself wanting to do better.
You clicked your seatbelt into place with a little more force than necessary, like you needed the buckle to understand how offended you were.
“There,” you said. “Happy?”
“Very,” he replied, and of course he sounded calm about it. He always sounded calm. It was starting to feel like a personal attack.
You huffed and adjusted your grip on the wheel again, trying to look like someone who absolutely knew what they were doing. “Okay. Now we can start.”
“Now we can start,” Oscar echoed, his tone so neutral it looped back around to sounding like mockery.
You shot him a look. “Don’t mock me.”
“I’m not,” he said, completely steady. “I’m listening.”
“Mm,” you hummed, not entirely convinced but too focused on not embarrassing yourself to argue.
You turned the key again, and this time the engine actually came to life. The sound filled the car, warm and loud and real, and for a moment you just sat there, hands on the wheel, staring straight ahead like the road might judge you if you blinked.
Oscar didn’t rush you. He never did. He just waited, patient and quiet, like he understood that you needed a second to gather yourself.
“…now I have to put it in drive, right?”
“Mhm. Step on the clutch.”
You did.
“…oh my god.”
His gaze flicked to you immediately. “Did you train?”
Your head snapped toward him so fast you almost gave yourself whiplash. “No—why would you think that?”
“You’re following instructions very well.”
You scoffed, offended on principle. “That’s called basic competence.”
There was a beat of silence. The kind that felt warm, not awkward.
Then—
“So what are we doing next?” you asked, trying to sound casual, like you weren’t secretly hoping he’d say something easy.
“Parking.”
Silence.
You turned to look at him slowly, betrayal written all over your face.
“…you just ruined my good mood.”
You groaned, pulling the car forward with more confidence than actual skill, trying to convince both yourself and the universe that this was going to go well.
“Okay, I can do this,” you muttered under your breath. “Just… straight. It’s just straight.”
“Focus on the road,” Oscar said calmly, like he wasn’t sitting next to a disaster waiting to happen.
“I am focusing.”
You were not focusing.
Not even a little.
Because somehow—somehow—you managed to drift slightly off track, your hands tightening on the wheel as you tried to correct yourself a second too late.
The car veered.
“…okay, okay, okay—”
Oscar’s posture shifted instantly, his calm turning sharp in a heartbeat.
“Turn—” he started.
“I am turning—”
“Not that—”
Panic hit you like a wave.
Your breath caught, your shoulders tensed, and before you could fully process what was happening, his hand came over yours on the wheel. Warm. Steady. Firm. Guiding it back into place with a confidence you absolutely did not have.
“Hey—relax,” he said, voice still calm but quicker now, like he was trying to anchor you before you spiraled.
His hand stayed there for a moment, covering yours, grounding you in a way that made your heart jump and your brain short‑circuit.
You froze immediately, your hands hovering awkwardly over his as he corrected the car with almost no effort at all. It was embarrassing how steady he was compared to the chaos happening inside your chest.
“…I had it,” you said weakly, even though you absolutely did not.
“You did not,” he replied, and there was something different in his voice now. Something warm. Something amused. Like he was trying not to laugh but failing a little.
The car straightened under his guidance, smooth and controlled, and for a moment neither of you moved. His hand stayed on the wheel, still close to yours, and your heart did something very unhelpful in response.
Then—
He laughed.
Not loud.
Not mocking.
Just a quiet, genuine laugh that slipped out before he could stop it, soft enough to make your stomach twist.
You turned your head slowly, staring at him like he had personally betrayed you.
“…what?”
“You’re serious,” he said, still smiling, still trying to get himself under control. “You really thought you had that.”
“I did have it.”
“You were about to mount the curb.”
“No, I wasn’t.”
“Yes, you were.”
You narrowed your eyes at him, trying to look offended even though your face was already warming. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“I am,” he admitted without hesitation, the smile still lingering like he couldn’t quite get rid of it.
You huffed, crossing your arms even though it didn’t help your case. The corners of your mouth betrayed you anyway, tugging upward despite your best efforts.
“…you’re the worst instructor ever.”
“I saved you,” he pointed out, like that settled everything.
You tilted your head. “From what? Driving into a bush?”
“Among other things.”
There was a beat of silence—warm, soft, almost comfortable.
Then you both laughed this time, yours quieter, his still low and warm, the kind of sound that made your chest feel lighter than it should.
You adjusted your hands on the wheel, exhaling softly as you tried to gather whatever dignity you had left. “Okay, in my defense—”
“There isn’t one,” Oscar said, calm as ever, cutting you off before you even had a chance to build your argument.
You turned your head to glare at him, offended in principle. “Wow. You don’t even let me try?”
“I’ve seen enough.”
“That’s harsh.”
“It’s accurate.”
You shook your head, but the smile tugging at your mouth refused to disappear. “…you’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Maybe,” he admitted, not even pretending otherwise.
You rolled your eyes and looked back at the road, trying to act like you weren’t secretly pleased he was teasing you. “You’re supposed to be encouraging. Supportive. Nice.”
“I am being supportive.”
“You just told me there’s no defense for what I did.”
“There isn’t,” he repeated, completely serious, like he was stating a scientific fact.
You let out a small laugh, shaking your head. “You’re unbelievable.”
There was a brief pause—the kind that felt warm instead of awkward, like the air between you had softened without you noticing.
Then, quieter, almost gentle—
“You’re not as bad as you think.”
The words hit you harder than you expected. They slipped under your guard before you could stop them, settling somewhere warm in your chest.
You glanced at him, trying to play it cool even though your heartbeat had definitely picked up. “That’s your professional opinion?”
“Yes.”
You narrowed your eyes slightly, studying him like you were trying to catch a lie. “Or your personal one?”
He held your gaze for a second — steady, unblinking, almost too honest.
“…both.”
Your stomach did a small, very inconvenient flip, the kind that made you sit a little straighter without meaning to. You looked away quickly, focusing on literally anything else — the dashboard, the road, the air vents — anything that wasn’t his face.
“Okay, don’t get ahead of yourself,” you said, trying to sound casual even though your voice felt a little too soft. “I still almost took us out.”
“You didn’t.”
“Because you took the wheel.”
“That’s part of the lesson.”
You huffed, sinking a little deeper into your seat. “Feels like cheating.”
“It’s not.”
“Feels like it is.”
A small pause settled between you—but it wasn’t heavy. It wasn’t awkward. It felt lighter now, easier, like the air in the car had shifted into something warmer without either of you naming it.
“So,” you said after a moment, trying to sound playful instead of flustered, “do all your students almost crash on day two, or am I special?”
“You’re special,” he said immediately.
You blinked, turning to look at him, your heart doing that annoying little jump again.
“…you say that like it’s a compliment.”
“It is.”
The words hung there—simple, quiet, but somehow heavier than they should’ve been. You felt them settle in your chest, warm and confusing and a little too real.
And for a moment, you didn’t trust yourself to speak.
You narrowed your eyes, but there was a smile tugging at your lips again, no matter how hard you tried to hide it. “I don’t trust that.”
“You don’t have to.”
You shook your head slightly and looked forward again, trying to steady your breathing, trying not to let him see how much he was getting to you.
“…you’re very calm about everything,” you said after a moment. “It’s kind of annoying.”
“Annoying?”
“Yeah,” you nodded. “Like nothing ever stresses you out.”
“That’s not true.”
“Oh yeah?” You glanced at him, curious despite yourself. “What stresses you out?”
A small pause followed—the kind that made your stomach tighten, like you’d accidentally stepped into something deeper.
Then—
“Right now?” he said.
You frowned slightly. “What about right now?”
He looked at you, just for a second, but it was enough to make your pulse jump.
“You’re not paying attention to the road.”
You stared at him.
“…okay, fair.”
That made him smile again—just a little—and you had to look away because that was starting to become a problem. A real problem. The kind that made your chest feel warm and your thoughts feel messy.
“So,” he started after a moment, voice casual in that annoyingly smooth way of his, “are you free after tomorrow’s lesson?”
Your brain stalled.
Damn…?
“…what?”
“After the lesson,” he repeated, like this was normal, like he wasn’t casually flipping your entire world upside down. “Are you free?”
You stared at him, trying to process the words, trying to understand if you’d heard him right.
“Why?”
Another small pause—deliberate this time.
Then, casually, like it was nothing—
“I thought we could get lunch.”
Your grip on the wheel tightened just slightly, your heart doing a full somersault before you could stop it.
“Oh.”
Real smooth. Truly impressive.
Was this guy flirting with you? Because even when he was calm, he was annoyingly smooth at flirting. Effortlessly smooth. Like he didn’t even have to try.
“I think I might be,” you said, your voice softer than you meant it to be.
“Thought so.” Oscar smirked, and it was the kind of smirk that made your stomach twist in a way you were absolutely not prepared to deal with.
────────────
The lesson ended in a way that felt… suspiciously normal.
No near crashes.
No panicking.
No dramatic swerving that made Oscar reach for the wheel like his life depended on it.
You even drove through Monaco’s streets without hitting anything—or anyone—whose car was probably worth more than your entire existence. Just you, actually driving, actually surviving, actually doing it.
It felt unreal.
It felt like a win.
You parked the car with a little more confidence than usual, turned off the engine, and let out a long breath that felt like it had been trapped in your chest for years.
“…I didn’t kill anyone,” you said, half‑proud, half‑in disbelief.
“Impressive,” Oscar replied.
You shot him a look, because of course he said it like that. “Wow. You’re really proud of me.”
“I am.”
You blinked, caught off guard by how easily he said it. No teasing. No smirk. Just simple, steady truth.
“…you’re serious?”
“Very.”
And something in your chest tightened—warm, unexpected, a little overwhelming. Because he wasn’t joking. He wasn’t being sarcastic. He wasn’t laughing at you.
He meant it.
And that did something to you. Something small but sharp, like a spark catching on something you didn’t realize was flammable.
You looked away for a moment, trying to hide the smile tugging at your lips, trying to steady the flutter in your stomach.
Because being told you were good—by him—felt different.
That made something warm settle in your chest again, but you ignored it—quickly, almost aggressively, like pushing a thought into a drawer and slamming it shut.
“Okay,” you said, grabbing your bag with a little too much purpose. “You’re just saying that because you’re my instructor and you have to encourage me.”
“I don’t have to.”
You paused mid‑movement, fingers still curled around the strap.
“…oh?”
He stepped out of the car first, the door clicking shut behind him, then glanced back at you with that calm, steady look that always seemed to catch you off guard.
“I’m saying it because it’s true.”
That… did something.
Something small and sharp and warm that you absolutely did not want to examine too closely.
You cleared your throat and followed him out, trying to shake it off, trying to slip back into your usual energy before he noticed anything. “Right. Well. Of course I did well. I had a very good teacher.”
“Good,” he said. “You should keep that one.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips refused to leave, no matter how hard you tried to hide it.
You both started walking, side by side this time. Not too close, but close enough that you could feel the space between you—warm, intentional, like neither of you was in a hurry to widen it.
“So,” you said after a moment, “this is where you pretend you didn’t just watch me struggle—”
“Let’s just get the lunch, princess, okay?”
He cut you off so casually you almost stumbled over your own words. It wasn’t even the interruption—it was the way he said it. Smooth. Effortless. Like he’d been calling you that for years.
You looked at him, your brain catching up a second too late.
“…princess?”
“Yeah,” he said, like it was the most obvious thing in the world.
You blinked, then let out a small huff that didn’t hide your smile at all. “You’re enjoying that way too much.”
“Maybe.”
You shook your head, but the smile tugging at your lips was impossible to fight now. It was there, warm and real, and you didn’t even bother pretending otherwise.
“Okay, Mr. Professor,” you said, bumping your shoulder lightly against his as you walked. “Sorry for stressing.”
He shot you a look, the kind that was half amused and half offended. “Don’t call me that. That sounds so weird.”
You tilted your head, pretending to think. “Oscar.”
He nodded once, satisfied. “Better.”
You grinned slightly, unable to help it. “See? You like it when I listen.”
“I like it when you focus,” he corrected, his tone so calm it almost made you laugh.
“Wow. Demanding.”
“You almost drove into a sign yesterday.”
“It came out of nowhere,” you said immediately, defensive on instinct.
“It didn’t.”
You huffed, but the smile tugging at your lips refused to leave. It was impossible to stay annoyed when he was looking at you like that — steady, patient, a little amused, like he knew exactly how to get under your skin.
You pushed open the café door, stepping inside with him right beside you, close enough that you could feel the warmth of him without actually touching. It felt easy. Natural. Like this wasn’t just a driving lesson anymore.
Like it was something else.
Something you weren’t ready to name yet.
You tapped your fingers lightly against the table, glancing at him before quickly looking away again. The café was warm, the low hum of people talking around you making everything feel strangely soft. And then—like the thought had been sitting in the back of your mind the whole time, waiting for the right moment to jump out—
“Oh, I have my finals in two days.”
You said it casually. Too casually. Like it was no big deal. But your heart still picked up a little, that familiar nervous flutter settling in your stomach.
Oscar looked up from the menu immediately, his attention snapping to you in a way that made your breath catch. “Finals?”
“Yeah,” you nodded, trying to keep your voice light. “You know… theory, actual driving. Stuff I definitely should have learned already.”
There was a beat of silence. Not judgmental. Just him thinking. Considering. And then—
“…you’ll pass,” he said simply.
You blinked, caught off guard by how certain he sounded. “You say that like it’s guaranteed.”
“It is.”
You let out a small, disbelieving breath, half a laugh, half a sigh. “You’re way too supportive.”
“I’m realistic. You’re not stupid, Y/n.”
His tone was calm. Certain. Like he wasn’t even trying to reassure you—just stating a fact. A truth he didn’t expect you to argue with.
And for a second—
for a moment that felt strangely heavy and warm—
You didn’t really know what to say.
Because no one had said it like that before.
Not with that kind of quiet confidence.
Not like they genuinely believed it.
“…thanks,” you said quietly, softer than you meant to, the word slipping out before you could hide the way it made your chest feel warm and tight at the same time.
He just nodded, like that was enough, like your quiet thank‑you didn’t need anything added to it. And somehow, that made it land even harder.
Then, after a moment—
“I can pick you up after the exam.”
You looked at him, raising a brow, trying to play it cool even though your heart gave a tiny, traitorous jump. “Why?”
His expression didn’t change. Calm. Steady. Like he’d already thought this through.
“We can go somewhere after,” he said. “Celebrate.”
A small pause followed, and you could feel something warm settle low in your stomach.
Then, almost casually—
“Or we can drink if you fail.”
You let out a short laugh, shaking your head. “Wow. Very optimistic of you.”
“I’m prepared,” he replied.
“For my success or my failure?”
“Both.”
You snorted, leaning back in your chair slightly, trying to hide the way your chest felt warm again. “You really thought of everything, huh?”
“I try to.”
You studied him for a second, really looked at him—the calm way he sat, the quiet confidence in his voice, the way he didn’t seem to be joking even when he was teasing you. And that warmth in your chest settled deeper, steadier, like it had been waiting for a place to land.
It was annoying.
And confusing.
And kind of nice.
You raised a brow, leaning back slightly in your chair, trying to look unfazed even though your pulse had already picked up.
“Is this your nonchalant way of asking me out?”
Oscar didn’t even hesitate. Not a blink. Not a pause.
“If it is,” he said calmly, “will that change your answer?”
You tilted your head, pretending to think it over, even though your heart had already made its decision. “Maybe.”
A small pause followed—quiet, charged, like the air between you shifted.
Then—
“Then it is, yes,” he said. “I’m asking you out.”
You blinked.
That was… very direct.
Very him.
And it hit you harder than you expected.
You tried to ignore the way your heart immediately picked up speed, leaning into the moment like you weren’t completely caught off guard. “Hm,” you hummed, tapping your finger lightly against the table. “I don’t know. This feels a bit risky.”
“Risky?”
“Yeah,” you nodded seriously. “Mixing professional driving instruction with… whatever this is.” You gestured vaguely between the two of you, your hand doing a little circle in the air. “What if I get worse at driving because I’m distracted?”
“You already got distracted.”
You gasped dramatically. “Wow. And you still want to take me out? That says a lot about your decision‑making skills.”
“It does,” he agreed, completely unfazed, like he’d already accepted every possible consequence.
You narrowed your eyes at him, searching his face for any sign of hesitation. There wasn’t any. “And?”
“And I still want to.”
That made you pause.
Just for a second.
Just long enough to feel something warm and stupid bloom in your chest.
You let out a soft breath, trying to play it cool even though your heart was doing something very annoying and very obvious.
“Fine,” you said, leaning back slightly, pretending you weren’t smiling. “I’ll go.”
And the look he gave you—calm, sure, a little pleased—made your stomach flip in a way you absolutely weren’t ready to deal with.
────────────
You had never felt this nervous in your life.
Okay—maybe that was dramatic.
But still.
Your leg had been bouncing the entire time, your fingers tapping against the desk while the examiner looked over your results with the slowest pen in the world. Your heart was racing just a little too fast, every second stretching out like it was trying to torture you.
It felt like forever.
Until finally—
He gave you a small nod and slid your paper back across the table.
Passed.
You blinked at it.
Then again, just to make sure your eyes weren’t lying.
“You… passed,” he confirmed, sounding almost amused by your shock.
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it, the relief hitting all at once, warm and overwhelming.
“Oh my god.”
You actually did it.
You passed.
You barely remembered grabbing your things or walking out of the building. Your mind was still catching up, still buzzing, still replaying the word passed over and over as the door swung open and fresh air hit your face.
And then—
You saw him.
Oscar, leaning casually nearby, hands in his pockets, posture relaxed like he had all the time in the world. Like waiting for you wasn’t an inconvenience. Like he’d been expecting you to walk out victorious.
He looked up the moment you stepped outside.
And something in your chest lifted, bright and immediate, before you could even stop it.
You walked toward him, the excitement bubbling up too fast to control.
“GUESS WHO PASSED, BABE—”
You froze mid‑sentence.
Blinking.
Your brain caught up a second too late.
“…I mean—” you cleared your throat quickly, heat rushing to your face. “—not babe. That just slipped out. Ignore that.”
But he was already looking at you—steady, calm, a little amused—like he’d heard every word.
And like he didn’t mind at all.
Your face lit up instantly.
“GUESS WHO PASSED, BABE—”
The word slipped out before you even realized you’d said it. You were too full of relief, too full of excitement, too full of finally to think about anything else.
You didn’t even register it.
You just ran to him.
And before your brain could catch up with your body—
you kissed him.
It was quick.
Impulsive.
A burst of adrenaline and joy and everything you’d been holding in for days. Your lips brushed his in a fast, breathless moment that felt like it came out of nowhere and everywhere at once.
And the second it happened—
your brain finally caught up.
Oh.
Oh—
You pulled back slightly, eyes widening, breath catching in your throat. “I—”
But you didn’t get to finish.
Because his hand came up to your jaw, warm and steady, fingers gentle but sure, grounding you in a way that made your heart stop for a beat—
and he kissed you again.
Slower this time.
Intentional.
Like he’d thought about it before.
Like he’d been waiting for the right moment.
Your breath caught for half a second before you melted into it, your hand instinctively gripping the front of his shirt as the world around you blurred into nothing. The noise of the street faded. The nerves from the exam vanished. Everything narrowed to the warmth of his mouth, the way he leaned in, the quiet certainty in the way he held you.
It wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t messy.
It was soft and sure and real in a way that made your knees feel unsteady.
And for the first time all day—
you forgot how to think.
When he finally pulled back, it wasn’t far. Just enough to look at you. Just enough for you to feel his breath on your lips, warm and steady, grounding you in a moment that didn’t feel entirely real.
His gaze was steady, but softer than you had ever seen it. There was something warm there, something quiet, something that made your chest feel too tight.
“…congratulations,” he said quietly.
You let out a small, breathless laugh, still a little dazed, still trying to catch up with the fact that you had just kissed him. “Yeah,” you murmured. “I did.”
A beat passed, the kind that felt like it stretched out longer than it should have.
Then, because your brain was finally working again, because you needed to say something before you melted into the pavement—
“…I just kissed you.”
“You did.”
“…and then you kissed me back.”
“I did.”
You stared at him, your heart thudding in your chest, your mind still spinning.
“…okay, just checking.”
That made something shift in his expression—something warmer, almost amused, like he was fighting a smile but not very hard.
“Was that part of your driving plan?” he asked, voice low, teasing in that calm way that always got to you.
You let out a soft laugh, shaking your head, still trying to steady your breathing. “No. That was just… excitement.”
And saying it out loud made the truth of it settle deeper in your chest. The adrenaline. The relief. The way seeing him waiting for you had felt like the final piece of something falling into place.
“Good,” he said.
You blinked, still trying to catch up. “Good?”
“Yeah.”
There was a small pause, the kind that made the air feel warmer, heavier, like something was shifting between you.
Then, quieter—
“Because I was going to do it anyway.”
Your heart did something very dramatic at that. A full jump, maybe two. It was ridiculous how fast the warmth spread through your chest, how quickly your breath caught.
“…oh.”
He didn’t look away. He didn’t even pretend to. He just studied your face for a moment longer, his eyes steady, his expression soft in a way you weren’t used to seeing. His hand was still near your jaw, close enough that you could feel the heat of it, close enough that you didn’t want him to move it.
“So,” he added, calm as ever, like he hadn’t just turned your entire world upside down, “what does a newly licensed driver want to do now?”
You smiled slowly, the kind of smile you couldn’t hold back even if you tried. The adrenaline was still buzzing under your skin, but now it mixed with something softer, something warm and steady that made your chest feel full.
“Well,” you said, tilting your head slightly, “I think I deserve a drive.”
His lips curved just a little—not a full smile, but something close, something that felt like it was meant only for you.
PAIRING: oscar piastri x mercedes!f1 driver!fem!reader
SUMMARY: the step to your dream is there: your debut season of formula one. determined and laser-focused, nothing can stop you from cruising by. not even the recently available papaya-dressed aussie you call your first love... right? you think you've moved on—two years oscar-free. you're sure of it. but those same childhood feelings resurface when you're racing beside him, leaving you with one question only: will you ever be free from this heart of chambers?
WARNING: fluff, angst, three-year age gap (younger reader), best friend's brother, childhood friends to lovers, unrequited love, some 18+ content, misogyny, f1 politics, verbal and physical abuse
TURN ONE .𖥔 ݁ ˖ — one step forward, three steps back (6.6k)
it's 2025. and your 'new year, new me' is about your debut as the first woman in formula one in over thirty years. busy with moving and training, you aren't focused on the past. but things seem to take a turn when hattie relays some new information.
TURN TWO .𖥔 ݁ ˖ — lucky number eight (6.8k)
the first race of the season doesn’t come without any drama. and crossing the finish line is just the tip of it. between a home race and an impromptu family dinner with the piastri’s that has everyone going down memory lane—who knows what this week will bring?
TURN THREE .𖥔 ݁ ˖ — stranger danger (7.8k)
the great wall provides chaos unlike any other: a truth, a problem, and a bet. and in his effort to be friends again, oscar finds reconciliation a lot harder when the past two years of your life begin to unravel right in front of him, reminding him once again of the only thing he now knows about you: almost nothing.
TURN FOUR .𖥔 ݁ ˖ — baby steps (7.1k)
so far your debut has been pretty good. one may say too good. that cloud nine comes crashing down under the cherry blossoms in japan when one interview sets everything alight. but fret not. oscar seizes the opportunity to remind you of one thing very clearly: he has your back.
TURN FIVE .𖥔 ݁ ˖ — man i need (6.9k)
your tug of war with the journalists never quite seems to end, keeping your name in all the headlines and everyone's mouths. with things looking bleak, your radio silence has people worried. particularly oscar, who can't exactly explain his newfound concern for you.
TURN SIX .𖥔 ݁ ˖ — bad omens and souvenirs (11.7k)
just when things seem to be looking up for you, your world coming crashing down from the unexpected. on the brink of burning out, you threaten to succumb to those wishing for your downfall. but you forget you have plenty of support. especially the boy just ten minutes away from you who seems to always be one step ahead of you.
TURN SEVEN .𖥔 ݁ ˖ — that's monaco, baby!
it's monaco. tight walls and narrow roads, leaving limited space for anything out of the ordinary. but again, it's monaco. everything is out of the ordinary. so with a dash of regret, a hint of anger, and a little something more creates the perfect recipe for destruction.
A/N: yes! another new seriessss! just what you and i both needed after this messy season mwahahahah! so buckle up bc while this one is childhood friends to lovers, it's gonna be angsty and a whirlwind! and as always, i'm happy to hear your feedback and ideas ♡︎ PLAYLIST (lmk if you want to be tagged!)
OP81 The Hunger Games AU , district 2!oscar x district 12!reader , platonic IH6 & AA23 , READ PART 2 HERE
➷ not proofread !
"Here's some advice. Stay alive."
To say you hate the Capitol would be an understatement. You want it to burn.
Ever since you could remember yourself, you have fantasized about watching those insufferable, privileged fuckers die a slow, agonizing death just like the ones they so enjoy watching on their TVs every year. You have dreamed about watching those ridiculously expensive and weirdly shaped buildings fall to the ground.
But that, unfortunately, was impossible. Except if...
“Get ready we're leaving soon”
You snap back to reality. Isack.
“You look like you want to kill someone.” He says it like he’s afraid of the answer.
“Aren't I always?” you laugh softly, rolling your eyes.
The nature is so peaceful you wished you could lay on the grass forever and just listen to the calming chirp of the birds. It's almost funny how there's so much beauty in the outer part of the fence while on the other side people are either starving or dying in the coal mines.
You sit for a moment longer just to hear the rustling of leaves in the breeze.
“You should feel lucky you know,” Isack pleads. “It's your last year in this hell.”
You sigh frustratedly yet softly. “I'm anything but lucky Hadjar. With all the extra rations I took, I have high chances of getting picked. And besides, just because I won't have a chance of getting reapped next year does not mean I won't be concerned to death about you. Do you think Alex has, even for a second, stopped worrying about us?”
“Yeah, you're right I'm sorry.” He quickly apologizes as you two get up to start heading back to the fence and in District 12.
Sneaking out the fence was the only way you could truly be yourself, away from the Peacekeepers, away from the poverty and away of the terrifying memories.
Isack and Alex are a bit hesitant and so they rarely joined. You don’t blame them, it was risky. However, you like the way your whole body is on fire every time you break away; being undaunted is in your nature.
As soon as you get back, Alex grabs your arm and pulls you aside, signaling Isack to leave you two alone.
“Don't do anything stupid today”
You don’t need to ask for a clarification. You know what he means. Don't volunteer.
As much as you wanted to, you could never have the guts. Not for something like this.
You get ready for the Reaping. Reaping number eighty one.
Everything is depressing— lot more than usual that is. Parents and children crying in each others arms surrounded by the coal dust. It is laughable how these people have to get all dolled up, wear the best pieces of fabric they own, just so they can send a teenager away to their death.
You told yourself you weren't scared, that this didn't matter anymore. Nevertheless, you find yourself wondering how many times your name was in that bowl, you calculate the chances of getting picked or the chances of making it through this last year alive.
You dig your nails in your bicep hard enough that you almost bleed.
The screeching sound of the microphone snaps you out of your thoughts immediately.
“Welcome, welcome, welcome!” an absurdly excited woman greets. “Happy 81st annual Hunger Games and may the odds be ever in your favor. Before we begin allow me to introduced one of District 12's previous victors or uhm i should say victor.”
You stop listening after that. It doesn't matter, you've heard this pre-rehearsed speech every year of your life.
“And now,” the weirdly dressed lady announces, “let's get started. Ladies first!”
As she makes her way to the Reaping bowl the only sound that can be heard is the one of her heels against the wooden stage. You sigh and prepare yourself to step out of the eligible reaping area and never look back once this is over.
“And for the female tribute we have,” she drags out the last word as she unfolds the small piece of paper in her hands.
She calls a name. But it's not just a name, it's your name.
“This is your last chance to say goodbye to your families.”
You scoff. You didn't have a family to bid farewell, not anymore at least.
As the male tribute's family sobs, you awkwardly sit by yourself in the corner until your eyes glance up from the ground and meet Alex and Isack.
“You fucker,” Isack cries out as he hugs you. Although physical affection is not really your thing you hug him back tightly. How could you not?
Alex stands still and completely shocked. “I didn't do anything stupid,” you recall back to his warning and before you can finish your sentence he is hugging you too.
“I guess this is goodbye”
“Don't say that! You.. you could win! Like actually! You know how to hunt and you are an outstanding shooter! Please...” your younger friend begs.
Alex doesn't say anything. He knows. Technically you could win but being from District 12 is not working in your favor. The Capitol was going to hate you and your smug smirk.
“I love you guys. Don't miss me too much.”
Earlier in district 2...
“I volunteer as tribute,” Oscar announces calmly. He had been preparing his whole life for this. A Career tribute.
In District 2, although technically against the rules, children were trained to prepare for the combat and challenges in the arena. It was sort of like a life mission for those who were deemed capable enough.
He’d been raised to be the face the Capitol wanted; he learned to appear eager, lethal, photogenic. He learned to smile with one part of his mouth and keep the other part cold.
When they’d filmed his volunteer declaration earlier that day, the crowd roared. Cameras zoomed in on his calm expression, on the line of his jaw, on the clean way he said the words. The Capitol ate it up. He wanted to vomit.
Later that evening he watches the mandatory Reaping screenings, his jaw tightening at every one. When the camera shows District 12 tonight, he hardly breathes when he sees you. A sharp little tilt of the head, eyes like someone who’d already worked out how to burn something down with a look. Hatred, carefully folded and ready. He knew that look. He’d practiced against that look. He had a strange, heavy thought settle in his chest: you might not be the sort of girl the Capitol expected. That made you dangerous. That made you someone to watch.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The train is too fast. Rattling through countryside you’ve never seen before: rolling green hills, bright rivers, villages that don’t know hunger, pain. You sit firmly in your seat, staring at the silver cutlery laid out like a trap. Food everywhere: meat glistening in a sauce you can’t name, potatoes warm enough to steam when you tear them open. You force yourself not to eat like a starved animal, even though every part of you wants to.
This is more luxury then you’ve ever even dreamed of.
“They’ll be watching already,” your escort chirps. Her painted lips stretch wide, her Capitol accent is worse than nails on a blackboard. “Smile when you try the dessert! It’ll do wonders for sponsors.”
You clench your jaw and try not to laugh as she instructs you like you’re some sort of advertisement. You don’t want them to see you grateful.
The Capitol itself is somehow even more luxurious. It gleams too bright, every building reaching like it wants to pierce the sky. People drip jewels and feathers, laughing at nothing, their faces stretched with surgery. It’s uncanny. They cheer when you roll in on the tribute parade train. Children wave like this is a movie. You can feel your eye twitch before you can stop it.
By the time you’re dragged to the Training Center, your whole body feels raw. The building is glass and steel, polished floors, guards with rifles. They separate tributes by district, locking you in whitewashed quarters that smell too clean, too fake.
You don’t sleep much that night.
Oscar doesn’t dream. He lies flat on the suspiciously comfortable attress, staring at the ceiling, listening to the distant buzz of hovercraft outside.
He should be excited. This is what he was raised for. He knows how to throw a knife, how to use a sword, how to kill without thinking twice about it. His trainers used to whisper he was efficient, sharp, cold. Their hope.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The training floor is vast with a variety of stations: hand-to-hand combat, archery, snares, plants and the list goes on. The Careers swarm instantly, like it’s their home. Tributes from weaker districts hover around the edges, wide-eyed, pretending not to be terrified.
You keep your head down. Survival, that’s the only thing that matters. You drift toward the knot-tying station, fingers quick from years of mending nets and binding rabbit snares. The trainer raises their brows, surprised at how fast you work.
When you glance up, you catch him watching. District 2’s boy. Tall, dark-eyed, posture sharp like he knows he’s being filmed. He doesn’t smirk like the other tributes. Instead, he is just watching, carefully. At you. It makes your stomach twist unpleasantly.
You know his name; Oscar Piastri. You’d heard whispers even in 12, that he was one of those Career kids, molded for the battle, fast and ruthless, a favorite before the the Games even started.
You square your shoulders and meet his stare, daring him to look away. He doesn’t. He just tilts his head, unreadable, cold.
“You got a problem?” you snap, louder than you mean to. A couple of tributes glance over.
His expression doesn’t change. “No,” he says simply, before turning back to the knife rack.
It’s just a word. But it unsettles you. You’d expected arrogance, maybe a smirk. Not… calm.
By the third day, the Capitol has already decided their favorites. The Careers shine under the lights, cheered for their lethal precision. You are ignored, the cameras passing over you too quickly, too disinterested. It stings. Not because you want them to love you, but because without sponsors, you’ll starve before the arena even kills you.
You’re crouched at the fire-making station when you feel someone behind you.
“You’re wasting your energy,” a low voice says.
You turn, ready to snap, but it’s him, District 2. Oscar. He nods at your flint, the sparks fizzling uselessly on damp tinder.
“They soaked that batch,” he explains quietly. “Capitol wants to see who notices.”
Your lips part. A trap. You glance at the trainer. Sure enough, he’s hiding a smirk, scribbling on a clipboard.
“Why are you telling me?” you whisper.
Oscar shrugs. “Because they don’t deserve the satisfaction.”
For a moment, your hatred falters. Just a moment.
That night, in the dining hall, the Careers sit at one end of the long table, laughing about weapons, techniques and tossing bread rolls at each other like spoiled toddlers. Oscar sits with them, but he doesn’t laugh. He picks at his food, shoulders tight.
You sit across the room with your own plate, pretending not to notice when he looks up. Pretending not to wonder what it means.
By the time private sessions come around, you’ve decided you want them to be scared. If the Capitol wants a weak little 12 tribute, they won’t get one.
Oscar’s turn comes, and you hear whispers from the other tributes when he steps out of his session. They say he went all out: blade work, hand-to-hand, no wasted movement. Efficient, merciless, everything the Capitol wants to see.
When they call your name, your stomach knots but you walk out steadily, chin high. The hall reeks of Capitol indulgence: wine, roasted meat, silk cushions. The Gamemakers glance at you like you’re dead meat.
Good. Let them.
You fire three quick arrows into the target’s heart: dead center, clean and sharp. But you don’t stop there. You send the next arrows flying into anything but the targets:
One hits a glass straight through its stem, spilling red wine like blood across the marble. One splits the Capitol flag hanging on the far wall, tearing a hole through its seal. One pins one of their roasted apples to the wall.
The room goes still.
You lower the bow and meet their horrified faces. “That’s how I hunt,” you say flatly. “Doesn’t matter what it looks like. If it bleeds, I don’t miss.”
Then you set the bow down, turn your back on them, and walk out before they can dismiss you.
Your escort nearly faints when the scores are posted that night. Eight. Respectable for 12, enough to make the Capitol mutter.
Oscar’s flashes across the screen, your chest tightens despite yourself. Ten.
He’s exactly who the rumors said he was.
You clench your fists under the table, forcing yourself to remember what District 2 tributes are made for: to win the Games and to kill people like you. Even if he doesn’t brag, even if he’s quieter than the others, he’s still a Career.
And yet, when you glance across the dining hall, you find him watching you again. Not smirking. Just watching, like he’s trying to figure you out.
You look away first.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The president sat behind his desk, surrounded by the glow of countless television screens, each one displaying the faces of tributes in training.
But his eyes lingered on only one.
You.
He couldn’t shake the memory of your stare—the scorching look you had thrown at him during the parade from your chariot far below his podium. Even at that distance, the fury in your eyes had crawled beneath his skin, left him shivering with goosebumps. And again, during your private session, that same dark, unflinching glare.
He hated it. Hated the way you looked at him.
He pressed a button, summoning one of the assistants. She hurried into the room, bowing her head.
“Find out everything about her,” he ordered, his voice sharp.
The assistant followed his gaze toward the screen, then quickly fetched a tablet from the side table. Her fingers danced across the glass, pausing only when she needed to glance up at your image again to be certain.
“Eighteen years old, District Twelve,” she read aloud. “Parents deceased. Only surviving family was an older brother but…” her voice faltered. “Oh. Oh, dear.”
The president leaned forward. “What is it?”
Her knuckles whitened as she gripped the tablet tighter. “The brother was executed after a trial. Six, seven years ago. Convicted of repeated thefts from Peacekeepers.” She swallowed, face paling. “The records say his death… it was not clean.”
His expression sharpened. “And did she witness it?”
“Sir?”
He gestured toward the screen, toward you. “Was she there?”
The assistant scrolled quickly, her hands trembling. At last, she nodded. “Yes. The report confirms she attended the trial.”
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The morning air is thick with the Capitol’s various scents: flowers imported from other districts, the scent of baked goods, and something metallic underneath that reminds you of blood. You adjust the hem of your dress and check your reflection, even though you hate it. They want you pretty. They want you fragile.
Not today.
You run through your plan in your head: don’t cry, don’t beg, don’t fall into the pity trap. Be sharp. Be clever. Make them see you as a force they can’t ignore. And, if you can, make them just uncomfortable enough to notice that you’re not theirs to control.
You glance at the other tributes. Some tremble. Some try to smile. Some, like the Careers, radiate confidence so sharp it cuts the room in half. You meet Oscar’s eyes across the hall. He’s tall, his posture perfect, expression calm. District 2’s golden boy after all. And yet, in that moment, you notice the tension behind his calm. He hates this as much as you do. You just don’t know it yet.
When it’s Oscar’s turn for the interviews, the Capitol cheers. Every move is polished. Every word measured. Ten in training, of course — the perfect Career. He looks at you briefly, that same calculating gaze, and you flinch. He knows. He knows you’re bold. He knows you’re a threat.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” the host announces after what felt an eternity. “Please welcome the female tribute from District Twelve!”
You step into the spotlight. The crowd erupts in cheers. Fake or genuine, you can’t tell. You set your shoulders, let your eyes cut across the glittering faces. They expect fear. They expect tears. You give them none.
“How does it feel to be here in our beautiful Capitol?” the host asks, voice overly sweet.
You smile, just enough to tilt the corners of your mouth. “Like walking into a cage decorated with roses.”
A pause. A gasp. Laughter. The host waves a hand. “Delightful! And do you have a strategy?”
“Stay alive. Shoot straight. Make them regret ever looking at me.”
The Gamemakers blink. The audience murmurs. Perfect. They’ll remember that.
You catch Oscar’s eyes in the crowd. He’s calm, collected. It doesn’t scare you. It irritates you. He looks… capable. Dangerous. And you hate that you’re thinking about him at all.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
The cannon booms. The sound rips through your chest like a hammer. Heart hammering, adrenaline flaring, you lunge forward. The ground is uneven, littered with jagged roots and leaves slick with dew. Every muscle screams to run, but your mind moves faster. You know the Games start with chaos; the Careers will rush the Cornucopia first.
And the Cornucopia isn’t just a pile of supplies. It’s a weapon. Food. Armor. Everything that can tip the scales between life and death in these first crucial moments.
You dart to the side, weaving between tributes who are already colliding, screaming, shoving. One boy from District 7 trips, smacking the dirt as a Career shoves him aside without a second thought. You roll, slide, grab a sturdy pack of supplies — a knife, some rations, a water flask — then snap it into your belt.
A scream draws your attention. A girl from District 4 is pinned under a Career boy from 1, his fists raised. Without thinking, you notch an arrow and fire just enough to make him flinch, drop the girl. She scrambles free, and you pivot, nocking another arrow. This one lodges in a shield by the Cornucopia, sending a clang echoing through the clearing. Some Careers glance your way, annoyance flickering in their eyes. You smirk under your breath. Let them think you’re crazy. Let them underestimate you.
And then you see him. Oscar. Standing at the edge of the chaos, calculating. He’s calm, eyes scanning the Cornucopia like a predator sizing prey. Not the same rush as the others. Not reckless. You notice immediately: he’s different. You’ve heard stories, rumors and now you see it firsthand. He doesn’t charge like a Career. He watches, waits.
The Cornucopia fight finishes almost as quickly as it started. Some tributes are down, some are injured, and others,like you, have managed to snag supplies without drawing too much blood. You step back into the forest, pulling your pack tight.
You move quickly into the trees, heart still hammering. Each step is careful, deliberate. You scan for signs of Careers, for traps, for any danger. Your hands graze leaves and bark; your bow is ready.
Hours pass. You find a small stream and crouch to drink, listening to the forest around you. Birds chirp, distant screams echo, and the hum of the Capitol’s invisible cameras buzz in your mind. You don’t have time to rest properly, not yet. You can’t.
But you notice something else. Shadows moving in the distance, purposeful. Not chasing you, circling, observing. You freeze. Then, a figure steps into the light. Oscar. Alone.
You instinctively nock an arrow. “Don’t come closer,” you warn, voice low but sharp.
He raises his hands slightly, slow, deliberate. “I’m not here to fight you,” he says. Calm, even, almost casual.
You hesitate. You want to attack anyway. This is District 2. Careers are trained to kill on sight. But something in his eyes, a hint of disdain for the Capitol, a recognition, makes you pause.
“Why should I trust you?” you snap.
“Because if we don’t watch each other’s backs, one of us dies,” he replies. “I don’t want to die today. And I’d rather not have to kill you.”
The words sting because they’re true. You’re still wary, but you recognize the reality: survival sometimes requires compromise.
You settle a cautious distance between you, each moving through the forest with silent efficiency. He takes the left flank; you take the right, eyes constantly scanning. When you stumble upon a small food cache left by the Cornucopia, you glance at him.
He nods. Permission, not trust. You each take what you can carry without speaking. Then, moving separately through the underbrush, you notice the others. Careers hunting in pairs, lone tributes panicked, some already injured.
The forest is alive with danger: traps, sounds, signs of muttation creatures hiding in the shadows. Every step is a calculation.
By midday, you find a hollow under an ancient tree and duck in to rest. Oscar crouches a few feet away, keeping watch. You don’t speak. You don’t need to. The quiet is mutual — a truce forged in the unspoken necessity of survival.
When you do speak, it’s sparse, careful.
“Why are you helping me?” you ask after a long pause, barely above a whisper.
He shrugs. “Because the Capitol doesn’t get to decide who lives. And neither do you.”
The words make your stomach twist. You still don’t trust him fully; Careers are trained killers, after all, but you sense he means it. That he isn’t the boy you’ve been warned about. Not entirely.
The alliance isn’t declared, isn’t formal. But it exists in that shared silence, in the way he moves when a branch snaps, in the way you step aside when a trap might be triggered. Two predators, wary of each other, realizing that cooperation is temporary but necessary.
By evening, you’ve set a small perimeter together, sharing rations at a distance, marking territory quietly. The forest darkens, but neither of you rests fully. Vigilance is survival. Every shadow could be a Career, a trap, or worse.
And in the quiet, unspoken, you start to wonder: maybe you don’t hate him as much as you thought you would.
· · ─ ·✶· ─ · ·
A few days have passed.
The first light of dawn slices through the canopy. Mist curls above the forest floor, carrying the scent of wet earth and decay. You shift in the hollow under the ancient oak, muscles stiff, body screaming from the past days’ adrenaline. Beside you, Oscar moves with the same quiet precision that has become normal: always alert, always scanning.
You adjust your pack, checking the few supplies you managed to salvage from the Cornucopia. Food is scarce; water even scarcer. Every rustle could be a Career, a trap, or worse. And yet, being next to him, a Career, brings an odd sense of security.
“Ready?” he whispers, eyes sweeping the trees.
You nod, gripping your bow. “Always.”
The two of you move through the underbrush like shadows, keeping low. The forest feels alive: snapping branches, distant screeches, birds flying off in alarm. You notice his methodical pattern: he keeps left, you keep right, and the two of you silently communicate through glances, nods, and small hand gestures.
Hours pass in this tense rhythm. Scouting for food, checking traps, marking paths. You find a small clearing with edible roots and berries. Oscar crouches beside you, pointing out which are safe to eat. Your fingers brush briefly as you pick berries, and for a moment, your stomach twists and something more than survival flares inside you. You glance at him; he’s staring at the ground, expression neutral, but you catch the faintest trace of awareness in his eyes.
That night, under a hollow tree for shelter, you share the rations you salvaged. No words are needed, survival is enough conversation. But when the forest goes quiet, you finally speak.
“You’re… not like the others,” you say softly, almost a question.
He meets your gaze, eyes dark. “Neither are you,” he admits.
It’s late afternoon when he finally opens up. You’re crouched behind a fallen log, watching a pair of Careers in the distance, debating whether to engage or retreat.
“You’ve been watching me,” you whisper.
He hesitates, then nods. “I can’t let you die. Not just because it would ruin my strategy, because you… you’re different.”
“Different how?”
He exhales, lowering his knife slowly. “I hate the Capitol. Every part of this. The training, the Games… It’s all a lie. I’ve spent my life pretending to want this, to be what they expect. But I don’t. I want them all to burn.”
You swallow hard, aware of the danger in even acknowledging this. If anyone overheard… but seeing him this way, raw and honest, human, cracks the wall you’ve kept around yourself.
“I hate it too,” you whisper.
He glances at you, not surprised, then lets a small, almost imperceptible smile touch his lips. Walls begin to shift. The alliance is no longer just for survival; it’s personal now.
The forest becomes your world. You move in tandem, each learning the other’s rhythm. You share small victories: catching fish from the stream, taking down small muttations, scavenging supplies. Each moment builds trust.
Oscar teases you occasionally. Small jabs when you fumble with a trap or overestimate your range with a bow. You snap back, smirk, argue, playful friction that brings a fleeting normalcy to the horror around you.
One night, you find a patch of wildflowers, and he pauses, picking one for himself. Without thinking, you pluck one and press it to your hair. He notices, raises an eyebrow.
“You’re ridiculous,” he mutters, a hint of amusement in his voice.
“You love it,” you tease.
“I do not,” he insists, though the corner of his mouth betrays him.
Moments like this make your chest ache. You’re in the middle of the Hunger Games, but here, with him, you feel something other than fear and survival. You feel… connection. It almost feels like home. Ridiculous, really, given the circumstances.
By the seventh day, the arena begins to close in. Traps become more sophisticated, resources scarcer. You step on a concealed snare one afternoon; it snaps, jerking you violently. Oscar is there instantly, cutting the cords, pulling you free.
“You could’ve been dead,” he mutters, eyes scanning the surrounding trees.
“I could’ve handled it,” you snap, though your chest still burns from the fall.
“You would’ve been,” he says, tone softening. There’s no accusation in it, just truth.
Every shared danger strengthens your bond. Every narrow escape, every silent patrol in the forest, every whispered plan solidifies the unspoken trust between you. You’ve stopped asking whether you can rely on him. You know the answer.
By the ninth day, you realize the Capitol’s manipulation is more obvious. Most non-Careers have been eliminated, muttations appear more frequently, and the corners of the arena seem designed to funnel you toward danger. Your talks of escaping have become more serious, intense.
The forest is unnervingly silent as the first light of day creeps over the horizon. Every leaf, every rustle, every glint of dew feels like a signal, a warning. You crouch behind a fallen tree, muscles taut, arrow nocked, heart hammering. Beside you, Oscar scans the terrain, calm, precise, but there’s tension in his jaw, in the way his fingers brush against his knife.
“I need you to know something,” he says quietly, voice almost swallowed by the mist.
You raise an eyebrow. “About what? Did you eat the last of our berries? Im going to kill you Piast—”
He shakes his head. “About me.”
You glance at him, curious but wary. He’s been quieter than usual. That unease has been gnawing at you.
“I’m part of the Rebellion,” he says finally, voice low. “Not just here to survive these Games. I’ve been working with… others. People you’d never suspect. Everything I do here, every move I make, is to give us a chance. To strike a real blow at the Capitol. We needed someone else though to distract them at first and to join become the face of the organisation. Someone brave, strategic, smart. That person is you.”
Your stomach twists. You gape at him, stunned. “…You’re using me?”
He flinches. “What? No— God, no. I didn’t— I wouldn’—”
But the words don’t land. All you can feel is betrayal, the sharp sting of being a pawn. You shove him back, your bow trembling in your hands. “You told me we were allies. That this was about survival. And you’ve been… planning this the whole time? Using me to help some… some plan I wasn’t even aware of?”
He calls our your name. His voice cracks, urgent. “It’s not like that! I need you alive. I need you with me. But I couldn’t risk telling you too early. You would have been a target!”
You shake your head. “I can’t believe this.” You turn, sprinting into the trees without a word. Adrenaline propels you, but every step feels like betrayal, every heartbeat like fire.
He hesitates, watching you disappear.
He calls you again, but you don’t stop.
… To be continued
Sorry if this is ass ! I kinda rushed it AND i was too lazy to proofread oops.. also yes that “six, seven years ago” was on purpose duh
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L.O.M.L - OP81 (Sequel to The Great Papaya Meltdown)
Summary: After you found out that Oscar had met with his ex-girlfriend and forced you to expose your family to the world and everyone else in the paddock, the aftermath had only gotten worse. From sleeping in separate bedrooms, to sleeping in separate houses, will either of you be able to salvage what’s left of your marriage? When Nicole comes to your doorstep with a lasagne and an idea, this could be the only way to find your way back to each other.
A/N: The people, they yearn for part 2! Get snacks, it’s a long one!
First part
You stand beside him, rigid, your arm loosely threaded through his, wearing a smile as artificial as half the teeth in the room. You hold yourself together with whatever scraps of dignity you have left.
You chose the dress deliberately, a sleek black gown that skims your bump perfectly.
The baby kicked again, harder this time, and you pressed both hands to your stomach. Closer to your due date now, growing a life whilst Oscar was keeping secrets from you.
The FIA awards night was held in a grand ballroom in Monaco, all glittering chandeliers and champagne flutes that cost more than your first car. You’d never actually been to one of these events before. Five years of marriage and this was your first paddock event that wasn’t born of crisis management and damage control.
Oscar’s hand found the small of your back, warm through the silk of your dress. An automatic gesture. One that used to make you feel safe.
Now it just reminded you that he’d touched Lily the same way too. And maybe still wanted to.
“Smile,” he murmured under this breath, so quietly only you could hear. “Lewis is walking over.”
You did. Feeling your cheeks ache with the effort of it. Wondered how long you could keep performing before something inside you finally snapped.
Lewis approached with the easy confidence of someone who’d done this a thousand times before.
“Hey man,” Lewis said warmly, clapping his back as he walked toward you both. Then his eyes found you. “And here’s the famous wife that blew up the paddock!”
“Infamous, maybe,” you replied, and the laugh that came out sounded almost genuine. Almost.
Lewis smiled, something kind in his expression. “Congrats on the baby. When is the little one due?”
“Six weeks,” you replied, and felt Oscar’s fingers flex against your spine. You ignored it.
“That’s exciting, you must be thrilled,” he murmured.
The words stuck in your throat. Thrilled. As if you weren’t standing here holding your marriage together with spit and willpower. As if your husband hadn’t spent the last three weeks sleeping in the guest bedroom while Oscar tried to prove that he was trustworthy. As if you didn’t lie awake at night wondering what else he hadn’t told you.
“We are,” Oscar answered for you, and you felt something twist in your chest. We. As if you were still a unit. As if trust hadn’t splintered between you like a broken branch.
The conversation blurred, you nodded and smiled and said all the right things while your mind drifted somewhere else entirely. The baby was restless tonight, moving constantly, and you couldn’t tell if it was picking up on your stress or just running out of room.
When Lewis moved on, you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.
“You okay?” Oscar asked quietly.
“Fine,” you lied. The same lie you’d been telling for three weeks. I’m fine. We’re fine. Everything is absolutely fine.
He didn’t believe you, you could see it in the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes lingered on your face like he was searching for cracks in your armour.
“We don’t have to stay long,” he offered. “If you’re tired, we can–”
“I’m here, aren’t I?” The words came out sharper than intended. “I’m here, playing my part, that's what you needed, right? The devoted wife at your side.”
His face crumpled for just a second before he caught himself. Smoothed it back into something neutral. But you’d seen it, the hurt and guilt he was carrying.
Good. You thought, but the vindictive thought startled you. You weren’t a cruel person, but grief did strange things to people, and that’s exactly what this was, wasn’t it? Grief for the marriage you thought you had. For the man you thought he was.
“I’m going to find the bathroom,” you announced, pulling away from him.
“Do you want me to–”
“No.” The word came out too fast, too harsh. You soften your face slightly. “I’m fine, just–just wait here.”
You didn’t wait for his response, just turned and wove through the crowd, feeling his eyes on your back the entire way before you slipped out of view.
The bathroom was blessedly empty. You locked the cubical door behind you and pressed your head against the cool wood, desperately trying to breathe through the tightness in your chest.
The baby kicked again, you splayed your hand across the bump, feeling the push of a tiny foot against your palm.
“I know,” you whispered. “Mummy’s really sorry.”
The bathroom door opened, voices filtered in, high and laughing. You recognised one of them instantly.
“–honestly, we all had bets that Oscar was a virgin,” someone said, and you froze. “And suddenly, the wife is turning up at events, looking like she’s about to burst. It’s insane.”
“I know,” another voice agreed. “Lily must be absolutely gutted.”
Your blood ran cold.
“Well, she had her chance didn’t she,” the first voice continued, smacking their lips together after applying gloss. “Can’t blame a man for moving on after a break-up.”
They laughed, cold. “Except he didn’t move on that far, I heard through the grapevine that he met up with Lily and got caught,”
“Well apparently, she reached out to him first.”
You couldn’t breathe, felt like your limbs were slowly sinking into the floor. You just stood there and listened to strangers dissect your marriage like it was for their entertainment.
They continued talking but you stopped listening. Your hands were shaking, visions blurred at the edges. The baby was twisting frantically now, probably responding to your elevated heart rate. You pressed your palms against your curve, trying to calm yourself.
The voices finally faded, the door swinging shut behind them and the bathroom returned to silence.
You emerged from the stall on unsteady legs. Your reflection in the mirror was a stranger, pale and hollow-eyed. You’d lost weight everywhere except your bump, couldn’t sleep and had eaten the equivalent to a small bird since you found out.
You looked haunted.
You fixed your lipstick with trembling fingers, smoothed down your dress and put on your invisible mask again. Pretending to be someone who could stand beside her husband and smile like her world wasn’t slowly, yet loudly imploding.
When you made your way back into the ballroom, Oscar was exactly where you left him. He spotted your immediately, relief flooding his features, and started walking toward you.
“Hey,” he said softly when he reached you. “You were gone a while, I was starting to get worried.”
“Just needed some air,” Another lie you added to the cluster growing quickly.
His hand rose gently, like he was contemplating touching your face, but he stopped himself. He’d been doing that a lot lately, reaching for you in the ways he has done for the last five years, but quietly remembering he didn’t have the right to do that anymore.
“I should let you know,” he trembled, fiddling with the cuff of his shirt. “There’s someone here tonight.”
You followed his gaze across the room, and your stomach dropped.
Because there she was, standing near the bar in a dress that sculpted her figure perfectly, laughing at something Carlos had said, Lily Zneimer.
You didn’t find the words to say before Lily had clocked you both standing there and made her way over. They had locked eyes, something passing between them both and whatever it was, it made you feel like you were drowning.
“I need to leave,” you demanded.
“Wait, please–” Oscar’s hand caught your wrist, gentle but desperate. “She doesn’t matter, she’s nothing to me, I swear–”
“Then why the fuck is she here?” The question came out in broken breaths. “Why is she at an FIA event? Why is it that every time I turn my back she appears, Oscar?”
“I don’t know,” he replied helplessly. “I swear I didn’t know she would be here!”
“You never know, do you?” You pulled your wrist free, “You didn’t know the photos were taken, you didn’t know Rebecca would call me, you didn’t know the entire grid would find out about your secret family, you just stumbled through life and expected your wife to pick up the pieces.”
“That’s–that’s not fair,”
“None of this is fair!” Your voice had risen slightly, enough that people had started to look. But you had gone past the point of caring. “I’m eight months pregnant, Osc. I can barely sleep because the baby won’t stop kicking and I can’t stop thinking about what happened between you both that night. I’m standing amongst people who think they know more about our marriage than we do. And now, I have to share another special moment with the girl that came before me.”
He looked shattered. “I’m sorry, let me go and get the car, okay? We’ll go right now.”
“No,” you took a step back. “You stay. Do whatever obligations you have to do. I’ll get a cab back to the hotel.”
“I’m not letting my pregnant wife get into a cab alone.”
“You’re not letting me do anything,” you repeated back quietly this time. “Not anymore.”
The words hung between you like a death sentence. You watched something break in his eyes, watched him realise that maybe this wasn’t something that could be fixed with an apology and time. Maybe your marriage had been broken past the point of repair the moment he sat down across from Lily and didn’t tell you.
You turned and walked away. Made it three steps before his voice stopped you.
“I love you,” he called out, and you heard the desperation in it. The cry for help.
You didn’t turn around, “I know you do.” you said over your shoulder. “That’s what makes this harder.”
Then you walked out into the crisp Monaco air, leaving your husband standing alone in a ballroom full of people, and finally let yourself cry.
–
The doorbell rang at 2pm on a Tuesday, which meant it wouldn’t be Oscar. He had a key anyway. But lately, he’d been using it less and less. Staying the odd few nights at Lando’s. Leaving you to parent your toddler by yourself.
You heaved yourself off the sofa, one hand supporting your lower back, the other cradling your back. Nine months pregnant now, so close to your due date that every twinge made you wonder if this was it. If you’d be bringing a baby into a broken home.
Alex was taking his nap upstairs, finally, after fighting it for the last hour with a tantrum that would frighten Satan himself. You’d spent that hour trying to read him his favourite book on repeat until the words blurred together and your voice grew hoarse.
You opened the door, and Nicole stood on your doorstep with a glass tray with tinfoil scrunched on top in her hands, and concern woven into every line on her face.
“Uhm, Nicole,” you breathed, “I didn’t know you were coming.”
“I didn’t tell Oscar,” she said simply. “Can I come in?”
You stepped aside, and she swept past you into the house she’d visited dozens of times over the years. The house that had always felt warm and lived-in and full of love. Now, it just felt hollow and lonely.
She sat the dish on the kitchen counter and turned to face you. For a moment, she just looked at you, really looked at you, and you watched as her expression crumbled.
“Oh my sweetheart,” she whispered.
That was all it took. You burst into tears.
She crossed the kitchen in three small strides and pulled you into her arms as much as your bump would allow. You sobbed into her shoulder, months of holding yourself together finally breaking apart in the safety of someone who had always loved you unconditionally.
“I’m sorry,” you gasped between sobs. “I’m really sorry–”
“Don’t you dare apologise,” she said firmly, rubbing circles on your back. “Don’t you even dare.”
She guided you to the sofa, helped you sit down despite your bump, and settled in beside you. Producing a packet of tissues from her handbag like she’d known exactly what kind of visit this would be.
You cried until you couldn’t cry anymore. Until your eyes were red raw and swollen, and your throat was sore and you felt emptied out in a way that was almost revealing.
“I am so disappointed in him,” she said quietly when you finally calmed down. “I didn’t raise him like this.”
“I know he didn’t cheat,” you said automatically, defending him, even now. “Like he didn’t–they didn’t–”
“Being physical with someone isn’t the only way to betray someone.” Nicole replied, her voice sharp. “He met with his ex-girlfriend without telling you. He let you expose your family without telling you why.” She shook her head. “That is betrayal my darling. That’s breaking built trust in the worst possible way.”
The words hit you like they slapped you. Because she was right. You’d been so focused on the technicality of whether he’d physically cheated that you’d almost convinced yourself the emotional betrayal didn’t actually count.
“I don’t know how to forgive him,” you admitted. “I want to. Like I really want to forgive him. But every time I look at him, I just see–”
“Her,” Nicole finished gently.
You just nodded.
Nicole was quiet for a moment, her hand finding yours and gently squeezing.”I did speak to him last night,” she started. “I called him after he hadn’t messaged me for a few days and do you know what he said to me?”
You shook your head, bringing your eyebrows together.
“He said he destroyed the best thing in his life. That he would give up racing tomorrow if it meant you’d forgive him.” Nicole's voice wavered. “I’ve never heard my son so broken,”
“I would never ask him to give up racing!” you said tiredly. “I never wanted that, I just wanted him to be honest with me.”
“I know sweetheart, and he knows that too.” She paused for a moment. “Can I ask you something?”
“Of course,”
“Do you still love him?”
The question hung heavy, you thought about lying and protecting yourself but this was Nicole. She’d been a mother to you more than your own had ever been.
“Yes,” you whispered. “I hate that I do, but yes.”
“Then there’s still something to fight for.” Nicole said firmly. “Love isn’t always enough on its own, but it’s a start, a foundation. And right now, you two need to remember what you’re fighting for.”
You looked down at your swollen belly, feeling the baby shift and lodge a tiny hand in your ribs. “I’m about to have his baby, we don’t have time–”
“Which is why you need to do this now my love,” she interrupted. “Before the baby comes and you're both exhausted and running on fumes.” She squeezed your hand. "I'm not saying you have to forgive him tomorrow. I'm not even saying you have to forgive him next month. But you need to talk. Really talk. Not with Alex upstairs or cameras watching or him terrified you're going to leave."
"I don't know what to say to him anymore," you admitted. "Every conversation ends with him apologising and me not knowing how to respond."
“Then maybe you need to go somewhere neither of you can escape from the conversation,” Nicole twitched her nose in thought. “Maybe somewhere you can both just…breathe.”
You stared at her. “Nicole, I’m about to drop, I can’t exactly go on some romantic getaway–”
“Take our beach house!” She said, as if she’d already thought it all through. “Something about the ocean…it just makes things all a little easier.”
“I can’t ask you to–”
“You’re not asking dear, I’m offering!” Her voice was gentle but firm. “And before you worry about Alex, I’ll take him. He can help me bake some Lamingtons and make all the mess he wants in my kitchen.”
The offering was tempting, just to get away before the baby comes. An easy excuse to try and salvage whatever was left of your marriage.
“What if we go there and realise we can’t fix this?” The question came out small, a little scared. “What if when we’re there it just proves that it’s a broken cause?”
“Then, sweetheart, at least you’ll know.” Nicole said quietly. “And you can make a decision from there. But right now, you’re both living in this unknown state, and it’s clearly not helping anyone.” She placed a gentle hand over your bump. “This baby isn’t going to wait until you two sort things out.
You closed your eyes, feeling tears slip down your cheeks again. “I know,”
“It’s perfectly normal to feel like this, darling.” Nicole pulled you close again. “But you are one of the strongest girls I know.”
The baby kicked then, as if he was agreeing with his grandmother.
“When would we go?” you asked finally, wiping a stray tear from your cheek.
“What about this weekend,” Nicole answered, gently clapping her hands together. “I’ll take Alex on Friday morning, you and Oscar can drive up when you’re ready. Just take the two days for yourselves.”
“Does Oscar know about all this?”
“Well, not yet.” She admitted. “I thought I would suggest it to you first and then tell him if he wants to keep the best thing that’s ever happened to him, he’ll pull his head out of his arse.”
You let yourself smile at that, only the corner of your mouth raising. You thought about how you’d been living for the last few weeks – sleeping in different beds, sometimes even separate houses, and how you'd thought about how you’d raise two children by yourself when he left.
“Yeah,” you heard yourself say. “Okay, I’ll go.”
You watched as Nicole’s face flooded with relief. “Oh darling!”
“–But if we go there and I realise that I can’t do this anymore–”
“Then you come home, and we’ll support you.”
The Piastri’s had always given you unconditional support, you looked at the same woman who placed the veil onto your perfectly curled hair five years ago, sat across from you, rubbing circles into your back after watching your marriage fall apart.
“Now, when was the last time you ate? You're as thin as a rake!”
“I haven’t really been that hungry,” you shyly admitted.
“Well, this lasagne won’t eat itself. That baby needs to eat as well!”
You watched her bustle around your kitchen like she owned it, pulling out plates from the cupboard and cutlery from the drawer.
“Nicole?” you called.
She turned, spatula in her hand still.
“Thank you,” you said quietly.
Her smile was soft and warm, but still had a hint of sadness behind it all. “You’re my daughter,” she murmured softly.
–
Your car pulled into the stoned driveway of the beach house just as the sun was starting to set, painting the sky in shades of orange and pink that it might’ve been romantic in another life.
The silence in the journey over here was deafening. You’d barely spoken for the last two hours; you just sat there with your hands folded over your bump, watching the world blur past whilst Oscar white knuckled the steering wheel and pretended to be focused on the road.
It was exactly how you remembered it. Back before you had Alex, the pair of you would visit here often. The white cladding was still weathered but tidy, the blue shutters over the windows, and the decking that overlooked the ocean. It used to feel peaceful, a home away from home. But now, it felt like a trap.
Oscar grabbed both suitcases from the boot of the car, dragging them over the stones and into the porch. You watched as he unlocked the door, his movements awkward and careful around you. It was like he was afraid of doing the wrong thing and setting you off.
Inside, the house still smelt the same. Like lavender potpourri and slight musk from not being used all winter. The furniture was covered in white sheets, covering the sofas and tables across the house.
“I’ll get those sheets off,” Oscar said, already pulling one off the sofa.
“I, uhm, just need to use the bathroom.”
You waddled down the hallway to the bathroom, and locked the door behind you. The sink was cold against your palms as you pressed against it, staring at the reflection in the mirror.
What did you possibly think two days alone with the man who cheated would accomplish?
The baby was now low, pressing on your bladder at every chance they had. You rubbed circles over the swell.
“I know,” you whispered. “This is utterly stupid.”
Once you came out of the bathroom, trying to gently turn the lock without making too much of a sound, Oscar had uncovered all of the furniture and was standing in the kitchen, staring at the fridge like it was going to solve all of his problems.
“Looks like Mum has stocked the fridge for us,” he said without turning around, the fridge light framing his features. “There’s plenty for dinner, if you’re hungry?”
“I’m not.”
You had become good at lying now. You were absolutely lying. But the thought of sitting at a table with him, desperately trying to make awkward small talk while you both avoided the real conversation, made you feel sick.
“Yeah, that’s okay,” he said, closing the fridge door. “If you change your mind, I can make you anything you fancy.”
The politeness and kindness was worse than fighting. At least when you were fighting you were still something to each other. Whatever this was, was making you feel like strangers.
You moved to the bench that was placed by the window, overlooking the ocean beyond the decking. You wrapped your arms around yourself and watched the waves crash into the sand.
“I’m just going to take a shower,” Oscar announced behind you. “Do you want anything before I hop in?”
“No, I’m fine.”
You heard him stutter, like he wanted to say something else. But he didn’t. He padded down the hallway to the bathroom, and a few seconds later the water started to run.
You sank into the pillows, suddenly exhausted from pretending. And probably because of the baby. Because of everything.
For a moment, you let yourself exist in the moment. Listening to the ocean waves, the peaceful sounds of running water, before your phone vibrated. Nicole had sent you a message, a photo of Alex covered in flour and coconut, grinning at the camera with the same smile as his dad.
Nicole: Making Lamingtons is going well! He’s eaten several fistfuls of coconut flakes and most of the melted chocolate… Love you both x
You stared at the photo until your vision blurred. Your son looked so happy, blissfully unaware that his parents were falling apart.
Oscar made his way back into the living room in a pair of cotton shorts and a t-shirt, hair still damp from towel-drying it.
“We might have a slight problem,” he said quietly.
You lifted your head from where it was resting against the window, turning slowly to face him.
“The other bedroom looks like it’s under some sort of redecorating. There’s no mattress on the bedframe.”
You took a deep breath, closing your eyes for a brief second.
“Well, the sofa’s too small for you,” you mumbled. “I’m sure we can be adults and share a bed for the next two nights.”
He looked taken back, “are you sure? Because I don’t want you to be uncomfortable–”
“Oscar, we’ve been married for the last five years, and if you haven’t noticed I’m carrying your child. I think we can manage to not make this weird.”
He nodded slowly. “Yeah, yeah of course.”
The silence stretched again. You could feel him watching you, feeling the weight of everything that’s been ignored and unsaid, pressing down on both of you.
“I think I’m gonna go to bed,” you announced, pushing yourself up with a small grunt. “It was a long drive and I’m tired.”
“It’s barely even eight–”
“I’m nine months pregnant Osc. I’m constantly exhausted.”
You brushed past him toward the bedroom, feeling his eyes following you as you made your way down the hall.
The bedroom was exactly how you remembered it, the crisp white linen that held the most peaceful night sleep. You sat on the end of it, feeling the weight of your bump ease slightly. You tried to bend over to wiggle off your shoes, but your bump made it almost near impossible to reach your feet.
“Can I?” Oscar said from the doorway.
“I can do it myself.”
“I know you can,” he crossed the room anyway, kneeling in front of you. “But you don’t have to.”
His hands were gentle as he unlaced them, slipping them off one at a time. Then his thumbs pressed into the arch of your foot, and you couldn’t stop the small sound of relief that escaped.
“Your feet are really swollen,” he observed quietly, continuing to knead at the muscles.
“Comes with the territory,” you pointed at your bump, smiling into a straight line. You hated how good it felt, how your body was responding to his touch like muscle memory.
“Does it hurt?”
“Everything hurts,” you laughed, “my back, my hips, my feet. I think they’re running out of room in there and have decided my ribs are a great place to practice football.”
A small smile appeared across his face, “takes after their dad then.”
You pulled your foot away. “Please don’t.”
The smile vanished when he saw the look on your face. “Yeah, sorry.”
He stood, backing away like you physically scolded him. He went over to his bag, pulling out his toiletries, arranging them neatly on the dressing table. He was buying time, avoiding making any eye contact with you.
You changed into your pyjamas– an oversized t-shirt you took from Oscar and a pair of green striped shorts, that was the last pair that would comfortably fit on your bump. The sheets were cool and crisp against your bare legs, smelling faintly of washing powder and slight musk.
Oscar had brushed his teeth and got into the bed beside you, approaching the bed like he was trying not to set off a grenade. He lifted the covers on his side with extreme caution and slipped in, maintaining a careful distance. The gap felt like miles.
You both laid there in the darkness, listening to the waves gently crashing outside the window. The baby shifted restlessly, and you placed a hand on your bump, trying to soothe them. Trying to soothe yourself, more like.
“Can I?” Oscar’s voice was barely a whisper, timid and unsure.
You knew what he was asking. “Fine.”
He placed his hand over yours, warm against your bump. The baby kicked immediately, as if they recognised their father’s touch, and you felt Oscar take a deep inhale of breath.
“Wow, they’re a proper little athlete,” he murmured.
“They never sleep, I think they’re training for a marathon or something.”
You saw his face falter slightly. “I’m sorry I haven’t been there for all of this,” he said quietly. “I hate that you’ve been dealing with all of this on your own,”
“Well, you’ve been here,” you cut him off. “I just haven’t exactly made you welcome, really.”
His hand stayed on your bump, feeling every kick and roll the baby did. “I miss this,” he whispered. “I really miss you.”
“Yeah, well you didn’t miss me enough to have dinner with her.”
The words came out before you could stop them, your tongue sharp. Oscar’s hand froze, his face following.
“Wow, you had to ruin it,”
“Me ruin it?!” You shouted, turning to face him in the darkness, and even though you couldn’t see his expression clearly, you could feel his pain radiating across the space between you. “You keep saying you’re sorry, you keep saying it didn’t mean anything, but you still did it!”
“I know.” His voice cracked. “I know, and I hate myself for it. Every single day I wake up and hate what I’ve done to us, to our family.”
“Then why did you do it?” The question that had been eating at you both for weeks finally burst out. “Why, Oscar? What was so important that you had to see her and risk your marriage?”
He was quiet for so long you thought he wouldn’t answer your question. “Closure, I think. I don’t know. Maybe I needed to prove to myself that what we had was real. That I chose right.”
You felt something crack open in your chest, your lungs losing all the air in them. “Let me get this straight, you needed to see your ex-girlfriend to know if you chose the right woman? The woman you married? The mother of your children?”
“Well when you say it like that, it sounds–”
“It sounds like exactly what it was,” your voice was hoarse, tears threatening to fall. “You had doubts about your life, about me, your children.”
“No–” he rose from the bed abruptly, “no, that’s not–I didn’t have doubts about you, I had serious doubts about myself. Whether I deserved you or not.”
“Oh that’s bullshit,” you replied flatly, pushing yourself up despite the sheer effort it took to do so. “You don’t get to make this about your insecurity.”
“I’m not trying to,” he ran both hands through his hair, frustrated. “I’m just trying to be honest with you.”
“Okay then, tell me the real reason.” you shifted to face him fully, placing the hands on the small of your back to hold yourself up. “I don’t want the bullshit version, I want the truth.”
The moonlight was filtering through the curtains and cast dark shadows across his face. You watched him struggle to find the words.
“She was my first love,” he said finally, “She was my first everything, really. And when we broke up, I told myself it was the right decision because we wanted different things in life.” He took a shaky breath. “But then she called me, and she said she’d made a mistake and she regretted things…and I–”
“You wanted to know if you made a mistake too,” you finished for him.
“No.” He looked at you, his eyes desperate. “It wasn’t like that at all. I knew the second that I met you that you were it for me. But she was sat across from me, asking questions if I was happy or not and I just–I couldn’t find the words to tell her about my life now.”
The admission felt like a physical slap. “So you thought keeping us a secret from her would be acceptable?”
“I’m sorry–”
“Oh stop saying you’re fucking sorry!” You were shouting now, tears streaming down your face. “Just stop apologising and just admit you regret marrying me. Tell me you wish you had chosen little miss perfect instead.”
“I don’t wish that,” he said fiercely. “I don’t think that at all, I swear to God, I don’t regret a second of our marriage. You’re the best thing to ever happen to me.”
“Then why wouldn’t you tell her?” your voice was completely broken, cracking as you spoke. “What did you talk about Oscar? What did you sit across from her and say?”
He couldn’t look at you. “I don’t know, we spoke about the past. About what could’ve been different.”
“I’m gonna be sick.” You pressed the heels of your palms against your eyes. “You had a 'what could’ve been’ conversation with your ex-girlfriend while I was sat at home, pregnant and tucking your son into bed.”
“I know, I know, I was wrong–”
“Wrong doesn’t even cover it.” You lowered your hands, staring at him. “Did you kiss her?”
“What! No!”
“Well did you want to?”
The hesitation was only a fraction of a second, but it was enough.
“Oh my fucking god,” you breathed. “You wanted to.”
“No, I didn’t I swear–”
“I watched you just now, you hesitated. You fucking hesitated.” You scrambled, pacing across the room. Needing the distance from the man you had spent the last 5 years calling your husband.
“Only for a second!” He lunged toward you, but you stepped back. “For one stupid, idiotic second I wondered what it would be like. But I didn’t do it, I wouldn’t.”
“But you thought about it. You sat across from her and you thought about kissing her and then you came home to me, your family and pretended like everything was fine.”
“Because none of it meant anything,” he pleaded. “It was just a momentary weakness.”
He stood there, tears streaming down his face, looking more broken than you’d ever seen him. “I don’t know how to fix this,” he whispered. “Tell me how to fix this, I’ll do absolutely anything. Please.”
“I don’t know if we can.” You watched something die behind his eyes. “How are we supposed to come back from something like this? How am I supposed to trust you again?”
He had no answer. He just stood there crying, and for once you didn’t run to comfort him. The baby had kicked hard, lodging a tiny foot in your ribcage, making you wince.
“Are you okay?” He moved toward you again.
“I’m fine,” you held up your hand as a warning to stop him from moving any closer. “Just–just leave me alone for a bit.”
“I don’t want you walking around out there on your own.”
“Oh shh, I’m going to sit out the porch,” you said tiredly. “I’m not running away, I can’t exactly run very far.”
You left him standing there and made your way through the house and out the sliding doors to the porch. The night air hit you, the tears drying on your cheeks.
You sank into the porch swing, tilted your head back, and stared up at the stars through the slats.
You had been sitting out there long enough that the baby had started to settle, the gentle swing swiftly sending them to sleep. The sliding doors opened up behind you.
“I thought you’d like a tea.” Oscar said quietly.
He sat the mug down on the glass table in front of you and retreated, but didn’t go back inside. Just leaned against the wooden fence a few feet away.
You picked up the mug and the smell of peppermint greeted your nose.
“My dad cheated on my mum,” you said suddenly.
Oscar went still.
“When I was fourteen, I came home to my mum crying on the kitchen floor, screaming about my dad cheating on her.”
“I didn’t know that,” Oscar replied softly.
“Because I never told you.” You didn’t look at him, just kept focus on the view out in front of you. “I’ve not really told anyone, it’s not something you can exactly openly speak about.”
“I’m not your father.” His face had gone pale.
“No,” you agreed. “You’re not. You still betrayed me though. I don’t want to spend the rest of our marriage waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
You could clearly see he was crying again. “I don’t want you to live like that.”
“Then what do you want?” The question came out tired and defeated. “Because I don’t think I can continue doing this. I don’t think I can live in limbo.”
Oscar was quiet for a long moment. But when he finally spoke, his voice was rough. “I want to be better. A better husband, a better dad.” He took another breath. “Do you want a divorce?”
The thought had crossed your mind plenty of times over the last few weeks. “No,” you said finally. “I don’t want a divorce.”
“Then what do you want?”
You took a shaky breath. “I want you to fight for this. Really fight. Not just apologize and hope I’ll get over it. I want you to prove to me that we’re worth the work.”
“How?” He looked up at you desperately. “Tell me how and I’ll do it.”
“Honesty, for starters.”
“Yes,” he said without hesitation. “I swear.”
“But it’s not like I’m going to wake up tomorrow and forgive you. It doesn’t exactly happen overnight.”
“I know,” he hung his head, staring down at his feet. “I understand.”
–
You woke to sunlight streaming through the curtains and the smell of coffee drifting from the kitchen.
For a moment, a brief moment, you had forgotten about the betrayal, the argument last night and just registered the domestic bliss you had known for years past.
But then you remembered.
You found him in the kitchen, standing at the hob with his back to you. Two plates sat at the table, scrambled eggs placed over avocado on toast and a bowl of fruit arranged next to it.
“Morning,” he said softly when he heard you. “I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry or not–”
“Thank you,” you interrupted, surprising yourself. The anger from last night had dimmed into something more manageable. Or just that you were too pregnant and too tired to maintain that level of anger.
You sat at the small table, and he brought over both plates. For a few minutes, you ate in silence.
“The baby’s been really active this morning,” you announced, filling the silence.
Oscar’s eyes lit up. “Yeah?”
You nodded, piling a fork full of food into your mouth. “They’re proper strong.” You pulled his hand over and placed it on your belly.
His face transformed when he felt a kick. “Bloody hell, they are strong.”
“Takes after their dad,” you said without thinking, then froze.
Oscar smiled anyway, soft and grateful. After you’d both finished breakfast, you’d collectively decided to go for a walk along the beach.
The sand was warm beneath your feet, the morning air crisp enough still to scatter goosebumps across your skin. Oscar walked beside you, hands shoved deep into his pockets, keeping up with your slow, waddling gate.
Waves crashed at your feet as you both treaded through the sand. The tide was just creeping in enough to kiss your toes before slipping back out again. The gentle rhythm of it filled the silence between you both.
He stayed close, his shoulder brushing yours every few steps.
“You alright?” he asked after a while, his voice careful.
You nodded, eyes fixed on the horizon. “Hmm, yeah. Just tired.”
It wasn’t a lie, coming to the end of your pregnancy you were carrying all this extra weight, the pain constantly in your lower back, your body was no longer just your own, lugging around an extra tenant. But there was something underlying too, heavier than just the weight of your unborn child.
Oscar hummed softly, glancing down at you. For a second, his hand twitched at his side, like instinct was trying to take over, like he used to, lacing his fingers with yours without a second thought but he stopped himself.
A breeze rolled between you, tugging at your hair, cooling the warmth off your skin. You wrapped your arms around your body, like a habit.
“Here,” Oscar said, already shrugging off his hoodie. He stepped closer, draping it carefully over your shoulders, his hand lingering on your shoulder a little longer.
And you let him.
For a brief moment, neither of you moved. It almost felt normal.
“Do you remember,” he started, a faint smile pulling at your lips. “When we came here the first time? You refused to go into the water because it was ‘absolutely freezing.’”
You huffed a quiet laugh as the memory passed your mind. “That’s because it was freezing!”
“It was summer, babe!”
“Yeah, in England,” you pointed out, glancing at him.
That earned a proper smile, one that reached his eyes this time. For a fleeting second, he looked like himself again.
“I had to drag you in the water!” he laughed.
“Erm, I remember, I almost drowned.”
“You did not!”
A small smile started to tug at your lips now. “If I remember correctly, you dove into the water and acted like a hero when you pulled me out.”
He laughed under his breath, shaking his head. “I was a hero.”
You rolled your eyes, but the tension in your chest loosened a bit.
The two of you slowed to a stop, standing where the water lapped gently at the shore. Oscar looked out at sea, then back at you, something unreadable flickering across his face.
You looked down at your hands, then took a deep breath, filling your lungs with the sea air.
“I’ve missed you, Osc.”
The words sat between you both for a moment, he was shocked, unsure what to say, or how to answer.
“Me too,” he finally responded.
“I don’t want us to argue, I do want us to fix this. I don’t want our children to grow up without having their dad by their side and all three of us cheering you on from the pit wall.” You took another breath. “I want to learn to forgive you. I know you didn’t physically cheat, and that does make it a little easier for me to digest but I need you to let me take my time.”
He turned to you then, taking both of your hands in his. “Of course, anything you want I'll do it. I promise.”
You smiled at him, finally seeing the real him appear after weeks of seeing red rimmed eyes.
–
When night finally fell, you were both tucked into bed, the tv humming in the background, the smell of suncream and sea salt still stuck to your skin. Your head rested on Oscar’s shoulder, his arm protectively curled around your back, fingers tracing absent circles on your bare thigh. The large swell of your stomach pressed warm and firm between you both, the baby shifting lazily every few minutes like a gentle reminder that everything was about to change again.
“You’re beautiful like this,” Oscar murmured, voice low. His free hand slid down, palm spreading wide over the tight bump. “I still can’t believe we get to do this again.”
You smiled, tilting your head to look at him. “You’re just saying that because I’m basically a giant beach ball right now.”
He let out a breathy laugh, but there was no teasing in it. Instead, he shifted himself closer, propping himself up on one elbow. “No, actually. It’s because I’ve missed laying like this with my beautiful wife and my beautiful baby.” His thumb brushed slow circles over your skin, right where the baby kicked gently against his touch.
“I want to show you how much I’ve missed you.”
The air between you had thickened. His hand moved slowly under your top, calloused fingers skimming the overly sensitive nipples, your breasts fuller and aching from pregnancy. You let out a shaky breath, watching Oscar’s eyes darken, pupils widening.
“Can I show you?”
You nodded, heart hammering, and he didn’t hesitate. He pushed the covers down slowly, exposing you to the cool night air, he then leaned in and kissed you, deep and unhurried. It was like he was pouring every apology and promise into the kiss. When he pulled back, his mouth trailed lower, first to neck, then down the swell of your chest and after tugged your top off with gentle hands, careful of how tender you were, and groaned softly at the sight of you.
“God, look at you,” he whispered. His lips closed around one nipple, sucking slow and warm while his tongue circled, drawing a soft moan from you. His other hand cupped your other breast, his thumb brushing over your skin. He worshipped every inch of you, kissing the stretch marks that mapped your body now.
He eased your shorts down your thighs, helping you lift your hips even though the baby weight made it awkward, and settled between your legs like he had all the time in the world. His hands parted your thighs gently, thumbs stroking the soft skin there before he leaned in and pressed a slow, open kiss right where you needed him most.
You gasped, fingers threading into his messy brown hair as his tongue dragged hot and deliberate through your folds, like he was proving something with every lick. He hummed against you, the vibration sending sparks up your spine, and his hands slid up to cradle your belly, holding it steady while he worked you open with his mouth. Two fingers joined soon after, curling just right inside of you, stroking that spot that made your toes curl and your breath hitch.
“Oscar–” you moaned, hips rocking as much as the baby would allow.
He looked up at you from between your thighs, eyes blazing with pure love and hunger. You looked at him, and remembered exactly how you got into this pregnancy in the first place. His mouth returned, flicking faster now, fingers pumping a steady rhythm while his free hand rubbed soothing circles over your belly.
You came with his name on your lips, thighs trembling around his shoulders, and he stayed right there for a moment longer, licking you through it, gentle and devoted, until you were glowing.
He slowly crawled back up, kissing a trail up your body again, pausing to worship your stomach one more time. He settled back beside you, pulling the covers back up and resting them against your shoulders and bringing you back into his arms once again. You could feel his hard length pressed against your thigh.
“I love you,” he breathed against your hair, one hand still stroking your belly like he couldn’t stop touching you. “I love you, only you, baby.”
You turned to face him, smiling as the baby kicked softly between you both, and for the first time in a long while, you actually believed him.
–
The next morning you woke to the birds chirping and your husband’s arm lazily slung across your chest, pulling you in tight to his body.
You took the morning to be slow together, breakfast on the porch, a warm shower, taking your time to get ready, Remembering the rhythm of what it was like to be together again.
Suitcases lay open across the bed, half-zipped and spilling clothes like neither of you had the energy to do it properly. The room still smelt slightly musky from being untouched for so long, but the air filled with Oscar’s chocolate deodorant and strong aftershave.
Oscar moved around you quietly, folding shirts with a focus that felt almost forced. There was a carefulness to him now, like if he just did everything right, everything might just stay together.
“Still okay to leave at ten?” He asked, glancing over at you as you brushed your hair. “Mum said she would have Alex ready for twelve.”
You nodded, tucking a few strands of hairs into a clip. The baby kept shifting in your stomach, a dull pressure reminding you that baby was ready to make an appearance any day now.
Oscar’s phone buzzed on the bedside table.
He didn’t look up. “Can you check that?” he asked, zipping up his suitcase. “It’s probably mum asking if we’ve left. Can you tell her we’re leaving in a mo?”
“Yeah, no worries babe.” you murmured, reaching over for it.
The screen lit up under the touch of your thumb. Except the name didn’t read mum.
It read, Lily.
Your thumb stilled for half a second before you swiped the message open, like your body already knew something your mind wasn’t quite understanding yet.
Lily: Call me later baby x
There were endless, recent conversations above it. Too many.
You didn’t want to scroll, but you did anyway. Dragging the conversation upward, each message unraveling something inside your chest with quiet precision.
But you saw it. The night after the awards it started again. The night you left him there, with her.
Your grip tightened around the phone, but your face stayed poker still.
Behind you, Oscar was oblivious to your findings. “Everything okay, babe?”
You locked the screen.
“Yep, all good.” You replied, voice steady but your heart pounding. “Alex is looking forward to seeing us.”
You set the phone back down exactly where it had been, like if you put it back where you found it, you could reverse what you had seen.
“Ready?”
You picked up your bag, forcing a smile. “Yep.”
The drive was quiet, he reached over to you once, resting his hand on your thigh. But you didn’t react, didn’t pull away, just let it rest there.
When you finally arrived, Nicole opened the door before you’d even knocked, Alex already running down the path to greet you both.
“Mummy!” he beamed, launching himself into you and kissing your belly, saying hello to their sibling.
“Hello, my gorgeous boy!” you whispered, holding him a little tighter than usual.
Nicole’s eyes flickered between the both of you, then to Oscar, reading something your expression compared to his.
“How was it?” She leant in, saying it so only you could hear.
You pulled back, just enough to look at her and shook your head.
Her eyes squeezed shut, pursing her lips together like she was holding back the tears.
–
You could feel how nervous he was, lifting the veil from your face in the small registry office. He was smiling though, that goofy ear to ear grin that always made you smile despite everything. “You’re stuck with me now, baby.” he whispered, and you laughed, nodding. “Death do us part.”
–
“Mummy, look!” Alex yelled, holding up his toy car.
You smiled softly, brushing your fingers through his hair. “That’s amazing sweetheart,”
The house had been quiet for weeks now. Just the sounds of your newborn baby, Harper, cooing in your arms as she sucked on her dummy. Her tiny fingers clenched in a fist under her scratch mittens.
On the table in front of you, your solicitor passed the papers over to you – tiny tabs pointing to where you needed to sign.
You adjusted Harper in your arms, careful not to wake her before reaching for the pen.
You signed your name, no longer a Piastri, back to your maiden name. But you told yourself, at least you didn’t have to live with a man and a name that meant you’d live second best to someone your entire life. At least now, you wouldn’t have to sit wondering if he was loyal to you or sleeping with someone else. At least you would know your children would have respect for starting over and giving them a life and parents they deserve.
Oscar thought he wouldn't have to deal with anything similar to Alpine-Gate ever again. He was wrong.
Oscar Piastri x Horner!Reader
-> Everything Goes Wrong (pt1)
-> Oscar breaks up with his girlfriend and McLaren start treating him like Daniel, but then he meets someone new.
posted: 3 Feb 2024
-> A Storm Is Brewing (pt2)
-> Mark gives the Go-Ahead for possible negotiations with Red Bull, McLaren pull an Alpine, and Oscar makes a decision.
posted: 5 Feb 2024
-> The Build Up (pt3)
-> In a large bowl mix Contract Negotiations with two parts Announcements and three parts Life Updates, let cook for an hour and while it's still hot, sprinkle some jealousy and betrayal over the top as a nice garnish.
posted: 12 Feb 2024
-> Pre-season Bonding (pt4)
-> Where teams are announced, dinners are held and Oscar finds himself surrounded by people who are determined to help him on his way to greatness.
posted: 3 Mar 2024
-> Get This Party Started (pt5)
-> The season starts and it's a relatively calm affair, until it's not. Some things can be predicted while others show up like an unwanted Force Ghost from Star Wars.
posted: 29 Mar 2024
-> Down Time Down Under (pt6)
-> Oscar finds that having a crush having less than platonic feelings for your boss's only adult daughter is apparently free real estate for some of F1's biggest gossips
posted: 10 May 2024
-> Shift Happens (pt7)
-> Miami and Imola bring new challenges to the grid. Challenges such as finally initiating the romance part of your potential relationship- oh and being on the podium with your ex-teammate too.
posted: 19 May 2024
-> Warning Sainz (pt8)
-> Monaco, Canada and Spain oh my! Oscar decides to continue his quest for world domination (claiming home races) and prove that he's the best boyfriend his ex ever lost.
posted: 23 June 2024
-> Baby Got Track (pt9)
-> Adding two more GPs to his list of home races, Oscar realises that he's A-OK with having half his bags packed with things that aren't his.
posted: 10 July 2024
-> Silly Goose Extraordinaire (pt10)
-> When Y/n isn't there for two races, Oscar discovers that he's far more attached than he thought he was. At least it's almost the mid-year break!
posted: 5 Aug 2024
-> Red Bull Gives You Wins (pt11)
-> Mid-year break brings a lot of strong emotions, but there's only one thing that could make them even more intense...
posted: 6 Mar 2025 (I'm so sorry)
-> Simply Lovely (pt12) (pending)
-> It's time for Monza and Baku, and a hot new bombshell has entered the- What? She's not new? Oh.. A hot bombshell has entered the paddock!
posted:
-> Big Ric Energy (pt13)
-> In which Oscar and Y/n test the limit of what is appropriate to post on their socials.
posted:
-> Red Bull School Of Racing (pt14)
-> Why Stop Winning? A shared autobiography written by Max Verstappen and Oscar Piastri, photographed by Y/n Horner.
posted:
-> 1st's The Worst, 2nd's The Best (pt15)
-> Here comes the bride champion.. all dressed in white navy blue and red..!
posted:
-> We Shenan'd Once, Let's Shenanigan (pt16)
-> Welcome to Red Bull Racing: The Reunion Tour!
posted:
came back from the dead to say that i just saw that post on twitter of lewis saying the grip in bahrain is the lowest he felt in his 20 years in f1 and the quotes are all talking abt oscar and his track records in low grip tracks wtf 😩
summary : oscar is one of lambda chi alpha’s most sought-after brothers, too bad he’s attached to the hip with his girlfriend
pairing : frat boy!oscar piastri x reader
lina’s radio : ngl this is barely a frat boy oscar but its okay!! definitely not my fav work only bcs my writing sucked for this one, but i hope you guys enjoy nonetheless!
ynln and oscarpiastri added to their stories
alexandrasaintmleux replied to your story convince him to text charles to bring me flowers 😆
⤷ ynln yess ma’am 🫡
user82 replied to your story OMG HE’S THE SWEETESTTT
user16 replied to your story omg the choice of flowers im crying that’s so cute 🥹🥹🥹
flavy.barla replied to your story have you studied for our math test yet???? i need help
⤷ ynln i can drop by your’s tmrw lmk !!
⤷ flavy.barla you’re a lifesaver 🤍🤍
user73 replied to your story IF HE WANTED TO HE WOULD!!!!
oscarpiastri replied to your story i love you ❤️
⤷ ynln hehe 💓💓
landonorris replied to oscarpiastri’s story ur so down bad 😂😂
⤷ oscarpiastri shut up and start appreciating your girl mate
user17 replied to oscarpiastri’s story POSTING THIS RIGHT AFTER THE TWEETS CAME OUT HELLO???
user40 replied to oscarpiastri’s story OUR**** GIRL
logansargeant replied to oscarpiastri’s story can she bake me cookies again?
⤷ oscarpiastri she said she’d think about it
⤷ logansargeant dang it 🥲
user36 replied to oscarpiastri’s story the flowers you got her omg love 🙌🙌
ynln replied to oscarpiastri’s story my perfect boyf i love youuuu
⤷ oscarpiastri i love you more always
you practically jump out of your lofted bed—causing your roommate, kika, to quirk an eyebrow at your sudden energy—and slip on a pair of comfortable shoes, quickly racing to the door. the sight once you open the door has your heart positively melting. its oscar. he’s standing there with that stupidly soft and beautiful smile, and even from an arms length away you can smell the faint scent of cedarwood and vanilla that clings to him. he’s clad in a slightly too-tight black t-shirt and jeans—its a simple outfit and one he’s worn many times, yet it never fails to make your heart race. and although he’s gorgeous in his own right, the flowers he holds outward to you stun you even further. your voice comes out in a blabber of incoherent words, the mix of shock and pure love blossoming in your chest making it difficult to focus. “they’re beautiful…” your eyes look up to his as you flutter your lashes, grabbing the neatly wrapped bouquet, “thank you, osc,” your voice dies out, a glassy sheen covering your eyes as you pull him into a tight hug.
oscar tightly hugs you back, his hands gripping your waist as he lifts you up from your doorway, spinning you in the air in the hallway. he can hear the crackle of paper and the thump of flowers syncing with your involuntary laugh, he thinks its his favorite sound truly. “oscar! baby let me down!” your laughs reverberate through the empty halls, and chuckling, he sets you down gently. he watches as you play with your hair for a moment, parting it with your fingernails before you huff frustatedly, a strand falling in front of your face. without thinking, he moves it behind your ear, his hand lingering as he cups your face with his hand. “missed you,” he mutters, watching your face bloom with blush before he leans in and kisses you. his heart tugs in familiarity when your lips connect with his; the kiss isn’t rushed, it’s a soft synchronization between the two of you, a connection he’s only ever shared with you. he feels your arms drape around his neck, your breaths growing more shallow as he pulls you closer, your body molding against his. his mind and thoughts are distant, plagued with you as he inhales the faint strawberry chapstick and sickenly sweet perfume before you eventually pull away. he straightens up, eyes still locked on yours as his brain tries catching up back to reality. “missed me a lot, did you, honey?” the petname falls from your lips so easy, a teasing smile forming on your lips as you cock your head to the side, your hair falling across your shoulders. he’s absolutely awestruck with your beauty, you’re so perfect it has him wondering how he could have ever managed to convince you to date him. he opens his mouth to speak, a sassy retort threatening to spill out, but its short lived as a cough breaks through the atmosphere.
your neck nearly breaks with how quickly it snaps to look back, only to find kika standing in the doorway, smiling smugly. she holds your newly-gifted flowers in her hands, lifting them up to her nose and taking in the smell, “gross, either find a room or leave, lovebirds!” she rolls her eyes, sing-songing the words with a playful expression on her face as she turns, walking back into your shared dorm. you move your body back to face your boyfriend, a sheepish smile coming across your face before you open your mouth to speak, but the feeling of his lips brushing against yours for a brief second render you speechless. “i’ll let you get ready, i’ll come back in 15, okay?” he says, smiling at your dumbfounded expression—you assume. “wear something casual, we’re not going far, love you sweetheart,” he pulls you back into his arms, kissing the crown of your head before pulling away. you step on your tippy toes, adjusting your head so you’re able to kiss his cheek, “i love you!” you exclaim, waving goodbye as you slip into the open doorway of your dorm, closing the door behind you. you watch through the peephole as he smiles and nods in approval(?) at the sight of you safely getting into your dorm before he walks away.
you sigh dreamily, your thoughts consumed of the aussie as you rummage through your drawers to find an outfit for tonight’s date. “i put the flowers in a vase for you girl!” you hear kika’s muffled exclamation from under her blanket and you shout back a quick thank you, before continuing to rifle through your tops. you let out a huff of annoyance, rolling your eyes simply at the mass amount of articles of clothing you have, before you finally find a suitable shirt. “finally, my goodness,” you say, slipping the shirt on over your head. you quickly grab the pair of jeans that lay on your desk chair—from a party a couple nights—before jumping into them and settling into the seat. you glance down at your watch, 5:23 pm, 12 minutes to do your hair and makeup, easy, right?
you walk out of your dorm room at 5:35 pm on the dot, where oscar stands outside. you quickly shut the door behind you, giggling as he opens his arms, urging you to embrace him. your ear is flat against his rhythmic heart—the sound a soothing melody to your ears, your arms wrapped tightly around his waist as you mumble into his chest, “i missed you,” your eyelashes bat as you crane your neck to look up at him, your breath hitching as you make eye contact with his brown eyes. his lips curve into a smile as he bends down, lightly kissing the top of your forehead, “you saw me 15 minutes ago, pretty girl,” he gently peels you off of him, his hand outstretched to hold yours, and you take it. “doesn’t matter!” you sing-song playfully, a hum escaping your lips as you finish the words, your hand encapsulated in his. his grip is firm, not overbearing, but enough to ground you, to keep you reminded that he’s there. his thumb circles over the back of your hand as he guides you to the end of the hall and clicks the button to open the elevator doors—he’s memorized the path, so much so that he’s told you that he’d probably put money on the fact that he could get to your room blindfolded if he tried hard enough. the ding of the elevator doors causes oscar to step forward, guiding you inside. your fingers fiddle with the buttons in the room, pressing the lobby floor and watching as the doors close with a heavy clunk and the descent begins. you turn around, smiling at the sight of your boyfriend already staring at you, “a picture would last longer, osc!” you tease, reaching up to adjust a strand of hair that falls in front of his face annoyingly. he reaches for his phone that sits in the back pocket of his jeans, handing it to you, “take one for us? so i can post it, i know you hate how i take pictures,” his eyes roll playfully, familiar with your antics when it came to social media. “you know me too well,” you say, snapping a photo just as he kisses your cheek. as you look at the candid you can’t help but smile, your heart filling with a warmth that can only be described as pure love you hold for the man.
oscar holds your hand, guiding you out of the elevator and listening to your shoes tap against carpeted lobby floor. it isn’t busy, he notes, eyes scanning across the numerous students sat studying or chatting with friends. but just as he’s observing his surroundings, he feels your hand release from his quickly, and alarmed, he whips his head to where you previously stood beside him. he lets out a sigh he didn’t realize he was holding at the sight of you embracing his roommate’s girlfriend, magui. he takes a step towards you, snaking an arm around your waist as you animatedly talk about a mutual interest with the blond. he hums, nodding to the familiar girl in greeting before turning his head slightly to give you a kiss on the top of your head. he’s about to open his mouth to tell you that the two of you should head off before he hears a familiar british accent, “mate!” he immediately groans, head diving into the space between your shoulder and neck, and he hears you giggle softly, “hey lando, sorry about stealing your girlfriend!” he feels you move to hug the brit, and he straightens up, making eye contact with the curlyhead man just as he lets go of you, his arm draping on the shoulder of his girlfriend. “where are the two of you headed off to at this hour?” there’s a teasing tone in lando’s voice that oscar is able to pick up as the inquiry travels to his ears, “its barely 5:40, mate.” he deadpans, australian accent thick as tucks you closer into his side, beginning to step away from his roommate. “and none of your business,” he finalizes, but there’s no malice, only an exchange of smirks and deep chuckles as the two boyfriends wave. “have fun lovebirds!” oscar hears the brit call, but his eyes are only focused on you as he grasps your hand, squeezing it softly as his thumb rubs the back of it. “ready?”
ynln
liked by oscarpiastri, magui_corceiro, kikagomes, and 1,026 others
ynln hi this is MY boyfriend thanks @/oscarpiastri 🙄🙄
user63 her account is so aesthetic compared to her comments im crying 😭😭😭
lilymhe golf and matcha date? 🤗
⤷ ynln YESYESYES!!!
user74 i see them all the time on campus theyre actually adorable
kikagomes get a roooommmmm 🙄
⤷ ynln puh lease as if u and pierre keep ur hands off each other when u guys are tg 😒😒
⤷ kikagomes WHATEVER!
user27 SHE DEFINITELY SAW THAT TWT THREAD LOLLL
user80 him holding her bags ugh 😣
the next morning…
oscarpiastri, ynln, and landonorris added to their stories
ynln replied to oscarpiastri’s story why do u post me when i look gross 😖
⤷ oscarpiastri u look beautiful 24/7 silly, i just wanna show u off
⤷ ynln ugh i can’t even stay mad at u 🙄🙄
user72 replied to oscarpiastri’s story and i can’t even get a guy to take me out 💔
landonorris replied to oscarpiastri’s story dude u guys r actually so gross
⤷ oscarpiastri u bring ur gf in the house all the time 😑
user10 replied to oscarpiastri’s story she is beautiful 😗
logansargeant replied to your story can u tell oscar to make me breakfast next 🥹🥹🥹
⤷ ynln DUDE U LITERALLY TRANSFERRED 💔💔💔💔 ON UR OWN FREE WILL GET OUT
⤷ logansargeant okay whatever 🥲🥲
user27 replied to your story cutest couple ever like im sick
user39 ugh i love seeing u two on campus tg!!!
alexandrasaintmleux replied to your story we need to go out tg soon ☺️☺️
⤷ ynln yes!!! tell charles to text osc and they can figure it out LOL!
user55 what’s for breakfast 🤔
oscarpiastri replied to landonorris’s story mate just invite your girl over, half of the brothers’ girls are here 😭😭
⤷ landonorris hmmm good thinking for once 🧐
⤷ oscarpiastri ???? im literally ranked higher than u but ok
user83 replied to landonorris’s story THEY’RE SO CUTEEE UGHHH
ynln replied to landonorris’s story OMG JUST ADMIT U WANT MY BF 😭😭
⤷ landonorris 🤗🤗🤗😬😬😬🤔🤔🤔
⤷ ynln MOTHERFUCKER
user74 replied to landonorris’s story yn cropping out the frat house mess in her story loool 😭😭
you’re roused awake by the sound of a clicked button, a familiar chuckle, and sunlight illuminating your vision from behind your eyelids. “mmmm….osc?” a groan escapes your lips as you pat around the bed—eyes remaining closed—looking for a remnant of your boyfriend who you seemingly were sleeping with just a minute ago. as you hear a few light footsteps you will yourself to peel your eyes open, fortunately coming face to face with the aussie. “hey honey, sleep well?” he murmurs, carefully moving a strand of hair away from your face and kissing your forehead. you blearily blink, smelling his seemingly natural scent of sandalwood and citrus as you make eye contact with him. your heart tugs with affection as you take in the sight: oscar’s hair is messy, tousled from sleep, lips slightly pouting as he cocks his head to the side, and his eyes are so so soft and full of love that it makes your heart melt. “like an baby, you?” you softly speak, untangling your arms from under his sheets, reaching for his face and planting a tender kiss on his cheek. he leans into your touch, humming in approval as your lips make contact with his face, “amazing, especially since i got to wake up to an angel this morning,” he smiles cheekily, “was gonna make breakfast before me and the guys get ready for cricket practice, want some?” he slowly straightens up, back cracking slightly as he cocks his head to the side once more. “always fucking cricket taking you away from me…” you angrily—but playfully—mumble, sitting up and slotting your socked feet into a pair of slippers. you hear oscar chuckle from behind you as you make your way down the hall towards the bathroom, his hand catching your wrist before you make it far. “i love you sweetheart, meet you downstairs, mkay?” he says, kissing your temple and giving you a toothy grin before letting you go. you mumble back a barely coherent yes, but an involuntary smile ends up on your face as he walks off.
oscar makes his way down the winding stairs of lambda chi’s frat house, coming face to face with a familiar curly-haired brother. he’s barely two steps into the living room when the brit speaks, “brought her over again?” oscar whips his head around—cracking his neck in the process—his gaze landing on lando, whose eyes are glued to his phone as he continues, “geez, the two of you are attached at the hip, no? don’t you guys ever get sick of one another?” he barks out a laugh, it’s blasphemy really. anyone who saw the two of you knew how devoted you both were, so why would he ever begin to get sick of you? oscar’s laugh seems to break lando’s concentration of being glued to his phone, “you’re funny mate, seriously. she’s my girlfriend, i love her,” he watches as lando’s mouth gapes open, and he assumes the curlyhead boy is about to speak, but the sound of padding footsteps shuts him up. oscar quirks a brow, but realizes who it is when a head of hair leans against his side.
“hey honey,” oscar’s voice is syrupy and laced with a deep sense of affection as he turns his head, throwing an arm over your shoulder and kissing the crown of your hair. he hears you hum a noise of satisfaction, giving him a small peck on the cheek, “gossiping about me with cricket boy?” you ask, a teasing glint in your eye as you make eye contact with him. he shrugs, a playful grin on his face mirroring your own, “why don’t you ask him?” he points to where lando is sat on the couch, facing the two of you while trying—and failing miserably—to look absorbed in his phone. his gaze follows you as he watches you slip from underneath his arm, moving to stand in front of the curly-haired brunette before speaking, “gossiping about me cricket boy?” oscar crosses his arms, watching how lando sputters before doubling down, “yeah,” the brit rubs the back of his neck sheepishly, “i mean- like i was just saying how the two of you are like- attached! like all the time! don’t you ever get sick of him!?” you glance back at your boyfriend, smile thin in an attempt to hide your laughter, its almost like you’re saying ‘get a load of this guy’ with your face, oscar thinks, chuckling to himself and breaking eye contact with you to stare at the ground to prevent more laughter spilling from his lips. “that’s my boyfriend, lan…like…do you get sick of magui? oh i’m so telling her!” his chest both loosens and warms with a feeling of gratitude and affection as he listens to the two of you banter as he makes his way towards the kitchen, a small, almost imperceptible smile finding its way onto his lips. he was lucky, lucky enough to have someone so perfect that fits into his life.
you pad your way to the kitchen, a shit-eating grin present on your face as lando trails behind you, mumbling something like please don’t tell magui and i was joking! almost on instinct—but not before snapping a photo of your beloved boyfriend, you beeline towards the stove, latching yourself onto oscar’s arm. you look up at him, eyes softening like they always do when you’re around him, “what’re you making?” his eyes don’t leave the cooking pans as he responds, releasing his arm from your grip and letting it drape onto your hip, “eggs…bacon, maybe some avocado toast in a bit, want anything else?” oscar’s arms flex as he continues flipping the food and at the same time, you tap a playful finger against your lips in faux contemplation. “hmmm…” your lips stretch into a thin line, pursing as you slip from underneath his arm—again, for the second time that morning—before trotting your way over to the large fridge. carefully, you move the many bottles of drinks, fishing out a fragile container of strawberries and blueberries, closing the door behind you with a kick of your foot as you make your way back to oscar’s side. you lift the cartons, a soft smile on your lips as you cock your head to the side, making eye contact with the aussie, “want some?” oscar’s eyes move from the cooking skillets to your direction, tracking your movements as you carefully unveil the fruits, placing them gingerly on a cutting board—one you rummaged through many cabinets to find. he nods, “i’ll eat whatever you make me, baby,” his expression only softens even more, heartstrings tugging as he watches your face light up at the mere invitation to help your boyfriend cook. “okay!” you respond, and oscar truly believes your smile could light up an entire room.
the rest of the morning passes with faint laughter echoing through the frat and lando’s occasional grumbles as he listens to the two of you converse. “why are you still here lando? are you enjoying being the third wheel that much?” you ask through chewing, your voice muffled as you stuff a pancake into your mouth. you watch as lando opens his mouth, closes it, then reopens it again, “i’m using your boyfriend for a ride,” he says like it’s obvious, “we’re gonna practice then go to the gym together,” your head whips to your boyfriend beside you, “ughh! that means all i’m gonna do today is study for my stupid finals this week!” you groan, your head hitting oscar’s shoulder as he places a soothing hand on your thigh, fingers circling the inner portion as he attempts to console you. you feel a soft pair of lips make contact with your forehead before you look up, “you’ll do great honey, want me to drive you back to the dorms after this?” he asks, eyes softening when your gaze meets his, “yes please, i think i’ll study with flavy and hannah i guess…” you trail off, moving your head away from oscar’s shoulder as you fork around the food on your plate, the smallest pout making its way to your face. from your peripheral vision, you watch how oscar rolls his eyes playfully before stretching and pulling you closer to him via a hand on your waist. a squeal slips past your lips, catching lando’s attention. “gross! tell me when you guys are done making out with each other, i’ll be waiting!” the brit hops off the kitchen stool opposite of the two of you, making his way to the living room to avoid seeing the affectionate gestures you share. you and oscar exchange a glance, laughing lowly as you watch his best friend walk off. “cricket can wait for their captain, right?” you smile, your body turning to face him as your arms find their way over his shoulder. “yeah, it can,” he murmurs, closing the space between the two of you, hands caressing your waist as he envelops your lips in a kiss.
oscarpiastri and ynln added to their story
user71 replied to oscarpiastri’s story oooh captain teach me how to play 🤗🤗
user71 is blocked
ynln replied to oscarpiastri’s story hope you’re having fun honey 😚
⤷ oscarpiastri yup 👍
⤷ oscarpiastri coffee run after i’m done?
⤷ ynln yes please i need!! 🥹
hattiepiastri replied to oscarpiastri’s story music choice is assss
⤷ oscarpiastri 👎
user83 replied to oscarpiastri’s story i saw you guys practicing!!
user50 replied to your story i hateeee studying girl idk how u do it
flavy.barla replied to your story sososo much fun but i’m so not ready for finals 💔
⤷ ynln ME EITHER I’M GOING CRAZY!!!
user62 replied to your story girl goodluck this week…
kika.gomes replied to your close friends story you actually look depressed but i can’t say i don’t either
⤷ ynln i think this is my final week seriously
oscarpiastri replied to your close friends story do you want me to pick you up?
⤷ oscarpiastri omw, see you soon beautiful 🤍
your fingers dance on the surface of the glass table, your nails’ clacking sounds echoing through the small study room you’ve reserved. finally, a series of knocks interrupts your focus, and as you pull your attention away from your tablet, you see through the glass both flavy and hannah holding a multitude of study materials. you smile at the sight of them as your shoes thud against the ground while you walk to open the door. “was wondering when the two of you would get here!” you exclaim, a wide smile on your face as you take turns hugging the girls, leading them to the table you were just sat at. “we've missed you too!” you hear flavy admit as the three of you sit down, “seriously, i mean you're like attached at the hip with oscar, i wouldn't be surprised if he came running through the halls looking for you,” hannah giggles, and you can't help but laugh at her words, “we're actually going out after this,” you cheekily murmur, eyes flying down to your tablet as you hear the other two groan playfully in protest. you smile as you roll your eyes, but there's no heat behind it. “okay come on! we have to study for these stupid finals!”
hums fill the air as the three of you work separately, enjoying each other's presence as your workloads dwindle slowly. the sound of pens scratching against index cards clings to your ears as you look up from your tablet, eyes glancing at the girls absorbed in their own work before flitting down to your watch, 4:26. you suck in a breath, capturing the attention of flavy and hannah, “i'm gonna go girls, it's getting late and i kind of want to rot in bed before finals kills me,” you say, listening to the chuckles that fill the room before stuffing your tablet along with your textbooks into your bag, “the room is reserved until five, enjoy!” you swing your bag over your shoulder, stepping around the table and crouching to hug the both of them. “love you both!” you say, giving the two girls a lung-collapsing squeeze before you wave over your shoulder, stepping out of the study room and gently closing the door behind you.
you let out a relieved sigh as you enter your shared dorm, kicking your shoes off and placing them beside the door before your feet make contact with the carpeted ground. “honey i'm home!” you sing-song, hanging your keys on the hook and dropping your bag before beelining to your bed. you jump onto the lofted mattress, tucking yourself in with a satisfied oomph, making eye contact with kika across the room as you settle yourself in. “you look like you just died and came back to life,” she deadpans, but a slight chuckle comes through her lips as she finishes her sentence, “i did! i hate studying!” you exclaim, scoffing playfully as you defend yourself. you watch as a smile stretches across her face before she joins you in a laughing fit, your combined giggles echoing throughout the room—and likely being heard from down the hall. your phone vibrates, the time gleaming a bright 4:38 pm as it pulls your attention from your shared laughing with your roommate. as your chuckles subside, you pick up your phone, glancing at the name before responding.
you smile, swinging your feet over your lofted bed and slipping them into a pair of slides. with a bounce in your step, you make your way towards your vanity, noticing from the corner of your eye how kika’s head pops from beneath her covers. “ynnn! where are you off to?” she says, her tone lighthearted and motherly all at once, “i’m going out with osc at 5:30! i wanna start getting ready, i have nothing better to do anyway!” you say, pinning your hair back, looking in the mirror as you do so, your eyes making contact with your roommate’s through the reflection. you watch as she sits up in bed, face strewn in a faux annoyed expression, “ugh!” she yells dramatically, her head flopping backwards back onto her pillow, “you’re always with him! it’s almost gross! aren’t frat boys supposed to be players?” she groans, her nails back to clicking the surface of her phone screen as words mindlessly fall from her mouth. “well yeah, i guess?” you shrug, dusting your face with product as you continue speaking, “but i’ve been with this man for forever, and i think the both of us would like to keep it that way!” you roll your eyes playfully, “besides, pierre is practically the same with you, it’s just because his engineering major takes up more of his time! oscar-” you begin to compare the two, but you’re soon cut off, “blah blah! oscar does business so he has more time, i’ve already heard this story girl! jeez you two really do talk about each other a lot!” you can’t help but roll your eyes again, who cares if the two of you are attached anyway? maybe they’re just miserable and jealous…
ynln and oscarpiastri added to their stories!
lilymhe replied to your close friends story still waiting for a makeup tutorial from you… 🙈
⤷ ynln maybe once finals are over and i get to BREATHE
⤷ lilymhe HAHA understandable 😭😭
user77 replied to your story hope you loved the latte art!! you and oscar are so cute!!!
magui_corceiro replied to your story lovelovelove everything about you two 🤍
⤷ ynln ugh love you more 🤍🤍
user62 replied to your story omg what coffee shop is this??
oscarpiastri replied to your story hey who’s the buff guy in the back there 🤔
⤷ ynln 😭😭
user29 replied to oscarpiastri’s story THE SONGGG UGHH
hattiepiastri replied to oscarpiastri’s story THIS is peak music 🤝
⤷ oscarpiastri 🙄🙄
user48 replied to oscarpiastri’s story the outfit coordinationnn >>>
ynln replied to oscarpiastri’s close friends story you always make the other girls jealous 😆😆
⤷ oscarpiastri i’m the best at showing up these other guys 🙃🙃
pierregasly replied to oscarpiastri’s close friends story mate where did you get the flowers?? kika was facetiming me and showed yn walking in with that giant bouquet and she asked me why i don’t buy her pretty flowers 😭🙏
⤷ oscarpiastri renée fleurs near our uni, don’t tell anyone else this is my secret 🤫
⤷ pierregasly bless you mate 🙏🙏
oscar knocks on your dorm room door with three crisps knocks and he listens as he hears the clang of objects falling, curses falling from your voice, and a quick one sec! coming from your roommate. he chuckles, knocking again, “honey? everything okay?” concern layers underneath the clear amusement in his tone as he goes to knock again, only being met with a slightly disheveled you. he watches how your face brightens as your eyes move from his and to the flowers he holds in his hands, “for me?!” you ask excitedly, taking the bouquet away from his hands and looking up at him, “of course, who else is deserving of these, hm?” he smiles, planting a kiss on the top of your forehead, watching as you pull away, going on your tippy toes to give a kiss on his cheek, “let me put these down then we can go!” you exclaim, moving your body away from his as you walk back into your dorm. oscar leans against the doorframe, a soft grin on his face as he watches you show kika your new array of flowers excitedly whilst giggling. as you walk back towards the door, his grin widens, “all set, sweetheart?” he asks, hand reaching for yours as he closes the door behind the two of you, “yup!” you chirp in response, and he can’t help but smile as your hand finds its way to mold into his.
the streets of monaco never know peace, but it seems like its especially so today; there’s much too many people walking alongside the two of you as you talk animatedly, yet the sounds of sport cars revving in the distance seem to overpower your voice, causing oscar to lean forward in an attempt to hear you—which almost never works. “it’s just so difficult! i mean i feel like an idiot! and everyone else-” you’re deep into a rant, breaths shallow as you complain, but you’re again cut off by the noise of a car’s engine sputtering past you, driving off as if it didn’t interrupt you. to make matters worse, you feel the sidewalk begin to become even narrower, the concrete overpopulated with a mass amount of people weaving their way hurriedly to wherever they must need to go. you let out an irritated huff, hand movements stopping midair, gosh this is so annoying, why can’t things just go your way?- you think, but soon your thoughts are cut off and suddenly, you’re being moved, a large hand is splayed across the small of your back, guiding you away from the edge of the sidewalk effortlessly. oscar cranes his neck to look down at you the same second you look up at him, “what was that, baby?” his deep voice resonates within your ears, a warmth settling in your chest as you realize what’s happened. your senses become overwhelmed as you lean into his touch, inhaling the smell of his deep sandalwood scent mixed with a touch of citrus, “uhm…nothing important, are we almost there?” your voice is softer, no longer holding the edge you had a minute ago whilst you complained. you look up through your lashes, watching how oscar’s face changes almost imperceptibly, a small quirk in his brow as he bites the inside of his cheek, clearly amused by the effect he’s seemingly had on you with such a small action. “yeah, just a few more minutes, think you can handle it, sweetheart?” there’s a teasing lilt to his tone as he speaks, but you ignore it, mind too occupied with his small act of chivalry as you grip his arm, “yeah, yeah let’s go,” your voice cracks slightly as you speak. a small kiss lands on your temple, and you can practically see oscar’s smile as he pulls away and speaks, “yeah, off we go then.”
the inside of the coffee shop is much quieter, thankfully. the moment you walk in, you can feel how your body relaxes, the calming music in the background accompanied by the quiet chatter of college students inside putting your mind at ease. “find a spot to sit, i’ll order your usual, okay?” oscar plants a kiss atop your head, his hand lingering on the small of your back as he pulls away, walking towards the register. you smile as you watch him walk off before finding a spot where the two of you can sit together; you end up settling on a booth near the front of the cafe, efficiency, so your server can serve you quicker, or at least that’s what oscar claims. you chuckle to yourself, chin resting on your palm as you glance back up, watching how oscar slides smoothly into the seat in front of you. he cocks his head in the same direction your head rests in your palm, “good seat choice,” he murmurs, “picked it so we could get our stuff quicker,” you cheekily smile, your eyes darting around as you admire him; his cheeks are slightly flushed due to the chilly wind outside, eyes dilated as he looks at you, and his white tee stretches deliciously over his mass of bicep muscle, perfect, isn’t he? you think, but your thoughts are soon interrupted by a sickly sweet voice, “can i get you anything else?”
oscar’s attention is dragged away from you as he looks up, met with the face of a girl he feels he faintly recognizes. “can i get you anything else?” he hears her say as she clinks the drinks onto the table the two of you are sat at. his attention diverts back to you, quirking an eyebrow almost to ask, did you want anything?, but he notices how you’re seemingly fixed on staring at the girl in front of him, teeth biting the inside of your cheek accompanied by a furrow in your brow and a frown turning the corners of your lips. “honey?” his voice is softer than usual, watching how you slowly turn your head to meet his gaze, “want anything?” he continues, foot nudging yours from underneath the table in an attempt to ground you. “no…i’m fine,” you’re tone is clipped, masking a growing irritation he can sense from your words. oscar nods, turning his head back to the waitress, watching as the slightly familiar girl opens her mouth, placing a hand on the table and she leans closer to him, “my name is valerie, let me know if you need anything…” her hand rests on his forearm unexpectedly just before she struts off, causing him to pull his arm away from the edge of the table, rubbing the lingering touch off. his face contorts into a confused expression before he pulls his attention away from his arm, “what the fuck was that?”
your voice comes out harsher than you anticipate, irritation bubbling from within you as you watch the girl walk off, “i mean seriously? in front of me?” your voice raises an octave, your hands flailing dramatically—but within reason—as you speak, intending to catch the attention of the ignorant girl. you feel as oscar catches your hands, his eyes and grip against you soft as you meet his gaze. slowly, he drops your hands down to the table, stopping you from creating gestures as he cups his palms into yours. “she was totally out of line,” he says, sucking in a breath, “but everyone knows i only love you, baby, nothing will ever change that,” his words are practically music to your ears, your shoulders falling and a sigh leaving your mouth as you listen to his reassurance. you move your hands from his, cupping your usual order in your hands and taking a sip before gently placing it back down on the table and looking back up at oscar. “did you even know her?” your voice is more gentle, laced with curiosity rather than hostility, and you watch as oscar grabs his own drink before he responds, “honestly?” he thinks for a moment, taking a sip of his order before shrugging, “she looks familiar…maybe in my math class? but i wouldn’t remember, truthfully, i’m always seconds from falling asleep in that class…” he trails off, and you can’t help the giggle that erupts from your throat. the tension dissipates then, the combined laughter between the two of you echoing throughout the cafe as you share snippets of your recent days without each other. “yeah! and then flavy completely-” you’re mid conversation, giggling between every other word as you try and tell oscar a story he’s 100% heard before but is too in love with you to tell you otherwise when a familiar figure approaches your table.
“here’s the check, let me know if there’s anything else i could do for you,” you watch as she practically shoves her way in oscar’s line of sight, blocking you with her figure as she slides the paper over. your hands drop to your lap, fisting your jeans as you slowly breathe out in an attempt to ground yourself, seriously? how desperate is this bitch? you think, rolling your eyes and watching how she straightens up, smirk tugging at the corner of her lips as oscar takes the receipt. your attention shifts to your boyfriend as you watch a furrow appear between his brows, fingers grasping an additional paper with dark writing etched into it, in front of you? this girl did not. your head whips to look at the standing girl, watching how her sickly sweet smile only grows in satisfaction of her actions and your mouth opens, but you’re quickly cut off by a sterner, almost angry voice.
“i don’t want this.” oscar’s voice cuts through the tension, sharp and lingering in the air, his tone stopping the unknown girl in her tracks, her eyes widening almost comically. he watches as she sputters, and from the corner of his eye he notices how your shoulders relax ever so slightly as he continues speaking, “ignoring my girlfriend while she sits right in front of me then giving me your number? you have a lot of audacity,” his voice drips with a sort of venom he can’t remember the last time he’s used as he crumples up the paper etched with what he presumes is her phone number. wordlessly, he takes out his wallet, slapping down a twenty dollar bill atop the check, “i hope you don’t treat all your female customers like this,” he stands, grabbing his drink, “i-i’m so sorry, i-” he hears her meekly reply, clearly she’s only sorry about getting caught, he thinks as he maneuvers around the worker, taking your hand in his as he murmurs for you to grab your drink so the two of you can leave. “have a good day.” he curtly cuts the girl off, his tone clipped as he steps around her, hand tightly intertwined with yours as he guides the both of you out of the cafe, not looking back to see her reaction.
the chill of monaco’s winds kisses your face as the two of you step out, wandering aimlessly throughout the city as you reset from what happened moments ago. the two of you end up settling somewhere quiet, a bench overlooking the sea, and a quiet sigh is exhaled from you both as you two sit and make yourselves comfortable. the waves crash softly, almost background noise as you rest your head on your boyfriend’s shoulder, but your mind is elsewhere. you crane your neck to look up at oscar, noticing how tightly his jaw is set and the masked irritation he attempts to hide, and gently, you move to press a warm kiss on his cheek. as you pull away, you’re mesmerized by the lingering mark of your lip products, smiling slightly as you realize the clenching of his jaw has subdued before resting your head back onto his shoulder. “that was probably the hottest thing you’ve done,” you murmur, a giggle escaping your throat involuntarily in your attempt to lighten the mood. “yeah?” oscar softly replies, and you can feel the way his shoulders slump down, relaxation coursing its way throughout his body as he leans into your figure, an arm around your waist. “yeah, especially because it was just so…weird?” you reaffirm, a slight smile making it’s way to your face as you rub circles around your boyfriend’s knee with a pointed nail, distracting yourself slightly, “you handled it exactly the way i’d want you to,” a warmth settles in your chest as you make your confession, and you look up, eyes making contact with oscar’s chocolate brown ones. “i just love you, and i can’t believe that girl couldn’t see that. it was just rude, point blank,” he explains, a furrow between his brows, “i love you too,” your hand finds its way to his cheek, leaning in, “i love you more.” he confesses, and the smile that curves the corners of his lips tugs at your heartstrings as he closes the distance between the two of you, the sound of waves crashing and golden hue of the sun only adding to the romantic moment.
a few months later…
a smile makes it across your face as you step out of your dreaded anatomy class, your voice practically bouncing off the walls as your gaze lands upon oscar, whose eyes are already fixated on you, “i’m finally done!” you giggle, eyes forming into crescents as you jog your way to your boyfriend, hands latching around his torso as you lean into him, letting out an exhale in relief. “congrats sweetheart,” he murmurs into the top of your head, planting a kiss softly, his heartbeat echoes in your ears as you press yourself into his chest, a pleased hum escaping your lips just as his voice reverberates through your head, “i’m proud of you,” his arms fall around your waist, giving you a squeeze before he pulls away gently, “dinner?” he questions, head cocking to the side as you look up at him, “to celebrate my girl who's worked so hard this past semester,” he continues, gentle brown eyes boring into your own as you respond with a cheeky smile, “only if you're paying!”
a series of knocks echoes throughout your shared dorm room just as you fumble to slip on a pair of shoes, “kika can you-” “yup, already on it querida,” you can hear the amusement lacing her tone as she gets up to open the door and you let out a sigh of relief, “tell him i'll be out in just a second!” you say, voice projecting off the walls as you bend to clasp your heel, listening to the shared banter of the two just a few feet away from you.
oscar approaches the familiar decorated door of your dorm, flowers in hand as he raises his hand, knocking a crisp three raps against the wood. an involuntary smile makes its way across his face as he listens to your muffled, rushed yelling before he's met face to face with your roommate, an amused smirk tugging at kika's lips as her eyes rake across his figure. immediately, he watches how her hands reach out to grasp the flowers he holds, “aww for me? you're so sweet bringing us flowers oscar!” the sarcasm drips from her tone as she holds the bouquet, running her fingers across the flowers as she inspects each individual one. “kika please, you know those are for my girl,” he shakes his head—almost disappointedly—as he holds in a chuckle, watching how his teammate’s girlfriend rolls her eyes, opening her mouth in attempt to ready herself to speak, before she’s abruptly nudged by you in the doorway. almost instantly, oscar’s attention shifts to you, a breath caught in his throat as he analyzes just how beautiful you are, you look perfect. he watches as you interact with your roommate, a playful and faux annoyed expression causing your lips to curl tantalizingly into a smile, and his heart nearly stops. his mind barely comprehends how you shoo kika back into your dorm, closing the door and grinning widely before you turn back to him, waving a hand in front of his face.
“oscarrr? hello, honey? are you in there?” your voice finally registers in his ears and oscar finally makes eye contact with you, noting the way your brows knit together, your face twisted in a worried expression. his hands move instinctively, arms moving to cradle your waist, encasing you in his hold as his eyes rake your figure, a soft grin making its way to his face. “just admiring you,” he says, you clean up well, almost too well, he thinks as he continues, “you look absolutely beautiful, stunning, truly, sweetheart,” his voice is laced with such love and sincerity as he speaks the words, his eyes flitting to your own, his heartstrings tugging at the sight of your face softening, the corners of your mouth tilting upward. he presses a kiss to your hairline, soft and reverent before he pulls away, arms moving from your waist to capture your hand in his, “c’mon baby…” he trails off, admiring you once more before cheekily stealing a last kiss from your lips, causing you to exclaim, head tilting back with laughter as you swat the taller man, “osc!”
charles_leclerc replied to oscarpiastri’s story and ANOTHER date….where are the flowers mate?
⤷ oscarpiastri already delivered 🤝
user64 replied to oscarpiastri’s story HER DRESSS!!! WOW
landonorris replied to oscarpiastri’s story skipped out on game night btw
⤷ oscarpiastri worth it 🤷♂️
user39 replied to oscarpiastri’s story omg you holding her bag 🥹
user18 replied to oscarpiastri’s story wow you guys just compliment each other so well…im jealous
user72 replied to your story OMG WHICH ITALIAN PLACE IS THIS!!
isabellabernardini_ replied to your story the margherita pizza there oh my goshhh… >>
⤷ ynln seriously!! it’s all i ever get honestly…
user44 replied to your story the songgg ughhh i love the two of you so much, my favorite couple on campus 1000%
user52 replied to your story save me a slice 😋
kellypiquet replied to your story where did he get the quarter zip? i need to upgrade max’s wardrobe! 🥲🥲
⤷ ynln i actually bought it for him haha, it’s from peter millar 🤍
⤷ kellypiquet you’re the best 🤍🤍
the italian restaurant welcomes you with the sounds of clinking glasses and hushed classical music as you walk hand in hand with oscar, the warmth of the lighting casting an aesthetic shadow across your boyfriend’s face as you look up, leaning into his arm. “wow…this is…” you trail off, mesmerized by the atmosphere that lingers in the air and artistry that lines the very walls and ceiling of the restaurant, “lovely? just the best for you, pretty girl,” he looks down at you, matching your gaze and moving a hair behind your ear and out of your face. your chest tightens with affection as oscar’s words hang in the air, “you’ve really outdone yourself, osc…” a grateful smile makes its way onto your face, “thank you, honey” you say, lifting yourself up onto your tippy toes as you press a kiss into his cheek, marking the skin with a clear imprint of your gloss. his lips curl upward, grinning cheekily, “only the best for you, sweetheart,” he manages to say before the two of you are called up to the hostess stand with a sharp next! “hi, reservation for oscar, 7:30,” your boyfriend’s voice blends into the surrounding chatter of the restaurant, voice low and deep as he makes conversation, “right this way!” the lady chirps, a smile on her face as she glances at both of you. “c’mon baby,” oscar’s palm lands on the small of your back, disconnecting from your hand as he guides you effortlessly to your reserved seats, following the hostess.
you watch as the woman places the menu, skittering off with a cheerful, your server will be right with you, as you look around, admiring the view. you’re positively entranced by the seating you’re presented with: a small, quaint table tucked in the corner of the restaurant, music softly playing in the background, but more importantly, the view of the sea and the sound of waves crashing slowly in the distance. your body turns sideways, head snapping to look at oscar, your eyes softening, “this is beautiful osc…” your voice carries a sort of gentleness, breaking the comfortable silence as you watch your boyfriend smile back at you, wordlessly kissing your temple as he shuffles behind you, pulling out your chair and gesturing for you to sit. your face flushes and you take the seat, eyes following how oscar moves to sit across from you, chin in palm as his eyes bore into your own. “thank you for this, really…” you say, folding your arms as you push your chair closer to the table, “of course pretty. now let’s decide what to order,” he grabs the menus, hand brushing your own as he hands you one, a cheeky, boyish-like grin illuminating his face as you roll your eyes playfully.
the chatter between the two of you dies as your plates are set in front of you, a small squeal escaping your lips as oscar chuckles. he watches how the dishes are set, murmuring a thank you to the server before he scampers off. his chin lays in his palm as he watches you rearrange the decor and silverware on the table, a sheepish, “camera eats first!” tumbling out of your mouth as you notice his gaze. he really does love watching you in your element, oscar thinks as he watches how you clap, tossing your phone into your purse before you speak, “okay let’s eat!”
a sigh escapes your lips as you manage to swallow down the last bit of pizza, relaxing into the back of your seat as you reach to take a sip of your drink. your eyes are fixated on oscar across the table frlm you as you watch him groan dramatically—yet still somehow quiet—head leaning back from his chair before he looks back up to meet your eyes again, “that was delicious,” he murmurs, running a hand through his hair. you giggle, “yeah, so much better now that finals are over,” you admit, watching how oscar’s face lights up. your brow quirks, curiosity bleeding through your expression, a wordless one that asks your boyfriend, what? you analyze his expression, watching how his mouth twitches into that boyish grin before he speaks, “we’re throwing a party this weekend, and i know they’re not super your scene, but i figured because finals were over i’d ask if you wanted to join me and the guys…?” immediately, your face softens, heartstrings tugging as you take in his words. he knows you. he knows you so well. you watch as his expression contorts into one of worry, assumingly from your pouted lips and furrowed brows, “we don’t have to! we could do something else-” his voice fades into the background, he’s even willing to give up the party just for you. you finally snap back to reality, hands finding his fidgeting ones and encasing them in your hold, “we have a whole month off from our studies osc. of course i’ll go with you,” you smile, admiring how the brunette’s face lights up with excitement, that same cheeky grin appearing across his lips as he leans over to press a kiss into your cheek.
later that week…
landonorris and oscarpiastri added to their story
user72 replied to landonorris’s story cup pongggg
maxfewtrell replied to landonorris’s story mate i know you’re losing 😂😂
⤷ landonorris MO IM NO T
user80 replied to landonorris’s story all the guys there PHEW 😍😍
user64 replied to landonorris’s story holy solo cups
carlossainz replied to landonorris’s story MAYE WJERE ARE YOU WE’RE TAKING A PHOTO
⤷ landonorris I DEE YPU IM ON RHE WAY
⤷ carlossainz OJAY
logansargeant replied to oscarpiastri’s story on the way 😆
⤷ oscarpiastri so glad you can come mate 🤝
user28 replied to oscarpiastri’s story holy shit it is PACKED wtfff
user62 replied to oscarpiastri’s story OKG IM IN THIS PHOTO
landonorris replied to oscarpiastri’s story MATW WE’RE FONAN TAKE A PHORO WHERE ARE YOU
⤷ oscarpiastri coming 👍
user96 replied to oscarpiastri’s story what’s the theme??
ynln added to their story
carmenmmundt replied to your close friends story the giant bottle of vodka is killing me 😆
⤷ ynln I KNOW! kika bought it haha 🤣🤣
user75 replied to your story the girliessss are killing it tonighttt
user88 replied to your story OMG THE BOTTLES ON THE CUPBOARD HELLO?? 😭😭
logansargeant replied to your story grossss 🙄🙄
⤷ ynln you’re iust jealous im taking hik from you 💁♀️💁♀️
user20 replied to your story the album cover matching the story i loveee
the beat of the frat house vibrates through the air as you, magui, kelly, lily, and alex pull up to the house, the brazilian parking her car on a side street not too far from your boyfriends’ residence. kelly’s car screeches to a halt as the five of you step out, heels clacking against concrete as your group engages in slightly-tipsy banter, walking to lambda chi’s house that seems to be the loudest on the street, music reaching your ears far before you even approach the door. as you come face to face with the building—bass intensifying in your ears—you raise your hand, knuckles crisply rapping against the oak wood of the door. you turn back to the girls, face twisted with annoyance with the lack of an answer to the door, “hold on,” you tell them, stepping to the side and raising your phone to your ear, the device ringing as you attempt to reach oscar.
oscar stands in a corner in the kitchen, voice projecting over the music as he speaks to logan, hand holding a glass of fruit punch lando concocted the previous night. a series of vibrations in his pocket brings him out of his conversation, his free hand flying to his jeans and slipping the phone into his palm, the device lighting up with a familiar call incoming from ‘my girl’. “sorry logan! i’ll be right back, my girl’s calling!” he shouts over his shoulder, already walking away as he approaches a quieter area of the frat, fingers rapidly moving to answer you. “hey honey, what’s up?” his voice is almost uncharacteristically soft as he speaks to you, but loud enough so you can hear it over the phone, or so he hopes. “we’re outside! and nobody is answering the goddamn door osc!” he hears the slur in your tone as you speak, a small chuckle escaping out of him as he begins moving again, feet shuffling through the crowd of college students, “yeah yeah, i’m coming sweetheart.”
you scoff as the line ends, walking back to the girls standing on the steps in front of the house, your back facing the door as you tipsily roll your eyes, “ugh this is so stupid! god knows when one of these useless men will actually open the-” you complain over the booming music, watching as the girls’ eyes widen, their stares moving from your face to behind you, “why are you-?” your face contorts in confusion, and you begin to turn your head, only to have your lips caught in a kiss. its hot, the taste of cherry lingering on your tongue as you exchange saliva, and closing your eyes, you’re pulled into a familiar chest. your hands capture the hair of the mystery, yet awfully recognizable individual, loose waves threading through the gaps of your fingers as you feel a large hand push your head further against their lips. you gasp, the sound of music and the feeling of your friends passing behind you and slipping into the house dulling as you focus on the tongue that fights with your own. your hands fall, nails scratching against their shoulders as you attempt to pull the muscular body closer, whining as the contact of lips disappears and you finally open your eyes. “useless?” your vision blurs then adjusts, your senses coming back to you as you gaze into your boyfriend’s eyes, the feeling of his hand resting just above your ass making your face feel hot. his head is to the side, lips curling in an insatiable, cocky way and dark eyes hooded as he stares at you, eyes dragging across your frame, almost as if he’s analyzing your outfit, it should be illegal for him to look as good as he does. “cute fit, baby,” the smirk on his face doesn’t leave as he licks his lips, his hand gripping your waist a tiny bit tighter as he pulls you into his chest, letting people pass by into the house. you scoff, eyes rolling before you look up at him through hooded eyes, “shut up, osc” you push off of him, but a small, cheeky grin tugs at your lips as you begin walking into the frat house, head turning back to make eye contact with oscar who stands in the door, “joining me?”
the smell of pure alcohol, cheap perfume, and sweat pierces your nose as you saunter your way into the house, hips swaying as you enter the kitchen. you feel the far too many pairs of eyes on you as you move to grab a solo cup from the island, filling it with the drink that occupies the mysteriously large bowl labelled with a piece of paper folded in front of it, scratchy handwriting that’s half faded reading ‘fruit punch’. you’re halfway through chugging half the cup when you feel a series of gentle taps touch your shoulder, “yn?” you hear the voice, and your eyes almost widen comically. you forcibly swallow the rest of the drink, grinning as you set the cup down and turn your body, “logan! how are you?” your voice slurs slightly as you envelop the american in a tight embrace, “i haven’t seen you in likee…foreverrr,” you pull away, giggling and leaning against the island as your words drag out, watching through blurry vision as he smiles, “yeah! i’ve missed it here, but especially seeing you,” you open your mouth to respond, but you’re cut off, a hand wrapping around your waist, settling on your lower stomach as you’re pulled closer to a familiar chest.
oscar groans as he watches the sway of your hips from the doorway, god you looked good, he grins to himself, chuckling slightly. he shuts the door behind him, shuffling slightly through the crowd in order to follow you before he’s stopped in his tracks. “hey mate, how’re you?” a pat on his shoulder breaks his concentration and he turns almost involuntarily, facing a fairly familiar face, he thinks he’s in his math class…is it matthew? miles? mattheo? oh, mark. “good good,” oscar says hurriedly, words escaping his mouth faster than he can walk off, “hey why don’t we catch up?” his classmate’s accent is thick, laced with a similar aussie accent as him as the liquor takes a stronger effect, “yeah, maybe later mate, gotta maintain the party y’know?” he says, walking off without a second glance behind him, fuck where were you? he thinks, brows furrowing as he glances around, no sign of you on the dance floor, you’re not sitting with the other girls, where the fuck could you have ran off to?- suddenly, he hears it, the unmistakable giggle that escapes your throat when you’re tipsy, found you.
a familiar, annoying feeling bubbles in his chest when oscar enters the kitchen, watching how you converse with his childhood best friend. his eyes narrow, “…but especially seeing you,” he hears logan say, and he feels his stomach twists in knots. carefully, he moves, wrapping an arm around your waist, hand landing posssessively on your lower stomach, just below your navel. he stares at his best friend, almost attempting to dissect his expression, no…logan wouldn’t, he reassures himself inwardly, cursing at even entertaining the thought that your guys’ longtime best friend would even do such a thing, but he can’t help shake the feeling of jealousy off of himself. his gaze breaks from logan as his peripheral catches how you look up at him, and he turns to face you, watching how your eyes squint, presumably trying to capture who exactly has pulled you closer to themselves. “flirting with my girl, logan?” he says teasingly, but there’s an underlying weight to his words, one that catalyzes the tension in the kitchen that you don’t seem to pick up in your drunken state. his eyes don’t move from your own as he watches your face light up in recognition of his voice, and from the corner of his eye, he notices how the american flushes, sputtering incoherently. “nah! no mate, i was just uh…” “logan was just saying hi osc!” you cut him off, beaming as you kiss his cheek, and his fingers dig even more into the softness of your skin, almost grounding him. finally, he looks back up, “i’ve got it from here, mate.” his tone leaves no room for argument as he quirks a brow, head motioning towards the archway, eyes following the american as he watches him scurry out of the kitchen. he grins in satisfaction, looking back down at you, “now…where were we?”
his lips come crashing into yours far quicker than you anticipate, tongue delving into your mouth as you gasp, the flavor of fruit punch lingering between you two. his lips glide against your own, saliva lubricating the kiss as his hands fall to your ass, squeezing the fat of it as you lean against the island. your hands fly to cup his face, and his lips only move more feverishly against yours, almost as if he can’t get enough of you. a vibration in his pocket breaks the air of pants and groans as the two of you slowly separate, saliva connecting your lips before oscar’s thumb raises to break off the connection between you two. your hands fall to his shirt, gripping it as you try to pull him closer for another kiss, whining when he shakes his head playfully, retrieving his phone from his pocket, “hold on for me, sweetheart,” your eyes roll as your head falls against his chest, squinting as you attempt to read the message sent by lando, ‘MATW WE’RE FONAN TAKE A PHORO WHERE ARE YOU,’ you watch as your boyfriend types a quick response before slipping his phone back into his pocket, “i’ll be back honey,” he says, lips making contact with your temple as he pulls away from you, “it’ll be just a sec, don’t miss me too much,” he grins, pressing a last, lingering kiss to your lips as he walks out of the doorway of the kitchen.
as soon as he walks off, your attention diverts back to your phone, eyes narrowing as you try to read the list of contacts, looking for the names of at least one of your girls. your finger hovers over kelly’s name, but just then, a hug nearly knocks the wind out of you. you swiftly turn around, grinning at the sight, “there you girls are!” you cheer, pulling the four of them into a hug, “yeah, we were looking for you,” you hear magui chime as you pull away, “she was too busy making out with her boyfriend to find us,” lily giggles, eyebrows wiggling as you roll your eyes, “you guys are sooo annoying, i just missed him,” you confess, grinning as you pour yourself another glass of fruit punch, taking a sip. “as if you guys aren’t practically attached at the hip!” alex giggles, and the other girls let out hums of agreement as you give the group a pointed look. “whatever!” you say, setting your red solo cup down and putting up your hands in mock defense before giggling. “c’mon guys! stop bothering her, let’s drink!” you hear kelly voice out, grinning as she approaches the kitchen island, pouring each of you a shot of something, and handing one to everyone, “cheers!”
“smile!” the photographer’s voice rings out from behind an obscenely large camera, one that he thinks should definitely be used in a more professional setting, not a frat party, oscar thinks, but alas, he smiles nonetheless. the couch is filled with the lambda chi boys, all barking laughter and hushed whispers as they converse with one another. “okay one more shot!” the voice says again, and the he listens to how the others groan, “it’ll be done after this!” once again, the brothers find their way to compose themselves, grinning for the camera for the last time, hopefully. as soon as the photographer gives the approving thumbs up, the boys disperse, finding themselves on the couch, ground, really anywhere so they can all talk. oscar moves almost automatically, readying himself to escape the living room to go looking for you, “oi! where are you going mate?” god, of course its lando, he thinks, body turning back to the group, and watching how their gazes all move to him, okay, that’s kinda creepy. “back to my girl?” he says it so obviously, almost as if he has nothing else to do, which in all reality, he does, but would much rather spend his time with you while you’re here. he hears the laughter of his frat brothers and can only roll his eyes in response, “seriously man! it’s like you two are fused together!” charles’ comment causes the room to break out again in laughter, drunken slurs teasing him as he shrugs, “something like that,” oscar says, already walking off to try and find you.
after a few rounds of shots, you’re pulled to the dance floor, grinding and dancing against your girls as you drunkenly enjoy yourselves. the music blasts in your ears comfortably, the beat satisfying the itch in your mind as you sing along to the lyrics, the night blurring together slowly. for a moment, you forget where you are, losing yourself in the moment, that is until you trip into another person, almost falling over in the process. “ah! sorry!” you yell over the music, walking away from the mystery man as you try and find your friends, only to realize, they’re gone? you curse inwardly, that’s definitely what magui was trying to tell you over the music blasting, and you just nodded like an idiot, fuck. you stumble your way to a corner of the dance floor, eyes jumping to try and find a glimpse of your girls, huffing when you’re unable to spot them in the crowd. fuck, it’s so over- “hey, you okay?” your head snaps to the masculine voice beside you, “saw you almost take a fall there,” he continues, you squint your eyes, trying to distinguish who this mystery man is, but to no avail. “do i know you?” you shout over the music, definitely not, you think. “uhh…no? i mean maybe, i’m in your chem class, my name’s lorenzo,” you watch as he outstretches his hand and can only laugh inwardly, “yeah…sure,” your smile is thin, polite as you respond, tucking a hair behind your ear as you avoid the handshake, giggling to yourself as you watch how he stuffs his hands into his pockets, a dark blush of embarrassment making its way to his cheeks. “anyway i uh…wanted to ask you something,” “shoot,” you respond, already knowing where this is going. “i was wondering if i could uhm, take you out? like on a-” you grin cutting him off, “thanks, but i have a-” “boyfriend.”
“-boyfriend.” oscar cuts you off, slipping in the open space beside you, successfully separating you from, whoever this guy is, he thinks, rolling his eyes and outstretching his own hands, “oscar piastri. captain of the cricket team and vice president of lambda chi alpha,” as he introduces himself, he watches how the blond in front of him sputters apologies profusely, already walking away. “you’re jealous today,” he hears you say, his eyes still locked on the disappearing figure of the mystery man that came up to you, his hold tightening on your waist. “maybe i just don’t want other people to mistake what’s mine for something they can take,” he murmurs, leaning down to capture your lips in a heated kiss, yeah he likes it this way.
oscarpiastri
liked by landonorris, ynln, charles_leclerc, lilymhe, and 5,108 others
oscarpiastri MY girl @/ynln 🤍🤍
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ynln ugh yes my appreciation post 🥹🥹 i love you my honey
⤷ oscarpiastri i love you more my sweetheart 🤍
user10 the matching fits are to die forrrr
user29 did ANYONE see them at the party…they’re both actually so hot like omg
alex_albon these two are actually like insufferably in love btw
⤷ landonorris agree
⤷ ynln just say ur jealous BYE 🙄🙄
⤷ landonorris WHY AM I THE ONLY ONE CATCHING STRAYS
user66 ugh i dont even go to their school and im so parasocial abt them
user19 second photo is GOLD
carlossainz yeah you guys are like attached to the hip
⤷ oscarpiastri wouldn’t want it any other way 🤷♂️
