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@vitalverstappen
⚠️PLEASE READ⚠️
This account will no longer post. I am moving to @vital-verstappen!
All of my content will still be available on here, but everything will (eventually) link back to my new/main blog
Thanks for understanding, and I'll see you there!
ngl guys i am 🤏this close to making a new f1 blog bc the struggles of being a sideblog are REAL
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i need thoughts
LIGHTS OUT...
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i think i may have an addiction…
Genuinely, I could listen to Alex Albon explain the technicalities of racing all day long
I think that we as a society moved on too quickly from operations mayhem - that shit is UNDERRATED as HELL!
The creativity? Flawless. The prose? Pristine. The execution? Perfection!
I mean seriously, such a unique idea and you pulled it off SO well. I was a touch skeptical at first but your writing brought me in so quickly and made it so much fun to read. Thank you so much for writing it and sharing it with us! ❤️
omg STOPPPPPP 🤭 you have me kicking my feet giggling
i spent SO much time on operation: mayhem and it's honestly become one of my favs just from how much time i spent with it. it's def one of the ones im most proud of
i was on a camp fic kick for a little while during the summer, so if you still want some camp counselor fics, i have: Almost Ready (feat Oscar Piastri) and Color Me in your Key (feat Liam Lawson)
i think i'm switching gears soon to do college aus but i'm not entirely sure yet. i just started one with pierre and i wanna see how i like it before i fully commit
greed ☆ op81
genre: smut, affair, erotic literature, angst, forbidden romance, enemies to "lovers", a bit angst/yearning, established relationships, voyeurism
word count: 16.4k
greed (noun) — intense and selfish desire for something, especially wealth, power, or food.
nsfw warning under the cut!
18+...pwp, unprotected sex, missionary, riding, fingering, f!receiving, deep throat, m!receiving, finger sucking
inspired by red sex (re-strung) [rakhi singh]
cherry here!...had fun writing this one teheee. it's a long one, so definitely take breaks in between and enjoy. missed you guys—welcome to the twisted world of greed mwah!
Twirling your tongue around the bright pink straw, you blink blankly, quietly taking in the conversation that occurs in front of you. You should probably talk a bit, you remember thinking. Smile, at least, but you can’t seem to bring yourself to lie—you didn't want to be here.
“I thought you hated pineapple?”
Turning, you shrug half-heartedly over at Lando. “It makes my mouth itch,” you mumble, not enjoying a single sip of the smoothie. Well, except for the whipped cream. Taking a lick, your eyes stay connected onto his blue ones as he shakes his head.
“Don’t drink it, then,” he tries, but you simply turn a blind eye, facing the complete opposite direction. From where you're sitting, you spot a group of kids playing jump rope. Even when one of them falls with a loud splat and starts to cry, you continue to stare.
“Oh no,” a soft voice gasps. As soon as you hear it, you grind your teeth, hearing a slight crack immediately. “Poor baby.”
You like to think of yourself as an even person. Everyone who enters your life deserves a fair chance. You’ll get to know them—befriend them, perhaps—and if it doesn’t work out, then it doesn’t work out, but no one can say you never tried.
But oh, how you hated Lily Zneimer.
The worst part of all is that there isn’t really a single reason for your sudden distaste towards her. On paper, you two should be the best of friends, but the one thing holding you back is sitting right in front of you.
Oscar clicks his tongue, a nice tick coming through as his sharp brows raise with surprise as he watches the scene unfold. He, too, sort of remains as stoic as you, but the one difference is that he has a bit more empathy. You lack a lot of that, you’ll be the first to admit.
The cries continue, the young boy's parents suddenly alert by now as they run towards their child. “I’m sure he’s fine,” he says, squinting his eyes due to the bright sun. “It builds character.”
“Getting hurt?” Lily asks, frowning as she gently shoves his shoulder. “You really do have a heart made of ice.”
This gets a snicker out of your boyfriend, making you sigh, instantly checking out, but Lando is as happy as can be. While he enjoys the moment, you lack interest in it, and if it weren’t for the fact that the Australian was the one that invited you both out for drinks, then you would have happily been tucked away in bed. Make good use of the hotel perks and whatnot.
The brown eyed driver swings a hand behind his girlfriend's chair, playfully tugging her hair, making her blush and making you recoil with disgust. Not that you ever show it, but you definitely feel it. “Maybe I do, but only you can make it melt.”
That’s enough to call it a day. Standing abruptly, the chair squeaks against the pavement as you share a tight lipped smile. All at once, their eyes look up at you as you force a yawn. “I think I’m going to head up now. Thanks for the invite,” you say.
Lily pouts subtly, blue eyes round and hazy. “So soon? It’s still early.”
You nod, sparing her small smile, but deep within, the sound of her sweet voice begins to irritate you to the point you think you might snap. “The sun’s got me tired. I just need to lay down a bit.” Leaning forward, you peck Lando’s cheek, warm and sandy. “But I'll see you later, yeah?”
“Sure,” she squeaks, waving numbly as they watch you walk away—practically fleeting, really. Humming sadly, the British girl looks down onto her lap, toying with her bracelets. “I don’t think she likes me much,” she mutters, wincing sheepishly.
Oscar frowns. “That’s not true…”
Lando frantically nods, feeling bad for Lily and her first encounter with you being a total bust. Come to think of it, ever since the blue eyed girl has been around, you’ve been quite distant. “She hasn’t been sleeping well.” Lie. “She just needs to recharge, that’s all.”
-
You end up spending the next few days locked up in yours and Lando’s room. You avoid the paddock at all costs because you’re really not in the mood to see anyone—especially her. The British driver tried his best to get you out from these four walls, but gave up shortly after you blamed it on a migraine. You haven’t had one of those in years, but he learns to respect your decision. You do promise to be there for his race, though.
And as expected, you see her. Sat perfectly with her legs crossed, the young girl beams, motioning for you to join her on the open chair. At first you act like you don’t see her, preferring to stay standing for the next few hours rather than being pushed up next to her, but when she calls your name, you curse beneath your breath before making your way.
“Hey,” you cheer, hugging her briefly before taking a seat.
A giggle. “Hey. I heard you’ve been feeling a bit under the weather.”
“Huh?”
Lily blinks. “Lando said—”
In one quick motion, you click your fingers, nodding along. Right—Lando had lied on your behalf. It completely slipped your mind. Letting out a muffled groan, you wince theatrically, hoping she buys it. She does, worry quickly taking over her gentle gaze. “I have, yeah, I have.” Cheer’s erupt as the camera pans over to the fan zone, then back to the drivers that line up for the National Anthem. “But I'm much better now!”
Her concern slowly melts away as she smiles. “That’s good to hear.”
You would have not traveled with Lando to this week's race if you had known she would be here. Usually, she’s not, but you almost feel as if you know everything about her from how much Oscar talks about her. It gets exhausting hearing the same stories being told over and over again, as if she was the best thing to come around. Was it really that hard to just not bring her up?
But alas, you are here, and so is she.
It feels like an eternity slowly goes by, so you’re quick to dart out the garage as you make your way towards the podium. The good thing is that she doesn’t need to because Oscar secured a lucky fourth place. Close, but not close enough.
Running towards you after a round of media, Lando pecks your lips. He smells like a mix of champagne and sweat, not a completely unpleasant scent. He wiggles his brows. “Proud?”
You grin, eyes crinkling just the same as his. “Super.” Another kiss. “You were great out there.”
A subtle shade of red burns his nose as he smiles widely, pulling you towards the direction of McLaren Hospitality, leaving you to follow him as you admire the way everyone looks at him the same way you do.
You like that he’s a winner. You like that you’re dating the winner. And that’s why you admire him, because he gives you the right to brag about him by simply being his girlfriend. The kind everyone wishes to be. Entering the familiar orange motorhome, you two are caught at a stop as soon as Zak calls out for Lando who turns curiously.
“My man!” he cheers, making you take a step back and letting them have their moment. You listen for the first few minutes, but when it looks like the congratulatory might run deep, you claim a seat on the nearby sofa, scrolling through your phone to kill time. At some point, you look up to see them bid goodbye, sighing tiredly as you make your way up. Zak grins from ear to ear, pointing at you with nothing but radiant energy. “See you there!”
With that, he walks away, leaving you two alone once again. Raising a sharp brow, you tap Lando’s shoulder with confusion. “What does he mean by that?”
“He’s rented a yacht for the team to celebrate today's win,” he explains, guiding you towards the privacy of his room with a large hand on your lower back. “You know him—he likes to go all out.”
You hum, still walking up in front of him. “I figured you would want to go clubbing…”
There’s a cloudy sigh behind you as he clicks his tongue against the roof of his mouth. “I mean, yeah, I do, but we should probably skip that and do this instead.” Reaching to twist the knob, you pause, turning to face him with a surprised expression. “What?”
“Nothing,” you respond, shaking your head. “Look at you maturing. You see, my Lando would have never preferred a classy yacht party instead of a trashy club.”
He scoffs, rolling his eyes. “I’ve changed.”
“Right,” you tease, finally opening the door, but as soon as you do, the room next to you squeaks, indicating someone exiting. Oscar and Lily come to a halt as soon as they spot you both. Your lips open in the smallest of gaps as they smile politely.
“Congratulations,” the British girl is the first to break the silence as she goes in for a quick side hug, one that Lando accepts without missing a beat. “You must be over the moon.”
“I am,” your boyfriend lets out, still not used to the feeling of being first. A beat. “Hey, did Zak mention anything about—”
“The yacht party?” Oscar fills in with a loopy grin. Lando snickers, nodding at his guess. He shakes his head. “Yeah, but we can’t. I have to drive Lily to the airport.”
Intrigued by the fact, your brows dart up. “Ah, no way—you’re leaving already?”
“Yeah,” she says, smiling tiredly. “I have a few tests lined up for next week, and I can’t miss them.”
“Shame,” you hum, but the relief of not having her around anymore makes you feel a thousand times lighter. “I was going to suggest grabbing dinner next week…”
“Really?” Lando and Lily question in sync, both equally as surprised as one another. On the flipside, Oscar stands with an unrecognizable expression, making you avoid even looking at him because something about it somehow convinces you that he can see right past your lie.
Coughing awkwardly, you bob your head, catching the glimmer in her blue eyes as she holds her breath, almost. Something about it makes you feel bad, but just for a split second. “Yes, really, but it looks like we got a bit unlucky.”
Swiftly, Lily turns to face Oscar with a helpless expression, as if pleading for aid, but for him it was an easy decision. “You can’t skip out on exams,” he whispers lowly, but still clear enough for you to hear. “You know that.”
And sure—she does—but ever since she got here, she’s felt so out of place. Not with the team, not with two McLaren drivers as a duo, but rather with you. And now this? Any opportunity to have you as a friend is as good as gold in her eyes.
And to be quite honest, you didn’t expect for someone as truthful as Lily to lie to their professor in a lengthy email, claiming to be severely down with the flu in order to stay a couple extra days and catch that unpromising dinner you had made up as some way to get her to think you’d miss not having her around. This was your reality and you just had to deal with it.
But Oscar?
Watching you carefully as you hug Lily back when she leaps with excitement into your arms, he squints with subtle suspicion in your character. Something in your rigidness and mannequin smile makes him want to pull the British girl away from you, feeling the need to protect his girlfriend's innocence.
Smiling softly over her shoulder, you catch a glimpse of Oscar, making your stomach churn. His eyes remain on you for a second longer before sharing a smile of his own.
Yup, you think to yourself.
He knows.
_
A week goes by at a snail's pace.
The four of you fly together to the next continent with nothing but fake enthusiasm. Well, fake from you, and unbeknownst, fake from Oscar, too.
He doesn’t know why he doesn’t trust you completely. In hindsight, you haven’t done anything wrong, but everytime you and Lily are together—which is most of the week—it feels like you have. Maybe it had something to do with the sinister glares you’d send her way when you thought no one was looking, or the fact that you’d have to take a heavy breath in preparation every time she’d greet you with a warm hug. But maybe he was wrong. Maybe he was seeing something that wasn’t there, but that doesn’t mean he’d be at ease for the rest of the week.
Hence, dinner.
You find yourself forced to make a reservation at one of the fanciest cuisine restaurants close to where you’re staying and that itself was annoying. You shouldn’t be doing any of this—she shouldn’t even be here.
Smiling gingerly, the British girl let out a small giggle at some joke Lando made. By the looks of it, it’s pretty funny, so you numbly follow her lead, though you have yet to know what it was. “You must be laughing all the time,” Lily notes, blue eyes focused on you with wonder. You hum, pursing your lips with uncertainty. She giggles harder. “Well because of how funny he is.”
Lando claps once, making you flinch in return. “Thank you! It’s about damn time someone appreciates my humor.”
“I do appreciate it,” you defend, slowly losing your patience. Licking your lips, you look back towards Lily who remains with a smile. “Don’t listen to him, he just likes the attention.”
“That I can agree on,” Oscar adds, cracking a grin of his own. Suddenly, you’re all into the discussion. The Australian sneers childishly. “You can’t seem to live a single moment without making things about yourself.”
“Oscar,” Lily warns, faint pink painting her pale skin. “Be nice.”
“Ah, don’t worry about it,” Lando says, waving her off like it’s no big deal—which it’s not. He leans back against his chair, flipping his teammate off who scoffs lightheartedly. “This is how we talk. Right, Osc?”
“Right.”
Somewhere in between dessert, while you’re in the middle of licking your spoon clean, the invitation that came to ruin your life, comes up. Lily clears her throat nervously, suddenly worried by the thought of you turning her down. “I was meaning to ask…” Puzzled, you keep your eyes on her, awaiting her next words. She shrugs sheepishly. “Well, I graduate this summer, and Oscar is throwing me a party up in North Carolina…” She trails off, gathering her words. “I was wondering if you two would like to come?”
“Oh,” Lando's voice comes through like a muffle, mouth full of cheesecake. He swallows, blue eyes flickering between the couple and his girlfriend who remains with a blank expression, metal spoon still in place. “I mean—yeah. Right?”
Unfreezing, you place the utensil down onto your plate, smiling weakly. “Uh…yeah.” Lily grins, letting out a breath of relief, making Oscar frown over the realization that your response mattered so much to her. You nod robotically. “Sure, why not?”
“Great!” Lily cheers, beaming like a kid on Christmas Day. “And don’t worry about spending on a hotel—we’ve got you covered.”
You blink, bewildered. “You do?”
She nods. “Of course, we do! You’re our guests, you’ll be staying with us.”
Your boyfriend smiles faintly. “That’s kind of you, but it’s really no problem. We wouldn’t want to overcrowd.”
“Nonsense,” the Australian speaks up, shaking his head, brown strands of hair swinging in the slightest. “We have plenty of room. All of our family and friends are already staying at the hotel nearby—it’d be nice to have a bit of company.” His eyes soften, making your heart beat a little faster. “What do you say?”
It feels like he’s looking directly at you—chocolate orbs as sweet as can be. As if nothing else exists in this moment if it’s not you or him. But in reality, his attention is focused on your boyfriend, awaiting his response.
Not yours.
Flustered, you poke Lando’s leg beneath the table, hoping he takes the hint. Blue eyes flicker towards your direction for a millisecond before returning with a nod. “Looks like you have two roomies.”
Lily squeals, smiling brightly as Oscar’s lips remain in a thin line, his version of a smile.
And if he could turn back time…
He really fucking would.
-
Once the season ends, everyone is on a high. Lando for coming in second in the Driver’s Championship and for bringing in the Constructors Championship for the first time in years, and Oscar for the latter. Regardless, it was an outstanding season for the two of them.
You and the Brit end up flying in a few days later due to going back home to pack a few more necessities, but once you’ve got that all figured out, you find yourselves in the middle of a heatstroke, making you second guess all your life's choices all at once.
“It feels as if my skin’s melting off,” you groan, fanning yourself with the roadmap, because as it came, satellites are utter shit when it comes to where you’re staying. Lando tries to convince you that having no internet for a few weeks isn’t all that bad, but as soon as a twenty minute drive turns into a one hour drive due to getting lost without the guidance of a GPS, he regrets his words. You roll your eyes, narrating as he finally pulls up to the driveway of what appears to be the best looking house in all of North Carolina.
He whistles. “If it weren’t so hot during the summer, I’d definitely move here.”
Scoffing, you exit the car rental, looking up at the navy blue house where green ivy hangs. “We are not moving here. I’d rather die.”
“Fair,” he mumbles as he makes his way towards the front door, you right on his heels. Swinging the door open, you two are instantly hit with the fresh gust of air. “Thank God,” Lando moans, loving the fact that the AC is the only thing preventing him from fainting.
Pushing him in, you make sure to close the door behind you as you shut your eyes with sweet relief. Somewhere towards the end of the hall, you hear shoes squeak against the wooden tiles. Lily waves, hair up in a similar ponytail as yours, as she smiles as warm as the weather that nearly cost you your life. “You made it!”
“We sure did,” you respond, gritting your teeth in order to prevent yourself from letting out some snarky remark. Not that she deserves it, of course she doesn’t, but you couldn’t help it. Pointing back towards the wooden door, you wince apologetically. “Sorry to barge in. Someone didn’t bother knocking.”
Lando makes a face, then turns to the blue eyed girl with a playful smile. “You don’t mind, do you, Lily?”
She shakes her head, pursuing her lips with delight. “Not at all. We left it unlocked knowing you two would show up. We’ve been fixing the guest bedroom for the past hour and we didn’t want to run the risk of not hearing you knock, so…I guess it all worked out just fine.”
“See? Lily says it worked out just fine,” your boyfriend says smugly as you roll your eyes, not at all impressed with his sudden cockines. “Where is Oscar, by the way?”
Lily signals upstairs, then blushes. “Do you mind helping me grab a few things from the car, Lando?” A shy chuckle. “It’s just that we went out for some party essentials last night, but we were too tired to bring them in, and the box is too heavy, and Oscar is pretty busy, and I’d hate to bother him, and—”
“Sure,” Lando cuts off her rambling. “That way I can grab our suitcases, too.”
“Fantastic,” she hoots, dusting her hands against her shorts as she grabs a set of car keys from the kitchen table. Turning to you, she grimaces. “Do you mind checking up on Oscar?”
Your plump lips part, a line of dehydration hung upon them. “I would, but I should help Lando—”
“It’s okay,” your boyfriend fills in. “I’ve got it all under control.”
Lily pleads silently, brows drawn together. “You’d really be doing me a favor. It’s just that he was in the middle of fixing the duvet and he tends to run out of patience if he doesn’t get it right away.” A chuckle. “Please?”
Which is how you find yourself in a room, alone with the one person you probably shouldn’t be alone with, but find yourself wishing that were always the case. Alone with one another, that is. Gently knocking on the already open door feels like the right thing to do, so you do just that. Alerted by the sound, the Australian’s head jerks up, brown eyes caught against yours.
You tilt your head slightly, like some greet. “Lily sent me,” you find yourself explaining as he sighs, resting on the unmade bed. Leaning against the doorframe, you bite the inside of your cheek, not knowing what to say next.
He huffs. “Of course she did.” A snort. “Sorry your room still isn’t ready. It's just that, I, uh…can't seem to get this right,” he admits, shyly scratching the back of his neck as he motions towards the unmade mess. “Lily always helps, but she’s a bit busy right now, and I'd hate to bother her, and—”
“I can help.”
A pause, then: “Oh, don't worry, you don't need to do that. You’re our guests.”
Chuckling, you shake your head, already making a move to grab the sheets. Taking hold of one corner, you signal for him to do the same, the Australian instantly catching on and taking hold of the opposite side. Aligning it, you look up at him, watching as he focuses on your hands and repeats the order. You smile, going for more and doing it all over again. Once it's perfectly laid out, you take a step back. “Not too shabby.”
“Huh,” he muttered, blinking with amazement. “Thanks.”
“No problem,” you say, fixing the mountain of pillows before taking it in with a gentle smile. “Lando’s excited to be here.”
Oscar looks up, neat brows raising. “Is he?”
“Mhm,” you hum, finally connecting your gaze to his. From this distance—close—you note the faint trace of cologne that hugs him, along with a thin layer of sweat. Grinding your molars, you fume silently within you as you catch it—her perfume. You wonder how close she had to have been in order for it to imprint on him, but as soon as you ponder for too long about it, you shake your head, acting as if you’re brushing away some invisible dust. “He’s looking forward to jet skiing.”
A deep chuckle. Pressing his back against the wall, he crosses his arms, giving you a clear view of his muscles that pulse like the world's biggest temptation. If you had the chance—just one—you’d kiss them the way you've fantasized for so long now.
He opens his mouth, about to say something that's going to change everything amongst you two, but bails at the last minute, shaking his head as if he barely caught himself. Intrigued, you raise a neat brow. “What's wrong?” you ask, feeling far too curious.
Oscar tsks. “No, uh, it's nothing.” A beat, then he looks up, squinting his eyes skeptically, as if you're a puzzle he can't quite figure out. He's looking at you the same way he did that day you lied about planning the dinner, and that itself makes your stomach dip. Suddenly, you're not as interested in finding out what he has to say anymore. “Lily loves you, you know that?”
Not what you were expecting. “She does?”
“Yeah…” he mumbles, orbs still trained on you. You want him to look away—you need him to look away. Pink lips curl into something of a scoff. The Australian’s eyes darken, making you freeze with trepidation. “She thinks you’re great.” Opening his arms like some grand gesture, he motions towards the lively room. “I mean, look at her. She’s trying her best to please you.”
Something about the way he says it makes you feel as if he’s not that fond of Lily’s behavior. As if you don’t deserve her kindness, even just a sprinkle of it. Pursing your lips, you rock against the heels of your feet. “And I appreciate that, I really do.” A hint of hesitation. “And I like Lily, as well—”
A raw chuckle. Blinking, you catch him shaking his head, brown eyes shut in disbelief, and when he opens them once again, it’s not that kind-hearted and easy-going Australian you’ve come to know—no. He’s broad, and cold, and guarded.
“No, you don’t.”
You gulp, laughing awkwardly as you rub your forearm, feeling the heat of shame radiate off your body. “What are you talking about? She’s super sweet—”
“I never said she wasn’t,” he cuts you off again, this time a bit harsher. Enough to take a step back. Your heart races times a million at this point, palms moist with sweat. “I never said she wasn’t sweet—I don’t doubt that even for a second. But I know that you’re lying, and I know that you hate her.” A beat. “Why?”
“I do like her,” you continue to insist, feeling claustrophobic all of a sudden. “What makes you even think otherwise?”
“I’ve seen the way you look at her,” he says, accent sharper than usual. “Like you wish her the worst—I know what hate looks like.”
This time, you grab what’s left of your courage, and look at him straight in the eyes, not backing down. “Yeah? And what does hate look like?”
“You’re looking at it.”
It’s as if an ice cold bucket of water is thrown at you with no alert. His insinuation makes you want to recoil, but if you do, then he’d know he’s gotten to you, and if he gets to you, then he’ll figure the rest of it out.
“I’m sorry, that was rude.” He smiles tauntingly, inching close and tilting his head as he opens his mouth. “I just don’t like you, that’s all. I’m not cruel enough to hate.” Cruel. He’s calling you cruel. He knows, therefore, you’re cruel. The word itself shouldn’t affect you this much, but it does. Narrowing your eyes, you push him away, but he doesn't budge. Instead, he cocks his head in question with little to no surprise. “What? You don’t like hearing the truth of what you are? Did you really think you were a good person?”
“Look,” you finally speak, glaring. “I don’t know what you think you’ve seen, but I don’t hate Lily. For God sakes, I barely even know her!”
“Exactly!” he shouts back, breaking. “Which is why I’m more than confused! What has she done to you?”
Have possession over you, you think to yourself as you pant, blinking with defeat. I hate her because what she’s done to me is have possession over you, and that’s not fair.
“I—”
“Hey,” a soft voice melts into the room, Lily coming into view, cheeks flushed. “Is everything alright in here? We thought we heard yelling.”
Standing behind her, frowning over her shoulder, Lando stares with a lost expression. Everything indicates that there had been some sort of altercation, but the smiles you two wear are enough to try and convince them otherwise. Walking towards her, Oscar wraps his arm around her waist, pecking her temple as she blinks, still worried. “What? That’s absurd. We were simply talking. Weren’t we?”
It takes you a minute to register that he’s speaking to you, so when you do answer, it’s nothing but a whisper. “Yeah… just, yeah.” You shake your head, blinking hastily. “We were just talking.”
“Are you sure?” Lando asks, pushing past the couple as he rushes to you, large hand grabbing your wrist softly as he looks at you. His gaze flickers momentarily toward Oscar, as if accusing him for doing something, in return, making the Australian frown for his sudden distrust. As if he’s the bad guy.
You nod, plump lips formed into a thin line. “Yup,” you say, attention flickering down to where Oscar keeps Lily secure against his touch. As if you’re the bad guy. You chuckle, shrugging. “He was thanking me for helping him do something so easy as setting a bed.”
Oscar clenches his jaw. “Yeah. Thanking you.”
Anyone who knows you, knows that you’re a decent human being. There’s not much to contradict that. But no one will ever know you the way you know yourself. Because if they did?
They’d find out that there was no one greedier….
Than you.
-
Dinner that night is homemade pizza. Lily followed a recipe.
It’s quite delicious, sure, and you’re able to make that note due to that one small bite you had before you ditch it for your mimosa. Lando tries to get you to eat, but you gently promise him that you’re just not that hungry. You see the way Oscar stares, feeling bad for his girlfriend who spent hours making this for you. She excuses herself, rushing towards the kitchen as the Australian apologizes, following after her.
Turning abruptly, the British boy huffs, causing commotion. “Are you going to tell me what’s going on now?”
“This again?” you groan. “I already told you—nothing. Drop it.”
“What’d he say to you?” he questions, a layer of curiosity making an appearance. “Did he say something to offend you?”
“No,” you hum against your glass. “He did not.”
“Did you say something to offend him?” he switches the inquiry, making you glare.
“Are you seriously asking me that right now?”
Lando sighs, relaxing against his chair once again. He takes a bite, swallows, then takes another. “I get the sense that you’re keeping something from me—you’re not like that.”
Actually, you are. He just doesn’t know it. Placing a hand over his, you hum, calming him down as he connects his gaze onto yours, eyes as soft as jello. “He might’ve lost his temper on me a bit.”
“What?” he screeches, making you hush him.
“Let me finish,” you hiss. He nods, curls bouncing. “He couldn’t get the sheets to stay in place. Remember how Lily said he tends to lose patience because of that?” Another nod. You shrug. “Well, that was it. We just didn’t want you two to make a big deal out of nothing. Much like now,” you point out, spotting a subtle blush threatening his cheeks.
“Well, forgive me for looking out for you,” he sings. “I care, you know?”
“And I thank you for that, darling, but you can let go of it now, right?”
“Definitely.”
He doesn’t. Matter of fact, as soon as the couple makes their way back, it’s the first thing he brings up, teasing his teammate who blinks, confused, then: “Oh. Yeah. Right. I had a bit of a moment where I couldn’t get the…yeah. That was it.”
Lily rolls her blue eyes. “Didn’t I warn ya?”
You giggle. “You did, you really did.”
There isn’t much to do from that point on, the sun has set and the moon hangs as bright as headlights. Lando knocks out after a much needed shower, and while you can’t sleep with wet hair, you settle on fixing yourself up a tea now that it’s cooled down.
Walking barefoot towards the lake, you hum, finding peace with the way crickets sing. Blue, gentle waves sway back and forth as you look beyond, mind at peace. That is until you hear a small cough. Startled, you search for the culprit and you find him, laid down on the grass.
“Can’t sleep?”
Oscar sighs. “I’d rather not talk to you right now.”
“Or ever?” you offer, but he doesn’t find you humor all that entertaining. Making your way, you find a space next to him. “You can’t ignore me, you know that? We’re about to spend a month together. That, and you’re my boyfriend's teammate. I see you on track.”
He disregards the fact that you're right, sitting up instead, laying his arms over his bent knees. “What’s your game?”
“I don’t have one,” you say softly. “I’m just here to have fun—it’s summer.”
A scoff. “I’m serious—what do you want from us?”
There was a point in time when you first met the Australian where you remember thinking: this is a boy. His arms were twigs, his neck was small, and his fireproofs fit him loosely.
Fastword, a year later: everything has taken a turn. Oscar Piastri has matured, and now—now you want him.
“My parents had my sister three years after they had me.” Oscar cocks his head, puzzled as to why you’re telling him this. You continue, occasionally sipping on your tea. “And the months leading to her birth, they always told me how lucky I’d feel to have her once she was born. Then she was,” you say. “And you know what I felt?”
“Lucky?” he finds himself guessing quietly.
You shake your head, causing his brows to jump up with surprise. “I love her, I do, but I think that was the moment I realized I didn’t like to share. I wanted my parents to stay my parents, and not hers. I wanted my grandparents to stay my grandparents, and not hers. And…once we grew up and we were old enough to date—I wanted her boyfriends to like me more than they liked her.”
Quiet, his eyes linger with disgust. “I love knowing that I can get away with it—get what I want.” This time, you look at him, and it hits him all at once: you want him. You smile, like what you’re saying is funny and not fucked. A giggle. “You’re a smart individual, Oscar. Do you get what I’m saying?”
He does. And it makes his stomach knot.
“I’m in love with Lily,” he states, as if that will make you back off. “I’m. In. Love. With. Lily.”
But he can tell you don’t care. You never have, and you never will. And the fact that she has him is why you hate her. He sees that now.
Standing, your knees are at his eye level, forcing him to look away, forcing him to look up. You hold power in this stance, and he’s basically at your knees—worshiping you. He doesn’t like that. In one fast movement, he jumps up, towering over you, but that’s fine. It doesn’t matter. And he realizes he can never win when it comes to you because it seems you like that too.
He gulps. You grin.
“Doesn't matter.”
-
You’re playing a dangerous game.
It starts early in the morning and ends late at night. At times, he feels like a kid hiding behind his mum's skirt, practically sticking to Lily like superglue, and normally she loves that, but with how busy she is with graduation, she pushes him off most times now. It’s always: Oscar, no or Oscar, what now? He can’t seem to get it right.
“Why don’t you go jet skiing with Lando?” you speak up and he finds it weird that you’re helping him out. The British girl nods. Yeah! Why don’t you? He doesn’t need to be told twice.
They come back with fresh sunburns and a couple new freckles. Lando’s curls are hard from the sea salt, so he gives you a quick kiss, running up stairs for a quick shower. He’s been having lots of those. Not even a minute later, Oscar goes on to do the same.
Somewhere along the line, you hear your name, and you know what that means. Rolling your eyes, you look over at the blue eyed girl. “I bet you he forgot his towels—”
I forgot my towels!
Giggling, Lily shakes her head, muttering ‘boys’, then signals towards her room. “I just washed some, you can grab them from our cabinet.”
“Thanks,” you chirp, making your way. While yours and Lando’s room sits at the far right side of the hall, Oscar’s and Lily’s is on the left. And you never meant to walk in on him, not at all, but you did.
Swinging the door open, you’re caught face to face with a shirtless Oscar, dying his wet hair with a blue towel. He freezes. “W-what are you doing here?” he stutters.
You try not to stare, you really do, but you can’t help it. His body is solid, chiseled, even. His skin is moist from lathering lotion and that’s enough to make your head spin. And yet, you don’t let him see that. Pushing past him, you dig your hand deep into the cabinet, pulling two fresh towels, similar to his. He frowns.
“Just grabbing towels for my boyfriend.” Smile. “See you.”
Is this how you get people to fall for you? By not seeming desperate? Because while he knows that you want him, you sure don’t show it, and that definitely confuses him.
That same night, you four are watching a movie in the living room. Cherry Falls to be exact. The entire way through, you’re curled into Lando’s chest under a blanket. On the other side of the long couch, Lily and Oscar sit as straight as can be, but his arm remains over her shoulder, keeping her safe.
You’re not jealous over something like that, but when she flinches during certain scenes and he comforts her, that gets you. “Hey,” you start, whispering into the Brit’s ear. Green eyes are stuck on the screen, nodding robotically. Yeah? You kiss his warm skin, making him jump. “Why don’t you and I go to bed?”
“Bed?” he asks, slow and unsure where you’re headed. “Already? But…we’re halfway through.” You yawn, rubbing a hand along his thigh. He blushes, impressed with how cool you’re able to play it. Coughing, he nods excitedly. “I think we’re done for the day,” he announces, a bit too loud.
Lily pauses the movie, tilting her head curiously. “Aw, but we’re halfway through…”
“I know,” you add, smiling apologetically. “But I’m just so tired.”
“As am I!” Lando cuts you off, voice squeaky. He shakes his head, blinking hastily, then clears his throat. “But please, don’t let us stop you from finishing the movie.”
“Yeah,” you quip, getting up, about to walk away when Lando reaches for your hips, keeping you in front of him. It doesn’t take much to feel his bulge pressed against your ass. He laughs awkwardly. “We still have that picnic tomorrow, don’t we?”
“We do,” Lily cheers, smiling widely. “Oh, I’m so excited!” Turning to face the Australian, who hasn’t said much up until now, just stares blankly, she taps his knee. “We should probably go to sleep, too.”
“No!” Lando yelps, blushing bright red as the blue eyed girl frowns. “Keep on watching. Keep the telly on. In fact…” He reaches for the control. “Turn up the volume.”
“Great idea,” Lily says, pursing her lips as the numbers go up on the screen. “Alright then, you two go rest.”
“Thank you,” you reply, walking carefully in front of the British boy who still tries his best to hide behind you, waving sheepishly. “See you in the morning!”
Oscar really underestimated how naive Lily can be. While she was wide-eyed enough to believe that you two were ready to knock out, he knew the truth. Pecking her cheek, he makes a stand, making his girlfriend pout. “Where are you going? I thought we were gonna finish the movie?”
“We are,” he promises, smiling gently. “I’m just gonna run to the restroom real quick. Be right back.”
Running up the stairs, two steps at a time, he rushes to your side of the hall, quickly identifying small moans. He stops dead in his tracks, heart stuck in his throat, and he doesn’t know why.
Fuck, baby, he hears Lando groan. Oscar grimaces, shutting his eyes with discomfort. He shouldn't be here. He shouldn’t have his ear pressed against the door, intruding in your guys’ private sex life.
He shouldn't be bothered so much. Or at all.
Lando, you whine, surely writhing with pleasure. The sound makes him break a sweat, makes his brain go fuzzy. He can’t even think properly. And he knows this is wrong—on so many levels—but what’s worse is that he wishes Lando were dead.
Skin to skin contact makes his jaw clench with anger. The fact that he knows what you feel like makes him want to barge in and rip you two apart. And it dawns on him—why does he care so much?
“No,” he mutters, taking a step back as if the door were made out of lava. He blinks hastily, shaking his head harshly until he feels his brain jump from side to side. “God, no…”
It’s official—you have his attention.
Without even making a move.
-
You feel his gaze on you. You don’t even have to look and see to know that it’s him and not Lando. Lando’s gaze doesn’t burn, but his? His zaps. Looking up from where you rested on the red gingham blanket Lily rolled onto the fresh grass, you squint behind your glasses, making eye contact with the Australian.
You know you have him.
Reaching into your bag, you grab your sunscreen, squirting it onto your legs, making sure to lather it on in a teasing manner. You rub up and down, slow and steady. Briskly, he looks away, paying attention to his teammate who continues to ramble on and on about nothing in particular.
Not as particular as you.
“I love having you two around,” Lily says, ripping your gaze away like one would their band aid. She hums, gingerly fixing her floppy hat and motioning towards your sunscreen. Go right ahead. “Thank you,” she replies sweetly. A beat. “I have a favor to ask.” This get’s your attention. Furrowing your brows, you nod, urging her to continue. “So, I’m in a bit of a predicament.”
“What is it?”
Lily blushes, as if she’s too embarrassed to admit. “Remember how I skipped a few exams in order to extend my stay the first time we met? In order to have that dinner with both you and Lando?”
“Yeah,” you say, still uncertain about where this might possibly lead. “I think I do.”
She cringes. “I never took them.”
“What?”
“I know! And now my advisor is telling me I won’t be able to graduate if I don’t find a way to take them, and I don’t know what to do!” She groans, bumping the edge of her palm against her forehead. “Oh God, Oscar is going to be so mad at me.”
“Okay, calm down,” you soothe her. “Have you tried reaching out to your professor?”
“Not yet,” she mumbles, tears pooling the corner of her eyes, making you feel just a dash of pity. “Should I?”
“Yes,” you respond quickly. “You should. Ask them if there’s any way to take those exams. Say you’re sorry—like really sorry. They have to be able to tell that you never meant to skip out in the first place.”
“I didn’t,” she squeaks, voice wavering. “I’m not usually like this, but…” Her blue eyes flicker down to her lap, fingers playing nervously with the hem of her shirt. “I just really want to fix this and graduate on time. Everyone is counting on that!”
“You’re going to walk that stage, Lily, alright? You just need to keep your eye on the prize.” Sighing, you unlock your phone, handing it to her. “E-mail them right now.”
“O-okay,” she stutters, eyes softening. “Thank you for being such a great friend.”
You blink. “Oh. Yeah—anytime.”
She finds privacy back in the parking lot, leaving you alone with the boys deep in the horizon. It’s peak golden-hour, so they look significantly tan. You smile, lying back down, glasses hugging the curve of your nose. You’re halfway asleep at one point, but as soon as you feel a droplet fall onto you, you peek an eye open.
“Where’s Lily?” Oscar questions, furrowing his dark brows.
You roll your eyes. “She went to get something from the car.” She probably wouldn’t like Oscar knowing the truth, and you’re not one to tell it. You wave your hand dismissively. “Now move—you’re blocking the sun.”
Grinding his teeth, the Australian scoots, but his eyes remain down on you. You lay tan now, white bikini standing out against your skin. Brown eyes trails down your legs, spotting an ankle bracelet. He hums. “What’s it say?”
You sigh. “Could you be more specific?”
He kicks your feet, making you lean against your elbows, staring at him coldly. Noticing what he was referring to, you lick your lips. “It's the number four.”
“Four?” he asks plainly. “Why four?”
“I’m really trying to relax,” you spit, taking your sunglasses off and glaring. “You’d be doing me a huge favor if you just left me alone.”
Aren’t you supposed to want him? Aren’t you the one who's supposed to be chasing after him?
The tips of his ears burn bright red, and not from the sun. Seeing as he wasn’t leaving, you let out a heavy breath. “He asked me out on April fourth—fourth month, fourth day. His racing number is four.” You make a face. “Do you get it or do you need further explanation?”
He ignores the dig. “Why an ankle bracelet, though? Why not a ring or a necklace?”
Your red lips part open, then close. His guts twist with jealousy once he comes to the realization. The reason it’s an ankle bracelet its so that anytime he fucks you, legs dangled over his shoulders, he could admire it. Seeing as he figured it out without having you respond makes you blush.
“Ankle bracelets are my favorite.”
His eyes darken. “You know what? Next time you two fuck, why don’t you moan a little less loud?”
Your neat brows lift up with surprise. “How are you so sure we already did?”
He pauses, clearly caught on spying. He swallows. “You sound like a pornstar.”
“Is that supposed to be an insult?” You laugh. “Lando doesn’t seem to mind. In fact…” Biting down on your bottom lip, you blink innocently up at him as his breathing pattern becomes uneven. “He fucking loves it.”
God—what were you doing to him?
Just as he’s about to speak, Lando calls out for him and Lily calls out for you. Where are the beers, mate? The Australian spins back and lets out a lousy smile. “On it, give me a second!”
As he turns again, you’re already up on your feet, adjusting your bikini and throwing Lando’s shirt over your head. The sight alone irks Oscar more than he’d like to admit. “I should go see what Lily needs,” you sing teasingly. Spinning on your heels, you stop, cocking your head to the side and giving him one last glance. “Oh, and Oscar?”
You point down to his hard on imprinted on his short. Horrified, heat rushes to his cheeks.
“Don't get so excited over nothing.”
-
What appears to be the first time in her life, Lily lies to Oscar.
They need some last minute measurements for my cap and gown, she explains, puffing her cheeks as if the thought of flying back home is too much of a tassel, and not a necessity—she has to go back and take her exams. She had received an extension, but the only catch was that she had to take them in person, as originally planned. I’ll be back in a week.
The Australian tries to tag along with his girlfriend because the thought of being left alone to third wheel a couple who probably fucks 24/7 is too unbearble. But as expected, Lily declines, claiming it’d be rude for both hostesses to leave their guests behind. And all would’ve been fine if Lando’s father hadn't broken his clavicle playing rugby.
“Do you really have to leave?” you sigh, zipping his suitcase.
He nods. “Mum would kill me if I didn't show up.”
“I’ll miss you.”
A soft smile. Pecking your lips, his thumb rubs against your cheek lovingly. “I’ll be back before you know it. Time will fly by.”
Which is how you and Oscar find yourselves sharing a large house with a million desires. He's quick to note that you have a thing for summer dresses—and so does he, apparently. Jaw clenched, he carefully watches as you cut up a variety of fruit, humming as you prepare yourself a plate. You hum a soft melody, making him more and more intrigued to know what it was.
“Love in the Morning. Ennio Morricone,” he hears you say, munching on a slice of watermelon, walking towards the living room. There, on T.V., plays an unknown reality show, but he's not paying much attention, either way. No, his gaze is stuck on you, focused on the way you stretch your legs onto the coffee table, the rest of your upper body resting against the comfy couch. You swallow, reaching for a piece of mango. “One of my favorite instrumentals.”
It's one of his, too, and not because he knows it by heart, but because you do. Because you sound so beautiful, like a siren, when you hum it. He wonders if you're aware of the power you hold. Though, the way you ignore him lets him know that you do.
Against the sunlight, the one that peeks through the open window and summer skies, your ankle bracelet shines, blinding him, almost. He feels his chest grow tight—so much so, that it hurts to breathe regularly—and he has to remind himself that this isn’t normal—this isn’t normal.
Since when did you matter this much to him? Since when did you affect him this much?
Without a second thought, he claims a spot next to you on the couch, reaching for a berry and popping it in his mouth. You bite the inside of your cheek, somehow satisfied by this small action of his. “Tell me a bit about yourself.”
You blink, caught off guard. In all your time of knowing the Australian, he never once bothered to get to know you—really get to know you. He never cared, not even in the slightest. But now, in a turn of events, he does. Squinting suspiciously—teasingly—you shake your head, vanilla perfume radiating off your skin.
“No.”
His lips turn downwards. “No?”
“No,” you repeat, flipping through the channels, pretending he wasn’t even there. A click. “Why should I?”
Because suddenly, you’re the only one in my mind.
He bites down on his tongue, tasting a hint of blood. “I’m not into you, don’t flatter yourself.”
“I never said you were,” you say, a bored tone evident.
Oscar’s hands get clammy, thankful for having them pressed against his lap. Maybe he can still make a run for it. To his room. Back to Australia. He doesn’t even care where, exactly, but far, far, far from you. That way, he wouldn’t feel so grossed out in wanting to know more about his teammate's girlfriend. The one whom he never thought about once before this trip. And how can he even defend his honor?
You got into his head.
You don’t register what he’s doing—not instantly, at least—but before you know it, he’s pushing your legs off the coffee table, claiming a seat there, instead. Now, rather than having a clear view of the television, you have one of him. Large and desperate and perfect.
He narrows his eyes, sharp and threatening. “Are you glad that both Lily and Lando are gone?”
“Nope,” you respond, popping the p. “Why would I?”
Why would you? Geez, who really knows? Oh, maybe because now you have me all to yourself, and isn’t that what you wanted all along? Why don’t you want me anymore?
Slightly grinning, Oscar lets out a raw chuckle, making you want to jump onto his thick lap and lick up his neck. You bet it’d taste like salt and cologne, but the mere thought sounds like a dream. A wild, wild dream.
“I know you think about me.”
Zero reaction. Unimpressed, you push your bottom lip out, wagging your index finger at him before pressing it against his cheek, making him pause because that alone makes his skin burn. You push, forcing a dimple before doing the last thing he’d ever thought you’d do.
Slap him.
He thinks he’s imagining it, and you didn’t just do that, but the smug look on your face and the sting on his lets him know that he isn’t picturing it, and you did just do that. You smile sweetly, standing and ditching your place right in front of him, making your way towards the stairs.
“Get a life, Oscar. Not everything is about you.”
You like to mess with people’s sanity. That must be it because—what the fuck is wrong with you?
First, you insinuate lusting over him. Later, you put on a show for him every chance you get. And now? Now you toy with him, making him feel like the crazy one. And one thing’s for sure.
He is not crazy.
You barely have a foot up one stair when you’re pulled back, and before you know it, pushed down to sit on the step, the Australian kneeled down in front of you. You breath hitches, eyes as wide as cherry pies. His brows are drawn in softly, a pink tint dusting his ears like some shy teen.
“Maybe not—but everything is about you.”
You always knew you’d get him, and you knew exactly how you’d do it. You’d plant the seed and have him come running to you. It always works. I mean, it’s how you got Lando, after all.
But Lando was a want. Oscar is a need.
With his knees still glued onto the ground, the brunette leans down and kisses your ankle, laying his lips flat as you gasp softly, feeling the familiar bracelet dig into your skin.
“Tell me you think about me too,” he whispers pathetically—fragile. Another kiss, this time up your calf. “What do I have to do in order to get you to say it?”
“You’re insane,” you mumble, orbs stuck on the top of his head, shaggy hair hanging loosely before he looks up at you, past his lashes. Butterflies erupt.
Up your thigh, he licks you, tasting your lotion, but he doesn’t seem to mind the bitter taste. “Come on—I want you.” He sucks, forming a purple bruise. “Don’t you want me, too?”
You do. You fucking crave every piece of him. But you can’t let him know that. And you really do try your best to fight him off, but as soon as he starts curling his fist around your small dress, you’re just as good as gone.
A tiny moan rings through the air, then a pant follows. He’s barely even touched you and he’s already knocked the air straight from your lungs.
“I d-do, Oscar.” Whine. “I do want you.”
And just like that—he’s taken whatever power you were claiming onto—back.
Letting go of your dress, he chuckles, enjoying your out of breath state, and standing, making you feel small as you blink, confused as to why he stopped.
Dark eyes glint sinisterly as he kicks your open legs together, not too hard, but still enough to make you jolt with surprise, leaning your elbows up against the step, brows furrowed.
A beat. “You really are a pretty little thing.”
And with that, he walks away, leaving you to feel abandoned.
-
It’s a brutal game of tug-of-war. One where both of your guys’ hands are burning from trying not to be the first to let go.
The first to admit defeat.
Though, it seems like the days grow longer, your dresses fall shorter, and his mind is hazier. All of which is making it more difficult to keep a distance. That is, until Lily FaceTimes Oscar.
“I need you to buy some flowers.”
Mid-bite, his teeth push down on his apple, eyes glued on her. He pulls away, drying his mouth with the back of his hand. “Won’t they dry out before the party?”
She shakes her head, highlighting what looks to be a set of notes. “That's why you're going to get carnations. They last longer.”
“Is that so?” he entertains, smiling gently when she bites down on her marker, brows furrowed as she reads her piece of paper. Throwing away what's left of his fruit, he hums. “Alright, I’ll take care of it tomorrow, don't worry.”
“Oh no, tomorrow won’t work. You have to do it today.”
He frowns. “Why?”
“Because she's only available today. She's going dress shopping tomorrow.”
He doesn't even have to ask who she is because he already knows. Shaking his head adamantly, the Australian rejects her idea before it even has a chance to lift off the ground. “I could do it myself,” he snaps, his usually tranquilent voice coming out a bit harsher than intended. And it’s not like him. He never, ever, speaks to Lily this way. So, obviously, it surprises her, a wounded expression mapping out immediately.
And she could have been mad. She really could have been mad—but she wasn’t. “Is everything okay?” she asks carefully, as if walking on eggshells. It makes him feel like shit. “What's wrong, Oscar?”
“I…” His tongue goes numb. The vivid image of you looking at him, like you hold him in the palm of your hand, comes through. And he doesn’t completely hate it, not right away. But once the British girl hums softly through the phone, he’s ashamed. “I just wish you were here. I miss you.”
A beat, then: I love you.
You had not been the biggest fan of going floral shopping with Oscar, either. Quite frankly, you didn't think being with him for hours on end was a good idea. At least, here in the house, you could escape, but out in the open, your chances were ironically not that good. Where would you run off to if you depended on him for a ride back?
Yet, you found yourself saying yes, and you didn’t know why. You had no clue why you felt the need to help her out. You had no clue why you felt a certain way towards her all of sudden.
You had no clue when Lily Zneimer—the girl you're supposed to hate—was someone you saw as a friend.
It was a tough pill to swallow, because on one hand, you were still attracted to her boyfriend. But on the other hand, you suddenly had self-control. You didn't want to ruin their relationship anymore. You didn't want to lose her amity.
You were trying to be better.
“Ready?”
Looking up from your book, you nod. “Let me just go grab my sunglasses.”
As he watches you run upstairs, he feels something—different. From your end, that is. As if something has shifted. But he doesn’t have much time to dwell on it, because before he knows it, you’re back.
The car is quiet and his music can barely even be heard, but nothing is far more awkward than the tension between you two. It’s suffocating, so much so, you roll down the window. He makes a noise, making you tilt your head to look at him. He’s frowning. “It’s a hundred degree’s out, roll it back up. I can turn on the AC.”
You don’t utter a single word, just follow his instructions. He finds that weird. See, usually, you’d be doing something to get him hot and bothered, but these days you seem to be playing it safe. If anything, he should be thankful. He should be glad that you’ve left him alone for whatever reason.
But now he wants in on your game.
“How’d you meet Lando?”
“Don’t. We don’t have to talk.”
He ignores you. “I met Lily in school. She was in the class next to mine and I used to think she was the most beautiful girl in the world.” His mind panics as soon as he realizes what he’s just said, but you don’t seem to have done the same. A cough. “How’d you meet Lando?”
Seeing as he probably wasn’t going to let this go unless you answer his question, you sigh, twisting your body and adjusting yourself to have a good view of him. Like this, you can count every mole on his skin if you really wanted to, but you don’t. “I never really met Lando, per se. I just always…knew him, I guess.” His brows furrowed and you chuckle. “We grew up as neighbors.”
“You did?” he asks, brows jumping up with shock. “I had no idea.”
“Yeah,” you mumble, chewing on your bottom lip. “He was my sister’s boyfriend for two years.” This shouldn’t surprise him. Coming to a red light, he turns to look at you, fighting the urge to show any kind of reaction, he doesn’t want to scare you off. You look away, wincing. “I knew what I was ruining the moment he and I started talking behind her back, and I did it anyway.”
“So…they were still dating?”
Nod. “She caught us locked up in the bathroom. There really wasn’t any explanation to that.” Green flashes as you point numbly and he steps on the gas once again. “And you know what? I didn’t even feel all that bad, and you want to know why?”
“Why?”
“Because I got what I wanted.”
I love knowing that I can get away with it—get what I want, that is.
Your words from nights ago replay inside his overly crowded mind, making it pound like a sore thumb. His lips open, but he has nothing to say, and it appears you’re done talking, too. Or so he thought.
“Oscar…” you whisper. “I can’t taint another relationship.”
He keeps his eyes on the road, jaw slacked. You don’t want him anymore. You want nothing to do with him. Shouldn’t he be pleased? Shouldn’t he be ecstatic that your diabolical plan has expired? One you never admitted to, but still.
So then why does he feel let down?
“Lily is great,” you continue, eyes closed as you nod gingerly. “She’s the best, and she deserves the friend she thinks she has.”
“Except you two aren’t friends.”
You blink. “Wh-wha—yes we are. What are you talking about?”
He grits his teeth. “You two aren’t friends. You could never be.”
This gets a rise out of you. Straightening your back, your brows pinch together with offense. “And why not?”
“Because.”
“Because?” You scoff, not impressed by his bland response. “We can’t be friends simply ‘because’?”
Switching lanes, he huffs, spotting pink carnations in his rear view mirror. You had chosen those on Lily’s behalf. He didn’t really care at the moment, but now he wishes you had gone with white. What were you two arguing about again?
Spotting the familiar blue house, he lets out a breath, pulling into the driveway, quickly putting the car in park, and turning off the ignition. This almost makes you back down because suddenly his sole focus is on you, not the road.
“You’re on my mind.”
Oh. Biting down onto your bottom lip, you shake your head. “I’m n—”
“Yes,” he says, firmly, reaching for your hands and pulling them up to his mouth, kissing them over and over. “You are and you know it.”
“Oscar, no…” you let out, trying to pull away, but his grip tightens. A crazed look colors his irises as his chest rises fast, up and down, as if he’s close to hyperventilating. Bewildered, your lips turn to a downward spiral. “You don’t know what you’re saying—”
“Yes, I do!” he yelps, voice cracking as you stare with shock. “You did this to me, you got in my head on purpose!”
“I didn’t do anything!” you squeal, frightened by his tone. “Did I tell you that I wanted you?”
“You implied it,” he defends rapidly, pleading with eyes for you to show any signs of recollection. “What changed?”
“I already told you,” you snap, this time using all your power to yank your hands back. “I don’t want to be this way anymore. I can’t.”
Silence.
Slow breaths explore the car as he stares blankly. “That’s not fair.”
“What isn’t fair?” you hiss, aiming a glare.
Oscar shakes his head, flinging his door open and hopping out, leaving you dumbfounded as you watch him go. Unbuckling yourself, you make a beeline for him, barely even reaching him as you tug on his shirt, making him turn back with a dark look in his eyes. Your heart nearly flat lines from how scared you are of him from this point of view.
“What isn’t fair, huh?” you ask, trying to sound brave, but there’s a slight tremble in your voice.
Glowering down on you, the Australian’s lips form a slow smile, almost in a sinister way. Mocking, too. He chuckles to himself. “You like to have your own fun, don’t you?” Your shoulders drop, taking a clumsy step back, but he takes a dominating one forward. “Yeah…you do. You get to knead your fingers into someone’s brain until all they can think about is you, and once they do, you’re out.” Pause. “It’s no longer fun.”
“That’s not—” You let out a shaky breath, wincing at his accuracy. “Where are you going with this?”
Oscar shrugs, broad shoulders going up before falling sourly. “I’m gonna do the same.”
You freeze, stomach twisting with trepidation. “Huh?”
He nods, clicking his tongue. “How come you only get to have your fun?” He leans down, coming eye level with you, and narrowing his gaze until you see his iris dilate. Something about that sends a shiver down your spine. “Why can’t I do the same, too?”
Taking a step back, he makes sure to send a sly smile, the kind that lets you see he has a hidden dimple. He sighs as he steps into the house, forcing you to watch him go with a smug reaction and leaving you with a poor one. Last minute, he turns around, inclining against the doorframe, making him appear larger than the world.
Oscar squints teasingly.
“I’m going to have you begging me to fuck you.”
-
There was a moment in the past week where you nearly fell for it—almost.
It happened one morning, and all he had done was walk into the house, all big and sweaty. He had just come back from a run.
“Excuse me,” he says, reaching over to grab a glass from the cabinet, intending to pour himself a bit of water. A certain warmth radiates off him and you feel it cling onto you immediately, pushing you towards him. You physically have to stop yourself.
Pursing your lips, you move, allowing him to easily grab what he needs. Without a single thank you, he hums, the cool water tasting heavenly. The way his Adam’s Apple juts up and down makes you want to scream, looking away as rub your eyes fiercely. He smiles, setting the glass down. “I need your opinion on something.”
“What is it?” you ask, still not looking. Maybe you should leave to go buy your dress for the party. Time is running out, and you have nothing. Though, at this point, you didn't want to be here anymore.
“It's about Lily’s graduation gift. Should I get her a necklace with her birthstone, or—”
An ankle bracelet with my number on it?
Immediately, you turn to face him, cheekbones beet red and a slight twitch in your eyes, those that are now dark and looming. Satisfaction plays a role in his features as he stares innocently. “I was leaning towards the ankle bracelet. I really do think you and Lando are onto something.”
“What’s your game?” you ask, bitterness evident in your tone. Your question takes him back to when he was the one asking it. To you. Neat brows furrow with anticipation.
The brunette shrugs. “I don't have one. I'm just here to have fun.” He smirks. “It's summer—isn't it?”
This is all a bad case of deja vu, one you don't find appealing. How dare he ask you something like this with a dirty smile on his face? The look is just the right amount of disgusting, and the right amount of intriguing.
He was getting to you.
Clicking your tongue, you roll your eyes. “Whatever your plan is—stop it.” Pointing a finger, you shake your head firmly. “Because it's not going to work on me.”
“It’s not?” he asks, closing the gap and towering over you dangerously so. He sees the way your breathing becomes a tad bit irregular, letting him know that this was working, no matter how much you denied it. “Because you’re a better friend now? Because you got one taste of loyalty and now you've decided to be loyal to yourself?” A large hand reaches for your chin, forcing your head to tilt back and look up at him. And you hate how handsome he is in an infuriating moment like this. “People don't change overnight. I doubt you'd be the first.”
Old habits die hard, but over time, and he's right. You're still the same avaricious girl as yesterday.
Pushing his thumb against the corner of your lips, you instinctively open your mouth, making room. A soft smile tugs at his own lips as his eyes admire your lipstick coating his finger. Slowly, he eases the digit in, feeling your wet tongue hug it. And then, suck.
“Fuck,” he groans beneath his shaggy breath, brown orbs not wanting to miss a single second of this. Humming, your vibrations send a chill down his spine, finding it harder to not bend you over amd just fuck you into oblivion. But no—he had to hear you say it.
Pink tongue laps around his thumb, doe eyes blinking prettily, lashes fluttering like butterflies. Instant jealousy enters the room as his mind begins to race with the fact that Lando has probably had you like this millions of times. He pushes down on your tongue, making you whine and bite down. And he doesn't even flinch.
“Tell me you want me…” His brows knit with need. “The same way I want you. Please, just—say it.”
Without warning, you bite down hard, this time getting a reaction out of him as he grunts with pain, and you push him away harshly until his back pounds against the nearest wall, letting out a loud thud.
“Let me tell you one thing, Oscar,” you start, strolling over to him like a fallen angel. Today you wear a white dress, clung to your body like a glove, allowing him to see every curve of yours, in return, making his palms sweat. You grin, reaching him. “You won't ever see me begging for anyone—especially you.” His stomach drops. “No matter how much I want this to happen, too.”
Are you willing to get down on your knees and supplicate?
The answer is an obvious one for him: yes. He’d spend hours at your feet if that meant having you, for even just a second. Normally, he isn't this submissive, nor this desperate, but it seems like only you bring this side out of him. He doesn't entirely hate it.
“Ye—”
Ring! Ring!
Sighing, you walk up to your phone that sits on the nearest counter, and pick it up. “Hi, baby,” you greet sweetly. “How’s Adam?”
Ring! Ring!
Digging into his back pocket, he curses, picking up. “Hello, darling,” he says warmly, making you flicker your gaze over at him with accusation. “How’s everything going?”
Turns out, Adam’s bone wasn't actually broken and Lily had aced her exams. She ended up telling Oscar the truth, to which he was surprised she had kept it hidden from him for so long, but was far more surprised when she told him that you knew. Long story short, by some twist of fate, they’ll be back in the next couple of days. They land on the same day, so they’ll save the Australian the hassle and just drive in together.
“See you in a couple of days. Alright. Bye,” you say, rubbing your temples.
Oscar looks up, chewing the inside of his cheek before letting go. “I’ll see you, then. Fly safe.”
A moment passes by. “Did she tell you—”
“That they’re flying in together? Yeah. They were both in London, after all. It makes sense.”
“Sure,” you mumble, brushing a strand of hair away. “They land Wednesday, then?”
“Correct,” he says, nodding along. It’s already Monday, so that was…soon.
Too soon.
“I should probably start fixing up the arrangements,” you announce. “Lily asked me a couple of days ago, but I haven't gotten around to it. I just pray they haven't died yet.”
“They haven't,” he states, making you curl a brow. He smiles sheepishly. “Carnations last longer. Lily said so.”
“Of course,” you say, grinding your teeth. “Lily said so, so it must be true.”
Nothing more, nothing less. You just walk towards the flowers, and feel the irritation paint your silhouette, because as expected, Lily was right—like always.
Thing is, Oscar has come to learn your behavior. The way you tell a lie, the way you tell the truth. He's learned your body language, and right now, he can tell one thing for sure.
You never stopped hating Lily.
He smiles.
And that makes him happy. Because he knows this isn't over yet.
-
By Tuesday, the entire setup is ready. The flowers sit beautifully at every table, and the lights hang nicely around the trees. The sound of the lake singing is your only reminder that you could use a break. And apparently, it was also Oscar’s.
“The event decorators just left. But you did an excellent job with the florals,” he adds last minute.
A hum. “I tried my best.”
The dock creaks. The frog's ribbit. The crickets harmonize. And you two are too close to one another. Your shoulders brush, making you flinch and for him to cough awkwardly. “Despite everything, I had fun having you around. A summer well spent, don't you think?”
With a deadpan expression, you turn to look at him, making him laugh, and the corners of your lips fight back a smile. You haven't heard him laugh in so long, you come to realize. In all sincerity, that is. “It was alright,” you respond, shrugging it off as if nothing. “But yeah. I had fun, too.”
Fun teasing each other. Fun trying to get each other to crack. But fun, nonetheless.
And he thinks: if not now, when? You don't know at what moment he catches you off guard, but he does, because in a single second, he's kissing with urgency. Like he's never kissed anyone before and he was making sure to get it right. And it was more than right. Heat pools in between your legs as you try your best to keep up with him, but the taste of cheap beer makes you get high on life. Since when is he much of a drinker?
Since you.
The good thing is that the entrance back to the house isn't that far, so your guys’ tumble is pretty successful. Though, you don't make it to either’ bedroom, but rather the couch, where a bunch of disposables lay. Lily had them shipped a couple days ago. Says she wants as many pictures as possible, savor the memories for a lifetime.
Without any precaution, he wipes his arms across the cushion, sending the cameras to crash against the floor and throwing you onto the couch, smiling once you squeal with excitement. All except one camera—but neither of you notice that yet.
Your soft hair lays around you like a halo, making him wonder if he’s gone straight to heaven. You gesture him to come in closer, and he’s quick to obey, diving for your neck. You giggle, a lazy hand finding its way into his locks. “No marks,” you pant, squirming as he licks a line down your throat before going up towards your lips.
“No marks,” he confirms. “On your neck.”
You pause momentarily, disattaching your mouth from his. “No marks anywhere.” He grins, nodding just because. You frown. “I’m serious, Oscar.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mumbles. “Sure.”
Then, he’s on his knees, kissing your ankle like that one time on the stairs, except now, he’s taking it nice and slow. Steady. Your mind grows dizzy as he grazes his fingers gently down your skin. It sends goosebumps, seeing him like this. So…submissive.
“I never wanted you,” he whispers as he presses his pink lips onto your left ankle this time. He hums. “You were just another girl to me. My teammate’s girlfriend—that’s it.” Another kiss. “You never crossed my mind, not even once.”
And now…
Making his way up, he kisses in between your thighs, nuzzling into your warmth. You let out a weak moan, chest rising raggedly. Playing with his earlobe, you massage it gently as you try your best not to ruin this moment. Though it seems like nothing could. Not when he’s devoted to it already. And so were you.
Feeling a slight burn, you furrow your brows as you spot him sucking gently against your inner thighs. You squirm, pushing his head away as he keeps his position. “I said no marks.”
And you actually feel his smile start to spread against your skin.
“He won’t see these, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Another suck, this time harder. “Well…unless you want him to. Then that’s your decision.” Looking past his lashes, he bites down on the flesh, making you flinch. “So what? Are you gonna let him see how someone else has fucked you while he was gone?”
Pulling your panties to the side, he dips his tongue into your pussy, making your hips fly off the couch, and for him to push them back down, holding you in place. Sloppily, he kisses it—practically making out—and groans like a madman with the way you taste. Your sweet nectar makes his cock grow hard instantaneously, and he can’t help but grind against the edge of the cushion where your legs hang.
“Holy.” Whine. “Fucking.” Moan. “Shit.” Groan.
Twisting with an obscene amount of pleasure, you tangle a shaky hand through his hair, ignoring how soft it feels. The need to run away and stay is a confusing pattern, but as soon as he adds a finger, curling it just the right amount, you let out a high pitched moan.
Just like that, Oscar, just like t-that.
Adding another digit, he picks up the pace of his tongue, drawing figure eights as the knot in your stomach burns brutally. You feel a white cloud surface over your eyes as they close, screwed shut as if that might help you last longer. But he knows what your body needs, and that itself was an alarming thing to realize.
With one last mewl, you finish all over his tongue as he licks you clean, not wasting a single drop. And the way you taste—makes him not want to go back to not knowing. With a smile filled with bliss, and that familiar afterglow, you giggle, nose scrunching like a bunny as your cheeks remain as red as a rose. The sight alone makes him struggle to comprehend that this is most likely a one time thing, and not something he’ll be able to relieve whenever he wants.
At the end of the day—you're not his.
But he can still reminisce about this moment from time to time.
Mid-giggle, a flash goes through as you come to a stop. Oscar grins, shaking the green disposable, showing it off. “Beautiful. You’re absolutely beautiful.”
Your breath hitches, his words tugging at your heart strings. You haven't experienced something like that in so long. Shaking your head, you push your dress down, climbing off the couch and pushing him to sit. “I like to play fair.” Sliding down to your wobbly knees, you shoot a gentle smirk, something that makes his cock grow painfully harder. “Let me take care of you, Oscar.”
Undoing his belt, you hurriedly unzip his jeans, fighting the urge to take him completely. You don’t, though. No, you first kiss the tip, making him groan, feeling as if pushing you head down is a good idea. Then, you suck at a comfortable speed, like a baby sucking their thumb, and watch past your lashes how his chest begins to rise slowly.
“You’re huge,” you hum, pecking it. “How am I gonna fit you into my small mouth?”
Moaning, the brunette drags a hand over his tired expression, faking a smile. “You’re saying you can’t?”
You suck harder, still treating it like a lollipop. Licking his tip like a kitten licks their bowl clean. It’s starting to cut his patience thin. “I can figure it out…”
I’ve done it with Lando. How much harder can this be?
That’s it. Pushing the back of your head, he forces you to deepthroat him, keeping you in place as you drool on either side of his lap, soft gurgles coming through. You try to push off him, but it seems like that makes him shove you down twice as hard.
“Something to say, baby?” he pants under his breath, raising a brow. “What was that?”
Slapping his thigh, tapping out, you find yourself being pulled off of him, dragged onto his lap as in one swift movement, he pushes your panties to the side once again and thrusts his thick cock deep inside of you. So much happens so fast that you barely have a chance to adjust to his girth.
“Does Lando make you feel half as much as I make you feel?”
He’s not talking about sex. It hasn’t been about sex for a while now.
Moaning, you bounce up and down, your hair hanging like a curtain as you give your best to keep up with him and his rhythm. But he practically controls you, snapping his hips up with anger. At least, that’s what it feels like.
“Does he make you feel good?”
“Yes,” you sigh against his ear as you clutch an arm around his shoulder, keeping as steady as possible. “He does.”
But you make me feel better.
The sound of your praise does something to him, something inexplicable. And while he can’t quite put a name to it, he does know that you’re telling the truth. You had to be.
Again, pulling you off his swollen cock, he flips you around, having you use him as a chair as he squeezes his girth into your tight pussy, strong arms looping under your legs and spreading them open as he abuses your cunt, feeling your head fall back as you gasp.
“F-fuck,” you shriek, head bopping with each thrust, and your throat growing dry. “Fuck me—fuck me.”
“I’m trying,” he chuckles, continuing as you try your best to understand how he was able to learn that he knew how to do all this. “Look at you. Just…look at you.”
There comes a time of life where someone is meant for you, and you’ll find your way to each other, no matter what. He’d like to think that it’s true. Sure. It is. But have you ever thought that maybe it’s not?
Maybe the person you think you’re supposed to be with is busy thinking the same thing as you? Living a full life with someone else who isn’t their soulmate? Romantically, that is.
Lando and Lily. They’re both place holders. They’re nice, yeah, and they’re amazing, too—but that’s about it.
You hold his entire destiny.
He just wants to live by it.
But the way he has you—it’s temporary. And nothing good ever lasts forever. But God, he really fucking wishes it did.
Close, he hears you whisper, followed by a squeal as he holds your legs up higher, still fucking you in the same position. So, so close.
“Not. Yet.”
Hauling you off, you’re quick to whine, feeling empty as he spreads you onto the couch, admiring your glistening lips. He presses a thumb down against your bud, feeling the pulse that enlightens him to smile. You copy him, toying with your dress.
“Should I—”
“Keep it,” he says firmly. A beat. “Please. Keep it.”
When you nod, your hair only gets tangled against the cushion, but that’s the least of your worries. You frown. “You haven’t cum yet…”
“I will, don’t worry.” Silence. Pushing this thumb inside, you squirm, wincing slightly as your eyes remain on him, waiting for his next move. “Open.”
Opening your legs wider, he chuckles, shaking his head. Your mouth. You gulp, then open wide as he hums, bringing his wet finger into your mouth, making you taste yourselves. And normally, you’d be grossed out. God, you don’t let Lando even do this, but something about Oscar makes you feel okay. That, and like a pathetic freak.
“Good, no?” It’s an awkward thing to ask, you can’t help but blush against his digit, lashes fluttering. The Australian tsks, pressing his large finger against your tongue as your eyes grow wide. “Right?”
In a heartbeat, you nod because it just felt like the right thing to do. Satisfied, he smiles, taking another photo of this beautiful sight. Your eyes are round and full of life, and slightly teary, and that’s what he likes to see.
Retracting his thumb, he smirks. He makes room for both of you on this small couch, towering over you and he starts raising both your legs over your shoulders. Your stomach twists.
“I wanna see it when I fuck you.”
With your dresses scrunched up, and his cock cutting you in half, you both moan in sync as the wet sounds echo through the hall of the empty house. And this wouldn’t have happened—probably ever—if you hadn’t accepted their invitation to spend the summer in North fucking Carolina.
The number four dangles, and not only is the sounder a reminder that it’s there, but he can spot it from his peripheral vision every time he pounds into you a little harder. And he should be jealous—God knows that’s true—but surprisingly, he’s not.
Because he’s heard the way Lando fucks you. And nothing—nothing—compares to now.
It feels as if he’s practiced moves like this for a lifetime. As if he were to promise you that this could all work out, then you’d believe him.
You really would.
A sloppy thrust. “I never wanted you to begin with,” he grunts, screwing his eyes shut as your body reacts to his harsh confession. “I saw you with Lando, and I felt absolutely nothing. I had Lily to focus on. But God—what have you done to me?”
His tip seems to find your g-spot as you cry out, withering around. “I was taught to respect others. To respect what’s theirs. Whether that be a journal, or a remote control car, it didn’t matter. But you do,” he confesses, watching as you continue to whimper, probably not catching any of this anymore. “You did this to me…”
You filled me with greed.
Grabbing your ankles, he lurches them over his left shoulder as he continues to pound into your tight cunt, hearing you gasp before erupting into a string of moans.
“Now, everything he has, I want.” You whine. “I’m going after his Championship.” You whine louder, eyes opening as you watch a bead of sweat roll down his nose. “I’m going after his team.”
Oscar chuckles darkly. “And I’d love to say that I’m going after you, but hey…looks like I already have you.”
And just like that, the pit in your stomach bursts as you two clash against one another, your orgasms riding out together as your legs finally fall, but not before he makes sure to press a gentle kiss.
A flash.
“Really?” you ask, glaring.
“Stick your tongue out.”
Without any questions, where you lay, you open your mouth, watching as he stands up to tower over you, jerking his cock one last time as his drops of cum fall against your tongue, white and thick.
Your eyes flicker with excitement as he makes sure to take a picture. If he can’t have you later, or probably ever again, then he’ll make sure that he gets an angle of you that only he could ever dream of years down the line.
Pulling his pants back up, he makes sure to clean you up before making you sit, him only a few inches away, but honestly, it feels like miles. All of a sudden, he’s distant, which shouldn’t come as a surprise, but it does.
Biting down onto your wobbly lip, you comb your fingers through your hair—you’re doing your own after care.
“I know things with us won't ever be the same, but…” You wince. “Please don’t treat Lando any differently. He sees you as a brother.”
He flinches because he knows it's true. Of course it is, everybody knows it. Oscar nods in agreement. “Only if you promise to stop hating Lily.”
You snort. “Sure. Sounds fair.”
The sound of tires is what ultimately gets your two to spring up, rushing towards the window as you look onto the driveway. Laughing, you first see Lily, then Lando, then you frantically twist your heels to face the Australian who remains with a blank expression, clearly not expecting them.
“They were supposed to be here tomorrow, you said!” you hiss, rubbing your temples. “What the fuck?”
“They must’ve upgraded their tickets to get here sooner,” he shoots back, running a hand through his sweaty hair. He grimaces. “Hurry! Help me pick up the disposables from the floor!”
“Right!” you screech, running toward the living room as you fall onto your knees, picking up the cameras and tossing them back onto the couch. Oscar does the same, but with his eyes stuck in the door, waiting for a knock.
Knock! Knock!
Freezing, you two look at each other, as if debating whether to make a run for it together or not. Though, as soon as you hear Lando call out for you, you’re sure you have no chance. Taking one last glance at the pile of cameras, you huff, skipping towards the door, fixing your knot up hair as best as possible.
“Hey!” you greet, nearly over exaggerating, but he doesn’t seem to notice. Instead, he beams, grinning from ear to ear. Lando pecks your lips, lingering for a moment, making your heart drop. Because he can’t know—can he? Distancing himself, he wears a subtle frown, sort of there, sort of not, so you’re quick to smile. “I’m so happy you’re back.” You turn to face Lily, who’s stayed in the background, letting you have your moment. “That you’re both back.”
“It's nice seeing you, too,” she says before her eyes wander to a place behind you. Suddenly, her eyes twinkle as she grins at Oscar who comes closer with lips drawn into a firm line. “Look who just woke up from a nap.” Kissing his cheek swiftly, she tippy toes, fixing his messy hair into a neat comb over. “You look as if you got into some kind of bar fight.”
“Yeah,” Lando hums, looking over at you with dark eyes. “It sort of does…”
“We were fixing the outside tables—”
“We were fixing the floral arrangements—”
Lily and Lando quirk a glance at each other, then back towards you and Oscar whose faces are flushed. Oscar coughs, scratching the back of his neck. “Why don’t you guys come and check it out?”
“Yes, please!” Lily squeals, already making her way out the door, the Australian not that far behind.
Sighing, you go on to follow as well, but there’s this hold on your wrist that just won’t let go. You spin, staring at Lando who clenches his jaw.
“Did you fuck him?”
You flinch. “No—I didn’t.”
Blue eyes fill with warning as he nods, silently thinking to himself before rubbing his chin harshly. “Don’t lie to me. I know what you’re capable of.”
This physically makes you feel sick, ashamed that he knows you for being a lying cheater. “You’re one to talk,” you shoot back, wishing to take it back as soon as it comes out. He raises a brow, clearly surprised. You gulp. “You’re capable of doing the same thing as me, aren’t you? Isn’t that why we’re together?”
“We’re together because I love you.”
“Yeah, well, I love you, too. I’ve literally given up the relationship I had with my sister—for you.” Taking his hands into yours, you knit your brows together softly, and just like that, he melts. “I love you, Lando. There's no need for anyone else.”
Looking past the clear window, Oscar stares at you and the Brit, who share a hug, taking occasional loving pecks as if nothing else matters.
As if his feelings aren't worth anything.
“I love it,” Lily says, ripping his gaze from getting hurt any further. Because that’s what this has all led to —him getting hurt. She grins happily, making her way closer. “I really appreciate you two working on this together, it all looks so wonderful.”
Guilt makes his tongue trip as he tries to say something, but when all fails, he settles with a warm smile, pulling her against his chest, kissing the top of her head. “I’d do anything for you, Lily Zneimer.”
With your head resting on Lando’s shoulders, you look out to where the couple stand, in the same embrace. This makes your eyes sting, which is silly because—why do you feel so invalidated?
Despite being so far apart, you and Oscar are still able to connect, looking at each other with a certain yearning. This is not what this was supposed to be. The Australian would have never dreamt of any other girl that wasn’t Lily, so what happened?
“I love you,” Lando mumbles, securing his hold on you.
“I love you,” Lily mumbles, face pressed against his heart, feeling it thump fiercely.
You spare Oscar a smile, and Oscar spares you the same. And neither of you two can bring yourselves to lie.
So, instead, neither of you say it back.
-
It all comes crashing down on you one Sunday morning.
By now, Lily has graduated, summer is over, and you’re back in Monaco. And for some reason, Lando offered to help get Lily’s picture’s developed. He knew a guy who’d get him a nice discount, apparently. Film is expensive as it is, so of course the British girl accepted.
You’re sitting outside on the balcony. It’s windy today, and you should probably go back inside, but the ocean looks particularly blue today, so you decide to stay.
Curling yourself tighter with your blanket, you sigh, staring numbly, mind racing. Because this is a daily occurrence now.
All. You. Think. About. Is. Him.
Him and his obnoxious smile. Him and his warm brown eyes. Him and his chuckle that sounds dry to everyone else, but lively to you.
Just…him.
And without a doubt, Lando has figured out that something was wrong with you, but he never asked questions.
Until now.
“Hey,” he says, plopping down next to you, pressing his lips against your temple quickly before smiling. “Have you been here all day?”
You blush, shivering by the sudden breeze. “If I say no, would you believe me?”
“Yes,” he admits, clicking his tongue. “Because apparently I believe almost everything you have to say.”
Including your lies.
You hear him, but his voice is muffled by now with all that you’re feeling. He handed you an envelope, and you first opened it with curiosity, then with dread and shame when you realized what was inside.
The film.
You’re laughing, eyes shut with delight.
Your lips are wrapped around his thumb.
Around his cock, too.
Drops of cum lay flat on your tongue.
One where his head is beneath your dress.
One of his hands wrapped around your ankles, a certain number four glimmering.
All of this, and more.
Licking your lips repeatedly, you sit up, staring at him with an open mouth. “Lando—”
“I’m not mad.”
You blink.
He shrugs, taking the pictures, making you want to snatch them back and figure out what to do with them yourself. How could you and Oscar forget to set this one aside?
He can tell that you’re mortified, so he sends a reassuring smile, but it does no good. “I’m not, alright? I’m just…disappointed.” His reaction is confusing, he can tell what you’re thinking. Why is he so okay with this? “I’m not the biggest fan of you lying to me, but whatever, it’s fine.”
“And sure, I should be furious that you two went behind my back, and maybe I am—but I’m willing to let it go because I love you.” The blue eyed boy pecks your lips, you still frozen with shock. He chuckles. “This is what I get, right? This is my karma? For sleeping with you while I was still dating your sister?”
When you still don’t say anything, he nods to himself, as if this is all making sense to him, and only him. “Must be.” A beat. “I forgive you.”
“What about him?” you squeak, scared of his response.
Lando clenches his jaw before breaking into a helpless smile. “He doesn’t have to know, I know. This will just remain between you and I—just like always. He doesn’t have to know. Lily doesn’t have to know.”
You hold yourself from crying because in a way, he’s right. Out of everyone, Lily Zneimer doesn’t deserve any of this. She has been nothing but good to you, and you’re embarrassed to notice now that you ruined a perfectly good friendship. And while she may have no clue, you do, and that’s enough for you to probably wince every time you look at her from now on.
“Just don’t do it again. M’kay?”
Rubbing his thumb against your lips, it’s almost like he’s waiting for something, but when you don’t seem to do whatever he was thinking, his eyes darken, and he gets up with a bitter smile.
He takes the pictures with him and you don’t know what for.
But you don’t dare ask a single question.
It’s just you. Your thoughts.
And Oscar.
taglist: @blueflorals @starmanv @coolio2195 @lovrsm @weekendlusting @chanshintien @brune77e @myownwritings @timmychalametsstuff @milasexutoire @alesainz @c-losur3 @darleneslane @togazzo @urfavnoirette @namgification @lpab @d3kstar @anniee-mr @nebarious @notkaryna @wanderingreigns @aykxz98 @ruti26-11 @esposamultifandom @pansexualwitchwhoneedstherapy @r0nnsblog @aeriblu @inchidentofftrack @natashaklein @rutaceae-gelato @bowielovesyou @lilypat @folklaur21 @dustie-faerie @ajordan2020 @oscobabe @briefkittenearthquake @anayaverse
PROMPT LIST
─ i've debated making one of these for a while now and finally decided to! request as many of these as you want!
─ drivers i write for: anyone over the age of 21 (current + some retired)
─ box box to send in your requests (both prompt list related + not)
─ requests are currently: open
masterlist // requesting rules
i told you not to touch that
how do you know?
we need to talk
hey. look at me
i'm in love with a sociopath
hey, stupid. he/she likes you
you look like you're going to punch me
i miss you
ibuprofen and a red bull is not breakfast
i broke it off last night
you don't need to do that
i've been in love with you since the night we met
did i wake you?
come on. this isn't funny
please don't judge me for what i'm about to do
i shouldn't say this, but i've been in love with you for forever
you were my first love. not that you needed to know that
you always leave the party too early. stay later this time. stay with me.
i don't like them. i never did. i only said yes to make you jealous
you were my favorite chapter. i kept rereading you
do you think we missed our chance?
do us both a favor. stay away from me
well someone's cranky today
you have to admit, sneaking around like this is kinda... fun
you promised
good to see you again, [surname]
i need time, okay? i can't do this right now
we should break up. in fact, we should have. years ago
god, i need you
tell me you didn't, i don't care if it is a lie. just tell me you didn't
happy happy birthday from all of us to you we wish it was our birthday so we could party too 🎉
STOPPPP THE EMPERORS NEW GROOVE BDAY SONG?!!!
and thank you bestie, acting like you haven’t wished me happy bday like 17 times, but thank you thank you 🫶🏻🫶🏻
not letting this hide in the tags LMAO
WAIT WAIT NUT IT WAS SUPPOSED TO BE NUT
Last Kiss - L. Norris
summary: your name, forever the name on my lips pairing: lando norris x ex!reader warnings: use of y/n, pining/angst, sad girl hours pretty much word count: 5.7k a/n: please please please send in requests! I need new ideas y'all
masterlist
You used to welcome the rain.
The soft patter of droplets landing on your windowsill, the distant rumble of thunder, the flashes of lighting that danced across the sky like a secret only you and the clouds knew. It had always felt like a balm - a lullaby for the restless parts of you, something steady and gentle in a world that moved too fast.
You used to love the rain.
Until it started to remind you of him.
Now, every time it falls, it drags you back. Not to the heartbreak. Not to the end. But to the very best day of your relationship. The day it all felt weightless.
The drizzle of the hot July rain had stopped hours ago, but the scent of the soaked tarmac still lingered, clinging to your skin like memory. Your sneakers were damp from running, your credentials still swinging from your neck as you caught your breath just outside the chain-link fencing on the airfield. You weren’t even sure you were allowed to be there - only that you had to be.
His flight had landed early. You’d thought you missed him.
But then the plane’s door rolled open with a metallic groan, and there he was - framed by the aircraft cabin light like the end of a movie. Bag slung over one shoulder, curls slightly flattened from hours of recycled air, hoodie wrinkled from sleep. And then his eyes found you.
He grinned. Wide. Unfiltered. Instant.
And then he ran.
Down the stairs, down the tarmac, not caring about the protocol or waiting for his driver or the fact that his bag tumbled to the ground behind him. He ran like the only thing that mattered in the world was getting to you. He wrapped his arms around you with a force that knocked the wind from your chest, buried his face into your neck like it had been starving without your skin.
His heart jumped through his shirt, like it was trying to speak faster than his mouth could.
You spent the rest of the day after that curled around each other - on the couch, in the kitchen, shoulders brushing in the bathroom mirror. You barely moved more than a few feet apart. He told you everything, voice quick and bright, like he was trying to fit two weeks of missing you in a single afternoon.
There was a scratch on his finger from a stupid paper cut. A story about Oscar accidentally falling asleep in his driver room. The broken espresso machine in the McLaren motorhome that had nearly caused a full meltdown.
He spoke in tangents, unfinished sentences. Everything lit up when you laughed. He didn’t need to be charming, he just was. Because it was you he was talking to. He told stories like you were his favorite audience. Like you were the only person he wanted to tell anything to, ever.
You listened, tucked against his side, your knees drawn up beside him on the couch. His fingers made lazy circles on your thigh without thinking, like muscle memory, like touching you had become instinct. Outside, the world was still gray. The clouds hung low, and the windows fogged at the corners. It felt like the storm had wrapped the two of you in a bubble no one else could enter.
He smelled like rain, jet fuel, and some hotel shampoo that made you wonder which country he’d left it in. You didn’t ask. You didn’t care. He was here now. With you.
And he looked at you like he had missed you so deeply it physically hurt. Like no win, no lap time, no headline could ever feel as good as that.
You two went through your bedtime routine without needing to say much. Showered together, dried off lazily with one towel. You stood on your tiptoes to brush your teeth while he wrapped his arms around your waist from behind, chin on your shoulder, humming some tune he’d picked up in the paddock.
Then the lights went out. The sheets pulled up. And you found yourselves curled together in the middle of your bed, limbs tangled like they’d never forgotten how.
The rain had started again, soft at first, like fingertips against the window, barely there. A rhythm so faint it might’ve gone unnoticed if it didn’t sound exactly like peace.
Lando’s breathing slowed behind you. His hand rested against the curve of your waist, thumb tracing slow, sleepy shapes across your skin. You couldn’t see them, but you knew they were his version of I’m still here. I still love you.
At 1:58am, you thought he was asleep.
You were close yourself - that hazy, heavy lidded quiet that makes the world feel far away. But then you felt him shift, just barely, and the warmth of his lips brushed the top of your shoulder.
“Hey,” he whispered. Voice rough, barely audible over the rain.
You hummed, not turning around.
A pause. A breath. The type of silence that stretched just long enough to mean something.
“I really love you.”
Your eyes opened.
Not because he’d never said it before. He had. Dozens of times. On FaceTime when he was too tired to say anything else, as a throwaway in texts. Even in the airport once, shouted over the sound of final boarding calls.
But this wasn’t a routine. This wasn’t a habit.
This was slow. Careful. Honest in a way you hadn’t heard in a while.
You turned then - slowly, gently - until you were facing him in the dark.
His curls were tousled against the pillow, eyes open now, searching yours. Vulnerable in a way he rarely let anyone see. The kind of raw he kept hidden beneath interviews and half-smirks he used like armor.
“I do,” he said again, a voice a little steadier this time. “I just… I wanted you to know that. In case I haven’t said it right. Or enough.”
Your heart stuttered.
You reached for him without thinking - cupped his face, thumb brushing across the dip between his brow and nose. He leaned into your touch like someone starving for affection. Like it was all he needed to breathe.
“I love you too,” you whispered, voice breaking slightly.
He let out the tiniest breath of relief. Then pulled you in closer, tucked your head beneath his chin, and wrapped both arms around you like he was afraid you’d slip through his fingers if he didn’t hold tight enough.
Outside, the rain continued.
It beat steadily against the windows now - louder than before, more insistent - the kind of downpour that soaked through jackets and flooded gutters, that made everything outside blur like the world was being washed clean. The sky had turned a deep slate gray, and the occasional flash of lightning lit up the edges of your apartment in pale, electric white.
And for a little while, it was your favorite sound in the world.
Now, you did whatever you could to drown it out.
You hadn’t had a moment of silence all day. Music, podcasts, old YouTube videos you’d seen a hundred times. Anything to keep the quiet from creeping in - because when it was quiet, you could hear the rain. And when you heard the rain, your chest tightened, your breath caught, and your mind went right back to that night.
Tonight, it was a sad girl Spotify playlist on shuffle, buried under the soft padding of over-ear headphones. You’d had them on since dusk, like armor. Like a wall between you and everything else. The rain had started as a polite drizzle around dinnertime - a few gentle taps against the windowsill that you tried to ignore. But now, it had turned into a relentless downpour, louder than the playlist, louder than your heartbeat.
You hadn’t dared turn the music off. Not even once. Not even to switch playlists. If you did, you’d hear it - the storm. And if you heard it, you’d think about him.
So instead, you focused on the closet. On the clutter. On distraction.
Spring cleaning, you told yourself. Just clearing out space. Reclaiming your room. Taking control of your surroundings.
But really, you were avoiding the fact that you’d barely touched this corner of the apartment since the last time he’d been in it. Since he’d sat cross-legged on the bed behind you, half-watching while you tried to Marie Kondo your way through drawers of tangled charger cords and forgotten concert tees. You could almost still hear his voice - teasing you, offering unhelpful commentary, throwing socks at your head when you got too sentimental about a shirt you hadn’t worn in two years.
Now, the silence was too loud.
Your hand stilled when it hit the back of the closet. Buried behind a stack of old scarves and a box of photos you hadn’t opened in months was an old hoodie. Faded papaya orange. Worn soft from too many washes. The sleeves stretched, the neckline a little frayed.
Of course it was.
That McLaren one. The one with the stupid speedmark logo on the chest and his name - Norris - printed in blocky letters across the back. His number, too. Like it mattered. Like he wasn’t already stitched into everything.
Your fingers closed around the fabric before your brain could stop you. You pulled it from the hangar like it had called you out. And even after all this time - even after so many cycles through the wash - it still held the faintest trace of his cologne. That clean, sharp scent that clung to hotel sheets and car headrests and the inside of your jacket collars. That scent you once wore home like a badge, like proof.
It hit you like a punch to the ribs.
You should’ve tossed it in the donation pile. You didn’t.
Instead, you slid down to the floor, legs folding underneath you, the weight of the hoodie already heavy in your lap. You stared at it for a long moment - at the letters, the number, the ghost of a time when he was yours and you were his.
Then, before you could second-guess yourself, you pulled it over your head.
The fabric was looser than you remembered. Or maybe you were smaller now - carved out by time, distance, and grief. It swallowed you whole.
It brought back something soft. Something sad. Something you couldn’t name because your thoughts were already spiraling back-
Back to that rooftop party in Monaco.
Mid-summer. Warm air. The kind that clung to your skin like silk. Lights strung between terraces like low-hanging stars, their golden glow flickering in the breeze. Laughter echoed off stucco walls, glasses clinked, and the sharp scent of citrus cocktails mixed with salt air and expensive cologne.
You hadn’t even wanted to go.
You’d been curled up in his old hoodie, legs tangled beneath you on the couch, half-heartedly scrolling through food delivery apps while reruns played in the background. You’d said you’d rather stay in, eat pad thai straight from the box, fall asleep with your legs draped over his lap and your hair still damp from the shower.
But he had pouted. Full lips pushed out in mock offense, eyes wide with exaggerated hope.
“C’mon,” he’d said, voice boyish and coaxing. “Just an hour. I promise.”
You’d raised an eyebrow.
“I’ll owe you,” he added, wiggling his brows. “Big time.”
You gave in. Of course you did. You always did.
That hour had turned into three.
He’d lit up the second you got there - like someone had flipped a switch inside him. All magnetic energy and easy charm, weaving through the crowd like he belonged in every conversation, every photograph. People moved toward him like gravity. A drink in his hand, that signature smirk on his face, laughter erupting too loud, arms flung around shoulders, gesturing like every story he told was the punchline of the night.
The life of the party. He always had been. And you’d always let him be. Because that part of loving him - knowing that he shined in rooms like this. That he couldn’t help but glow.
So you stood near the railing, away from the bustle, the stem of your glass pressed against your lower lip as you watched him perform - effortlessly charming, talking with his hands, probably mid-story about a near-crash in qualifying or the time he caught Oscar stealing his driver-room snacks.
You couldn’t hear the words over the hum of voices and music, but you didn’t need to. You knew him by heart.
He threw his head back, laughing at something a friend said, then looked over his shoulder - like he could feel your eyes on him.
That grin - God, that grin - widened. He crossed the rooftop in five long strides and reached for your hand without asking.
“Come dance with me,” he’d said.
“I don’t dance,” you reminded him with a pointed look.
“You do with me.”
And you did.
Maybe it was the champagne. Or the summer air. Or maybe it was the way he tugged you forward, arm sliding around your waist like it belonged there. But you let him pull you into the open space between the tables.
No music, not really. Just the pulse of conversation and the faint echo of whatever song was playing through someone’s speaker. But he swayed with you anyway. Spun you once. Dipped you playfully, forehead pressed to yours when you laughed.
It was ridiculous. It was perfect.
You remembered the swing of his step. How he always moved like the world bent around him, like it should. That same bounce in his walk when he was walking down the paddock, or to find you in a crowd.
And in that moment, twirling beneath string lights and stars, Monaco glittering below you like a jewelry box, you had thought this is it.
This was the life you’d built together. Bright. Slightly chaotic. A little too fast sometimes.
But his.
Yours.
You hadn’t realized how tightly you were holding that memory until it snapped - the sound of thunder bringing you back to now.
To your apartment. To the floor of your closet.
To the arms wrapped around your knees, your chest rising and falling beneath the fabric of a hoodie he forgot to take back. McLaren orange, threadbare at the cuffs, his name still stitched across your back.
You tried to remember the exact way he held you that night. The pressure of his palm. The weight of his chin resting on your head. The way your laughter sounded when he spun you around like no one else existed.
But it had started to slip.
That memory, so vivid a moment ago, was already losing clarity at the edges. Blurring. Fading.
You hadn’t thought about that night in Monaco in a while. It hurt too much.
But somehow, thinking about it led you somewhere else. Somewhere quieter. More sacred.
Your dad’s backyard.
Late spring. That golden stretch of days where evenings still held a hint of chill, but the grass had finally shaken off the frost and turned a bold, forgiving green.
There was a barbecue. A simple family one. With mismatched lawn chairs, paper plates, and the cooler filled with beer and store-brand sodas.
It wasn’t a big day. Not a milestone. Not a holiday.
But it was the day. The one where things shifted. Not all at once, not dramatically, but gently. Like something had quietly slotted into place without asking permission.
The air smelled like charcoal and freshly cut grass. Your dad hovered near the grill like it was an altar, turning ribs with the reverence of a man guarding a legacy. His tongs clicked between each motion, a rhythm only he understood. Your mom was inside setting out plastic cutlery in neat little bunches, humming under her breath.
And you were walking with Lando toward the house.
He looked clean. Presentable, as your dad might have put it. Dark jeans that actually fit, the hems brushing the tops of white sneakers that somehow survived travel. A navy polo - crisp, collar slightly askew from how many times he’d adjusted it during the drive over.
He had fidgeted the entire way. Fingers tapping on the door handle, the air vent, his knee. At one point, he even asked if he should’ve brought a bottle of wine or - “Shit, do your parents drink wine? What if they don’t?”
You laughed. Reassured him. “It’s not a press conference. Just dinner.”
But it mattered to him. You could see it in the way he fixed his posture right before knocking. The way he tried to fix his hair with one last nervous swipe.
And when the door opened, and your dad stood there in his usual intimidating silence, Lando didn’t flinch.
He stepped forward, offered his hand. Steady. Firm. Clear.
“Hi, Mr. Y/L/N,” he said, his voice just a little lower than usual. “I’m Lando. Thank you for having me.”
Your dad gave him a small nod, sized him up for a second longer than necessary, then shook his hand.
A full handshake. No awkward half-grip or rushed pull-away.
As you watched it happen, something in your chest softened. Anchored.
Because you loved that handshake. Not just what it was, but what it meant.
It meant that Lando knew how important this was. That he cared enough to be nervous. That he wasn’t just good with you in hotel rooms and late-night phone calls. He was good with your life. Your family.
Later, over ribs and sweet corn and stories that made you both blush, your dad had leaned toward you while Lando helped your little cousin open a ketchup packet and said under his breath, “He’s got kind eyes. A little fidgety, but solid.”
You’d smiled at that. Because your dad didn’t like anyone.
And Lando - he’d glowed the whole drive home. Grinned like a kid who’d just passed the hardest exam of his life. “Do you think he likes me?” I think he does. That was good, right?”
You hadn’t said anything. You didn’t have to. Just reached over, grabbed his hand from where it rested on the gear shift, and laced your fingers with his.
He squeezed your hand once. Then twice.
And that was it. That was the moment.
The one where you knew - really knew - you could build a future with him. And that you wanted to.
Now, your hands were empty. No gear shift. No Lando. Just the hem of his old hoodie bunched around you, and the sound of rain outside whispering, remember when?
Yeah, you remembered.
You remembered watching him from the kitchen window later that night, laughing with your uncle about some embarrassing story of his karting days. Beer in one hand, the other gesturing wildly as he talked. He was trying so hard. And succeeding without heaven realizing it.
You’d felt proud. So proud. And so stupidly, completely in love.
But the memory faded like smoke, and the kitchen light dimmed. The laughter softened.
You blinked - and reality returned with all the cruelty of harsh overhead lighting, the dim buzz of the hallway bulb above you. The ache in your hips from sitting too long on the hardwood floor. The silence where your music had ended.
Your headphones slipped down around your neck. Lando’s hoodie clung to your body like a second skin. And you hadn’t even noticed that your fingers were clenched so tightly around the sleeves they’d gone white.
You flexed your grip. Loosened it slowly. Like it hurt.
And it kind of did.
The scent was fainter now. Not gone, but actively fading - that ghost of cologne and clean cotton that still had the power to knock the air out of your lungs if you breathed too deep.
You leaned your head back against your closet door. Closed your eyes.
And that’s when another memory pushed in - uninvited, but not unwelcome. Not yet.
It was a Tuesday.
You remembered it because it had been so normal. No travel, no press, no car rides to the airport or Zoom calls echoing from the other room. Just a quiet off-week in London where time didn’t feel like it was chasing either of you. The rare kind of day that unfolded slowly, like it had nowhere better to be.
You’d gone out after brunch - half finished coffees left of the counter, jackets shrugged on you as you laughed about something dumb he’d said. No destination. Just the two of you moving through the quiet rhythm of the neighborhood, hands free of to-do lists, footsteps landing in sync on the damp pavement.
You’d gone for a walk after brunch, nowhere important, just wandering through the neighborhood. The wind had a bite to it, but the sky was that perfect shade of pale blue that made it feel warmer than it was.
Lando strolled next to you, hands shoved in the pockets of his puffer jacket, head tilted toward yours. His curls were barely tamed by the hood. Every few steps, his shoulder would bump yours - not enough to throw you off balance, but enough to remind you he was there. That he wanted to be close.
He always walked like that when he was relaxed. Like the weight of the world had finally slipped off his shoulders and into those coat pockets with his hands. Like he had all the time in the world.
You were on a tangent about something - you don’t remember now. Something about a book you were reading or the movie you’d watched last night. You’d just gotten to the part where the main character says -
And that’s when he kissed you.
Right in the middle of your sentence. No warning. No apology. Just leaned in, caught your words with his mouth, and kissed you like he’d been waiting to do it for hours. Like punctuation didn’t matter when he had a better way to make his point.
His lips were cold from the wind but warm by the second press, and you swore you could feel his smirk before you even opened your eyes again.
“Lando,” you’d laughed, pulling back half an inch, breath fogging in the air between you. “I was in the middle of-”
“I know,” he interrupted. Still grinning. “You looked really cute explaining it.”
You’d tried to roll your eyes, to keep going, to remember what plot twist you’d been so eager to share - but he kissed you again. A little firmer. A little longer. Like he was memorizing the sound of your laugh between kisses. Like nothing you could say would be more important than the way you melted into him.
You ended up pressed against a lamppost on a corner that smelled faintly of wet brick and fresh bread from the bakery across the street. His nose was cold against yours. Your hands had somehow gotten lost in the folds of his jacket, your fingers curled around the drawstring near his collar.
An older couple passed by, whispering something about young love as they smiled in your direction.
And that’s exactly what it felt like.
Young. Beautiful. Unstoppable.
Like you had time to waste. Like the world would wait for the two of you to finish laughing.
Now, you’d kill for one of those rude interruptions. You’d give anything to be mid-sentence, trying to tell him about your day or something dumb you saw on Twitter, only for him to lean in and kiss you quiet.
You never realized how much you’d miss the way he didn’t wait for you to finish. The way he never needed a perfect moment. He just made one.
Your phone buzzed somewhere behind you.
You didn’t rush to check it. You already knew what it was - Instagram, probably. Twitter. A news alert. Some useless notification reminding you the world was still spinning without you. The usual noise.
Still, you reached for it. Because you always did.
It lit up with a familiar glow. Your favorite artist had posted - some curated, aesthetic collage from their recent trip to New York. Moody skyline shots. Cappuccinos. An overhead photo of their shoes on a cobblestone street. You double tapped without thinking.
But then you began to scroll.
Past memes. Past sponsored ads for gadgets that would break in five minutes. Past selfies from people you barely talked to anymore.
But then there he was. Lando. Smiling on someone else’s post.
The kind of smile that used to make your stomach flip. Shades on, curls windswept, head tipped back in the sun, drink in one hand. Some beach in Ibiza or Monaco or somewhere that looked just like every other background he posted lately - glittering and golden and full of people you didn’t recognize.
He looked happy.
That’s what got you.
Not the setting. Not even the people around him.
Just that smile. The one that used to find you across crowded rooms, across pit lanes and airport gates. The one that once felt like it belonged to you and only you.
Now it was framed in someone else’s lens. A stranger’s snapshot. And it took everything in you not to zoom in, not to hope you’d see something in his expression that betrayed what the photo didn’t say.
It wasn’t the first time. It wouldn’t be the last. You should’ve been used to it by now. But it still hit like a wave you didn't see coming.
You watched his life in pictures now. Like a stranger. Like a fan.
Once upon a time, you used to lie beside him and trace the lines of his face in the dark. Memorized the way his lashes fluttered against his cheek as he drifted off. Waited for the moment his breathing would slow - that soft, steady rhythm that said he was safe. Home.
But that version didn’t exist on Instagram. And he wasn’t beside you anymore.
Now, he was somewhere sun-drenched, mid-laugh, caught in a moment with someone just out of frame.
You set the phone down face first. Swallowed the lump in your throat. But it only took seconds - like muscle memory, like a wound you couldn’t stop picking at - for you to grab it again.
You hadn’t meant to scroll again. Hadn’t meant to stumble on her profile again. Hadn’t meant to care.
But you did.
God, you did.
You weren’t even sure who she was. Not really. Just a tagged name you’d seen once, maybe twice. A model, maybe. Or someone who always seemed to be in the background of Lando’s newer photos - blurry, but consistent. A ghost you couldn’t name.
The picture wasn’t about him. It was a brunch on some yacht. But there he was. In the back. Laughing.
You stared at it like maybe, if you zoomed in enough, you’d see something in his eyes that meant he missed you too.
But you didn’t.
And still, you kept going. Through tagged posts. Through old comments. Through names you hadn’t spoken to in months.
Until your thumb hovered over Oscar’s.
You’d thought about texting him before. So many times. You’d even typed and deleted at least five different versions over the past few weeks. But tonight, with the rain whispering against the windows and Lando’s hoodie still wrapped around you like a ghost, you didn’t stop yourself.
Your fingers moved before you could second-guess it.
[You - 10:27pm]
hey
sorry if this is random
how’s he doing?
You didn’t clarify who. You didn’t have to.
The typing bubbles appeared almost instantly, then vanished.
Then came back. Then vanished again.
You stared at the screen like it owed you something. Like if you looked long enough, the answers would appear in more than just pixels and read receipts. It could give you closure. Or…something.
Finally -
[Oscar - 10:30 pm]
hey.
he’s okay, I think
busy. kind of all over the place lately
not sure he’d admit it, but he’s been… quiet
not the good kind
Your breath caught.
Oscar never said more than he meant. He was measured like that, like he knew words mattered, especially now. But this wasn’t small talk. This wasn’t surface. It was honest. Maybe even a little worried.
[You - 10:31 pm]
yea. just wondered
thanks for telling me
hope you’re good too
You set your phone down before he could respond again.
Because even though it was small - a harmless text, a moment of weakness - it felt like too much. Like opening a door you’d tried so hard to keep shut.
You hadn’t reached out to him. But this was close. Too close. A toe over the line. And the hoodie you were still wearing suddenly felt too warm. Like guilt woven into fabric.
You weren’t sure what you wanted Oscar to say. That Lando missed you? That he didn’t? That there was someone new? That there wasn’t?
All you knew was that you hoped - somewhere, in the middle of his too-busy life and too-perfect posts - something reminded him of you.
That he caught a scent. Or heard a laugh. Or walked past a storefront where you once made him stop and dance to a song on the radio. You hoped it caught him off guard.
You hoped he looked around at whatever Monaco sunset he was standing under and felt even a fraction of what you were feeling now.
Because you could’ve planned for a change in the weather. You could’ve adjusted for time zones and travel and even heartbreak. But you could’ve never, ever planned for him to change his mind.
It was never supposed to end like that.
There was no yelling. No dramatic fight. No slammed doors or broken glass. Just silence.
And the kind of distance that had been settling into the space between your shoulders for weeks - imperceptible at first, like a draft from a cracked window you kept meaning to fix. But by the time you noticed the chill, it had already seeped into everything.
You didn’t go into the night expecting it. You hadn’t dressed for heartbreak.
You were barefoot. Wearing one of his old t-shirts and a pair of sleep shorts. There was a candle flickering on your dresser, lavender and something warm. A show paused on the TV - something you’d watched a dozen times before. Just background noise.
He was sitting on the edge of the bed, scrolling through his phone with that tired look on his face. The look he got when he’d flown too many miles in too few days, when he was there in body but still half-trapped in another timezone.
And then he said it.
Soft. Like he didn’t want to disturb the quiet.
“Maybe we’re not okay,”
At first, you didn’t think you heard him right. You blinked. Stood up straighter. Waited for the words to rearrange into something else. Something safer.
But they didn’t.
The air shifted. The candle flickered like it, too, had been startled.
And when you looked at him - really looked - his shoulders were already curled in like he was bracing for a hit that wouldn’t come.
You felt your throat tighten. Something sank behind your ribs.
You stood there for a long time. Both of you pretending the words hadn’t landed. Like if you held still enough, time would rewind itself. But it didn’t. It never did.
He sat forward, elbows on his knees, fingers woven together like he was praying for an answer he already knew wouldn’t come. His gaze stayed on the floor, tracing invisible patterns into the wood.
You kept waiting for him to take it back. For him to exhale and shake his head and say Sorry. I’m just tired. For him to say he didn’t mean it. That he didn’t want this.
But he didn’t.
Because it wasn’t about one fight. Or one bad day. It was the thousand little moments that had built a wall between you - one unread text, one missed call, one cancelled plan at a time. It was about how you’d both kept giving a little less - until there was almost nothing left to give.
You crossed the room slowly, legs stiff with something between fear and denial. He didn’t look up until you were standing right in front of him. And when he did - God.
He looked young.
Not the Lando the world saw. Not the grin and the confidence and the quick comebacks. But the boy underneath it all. The one who still didn’t always know how to ask for what he needed. The one who sometimes ran before he could get hurt.
You knew that version of him. Intimately.
And still, at that moment, you couldn’t reach him.
He stood. Your breath caught in your chest. Maybe this was it. Maybe he was about to close the distance. Pull you in. Say no, I don’t want to lose this. Kiss you like he used to when words weren’t enough.
But instead, he stepped closer. One hand on your waist. The other brushed the hair behind your ear, then cradled your cheek like you were something precious.
He did kiss you.
But it was soft. Gentle. Like touching something breakable. Like a goodbye he wasn’t ready to speak out loud.
And you kissed him back.
Because what else was there to do?
It wasn’t passionate. It wasn’t desperate. It was reverent. Final. A thank you for what had been. A silent apology for what couldn’t be salvaged.
You didn’t know it was the last one. Not exactly.
But you felt it in your bones. In the way he lingered after, forehead pressed to yours, both of you suspended in that breathless pause where maybe, maybe, the story could change.
It didn’t. He stepped away.
No bags. No speech. Just the shuffle of his feet toward the door, and the soft click of it closing behind him.
You didn’t move. Didn’t cry. Didn’t scream.
You just stood there barefoot, candle flickering low, heart echoing in a room that suddenly felt too quiet.
And still, part of you kept waiting. For the knock. For the footsteps. For the doorknob to twist again.
But it never did.
And now, months later, with the rain tapping at your windows and his hoodie still wrapped around your body like armor, you still found yourself whispering his name sometimes.
Not loud. Not mournful. Simply… out of habit.
Like it was still the most natural thing in the world. Like maybe, if you said it softly enough, it wouldn’t hurt so much.
Like he might whisper yours back.
happy happy birthday from all of us to you we wish it was our birthday so we could party too 🎉
STOPPPP THE EMPERORS NEW GROOVE BDAY SONG?!!!
and thank you bestie, acting like you haven’t wished me happy bday like 17 times, but thank you thank you 🫶🏻🫶🏻
formula fake-mance ⛐ 𝐀𝐀𝟐𝟑
r/aita · anon asked, “aita for pretending to date my best friend (m29) to make my ex jealous?” & anon asked, “aita for making out with one of my driver friends (m29) at a party and then pretending not to remember the next day out of fear of rejection?”
ꔮ starring: alex albon x best friend fake girlfriend!reader. ꔮ word count: 7.5k. ꔮ includes: romance, friendship. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity; suggestive jokes. fake dating, feelings realization/denial, childhood best friends. ꔮ commentary box: i’ve been having hella feelings about alex lately, and i’m about to make it everybody’s problem. serious creative liberties on the second request (soz) but i hope the word count makes up for it!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Alex finds you in the kitchen, curled into the corner of the counter like you’re afraid the vodka might personally seek vengeance.
“You hiding?” he asks, leaning beside you and stealing a chip from the half-open bag you’ve been cradling.
You don’t look up. “I’m regrouping.”
“From what?”
“Social overwhelm.”
You take a long swig of your drink. “Also, my heels hurt,” you say wryly.
He huffs a laugh and tilts his head toward your feet. “You wore those just to make me look short.”
“You are short.”
Alex flicks your forehead. “I’m the tallest driver on the grid, thank you very much.”
You glance up at him, eyes a little too wide, pupils a little too dilated. You’re tipsy. Not wrecked, not sloppy, but looser than you usually are. Lopsided in the smile you give him, soft around the edges. Alex feels it thud in his ribs.
He’s used to this version of you. The one that comes out only with him. The one that drops sarcasm like armor and leans into him in crowded rooms without hesitation. He’s known you since you were kids, since your parents used to split school pick-ups and you cried the first time he beat you at Mario Kart. (“You cheated!” “I literally didn’t!” “I AM GOING TO TURN YOUR CATS AGAINST YOU!”)
You were the only one who never gave him a weird look when he said he wanted to race cars for a living. When he made Formula One, you mailed him a tiny plastic trophy with WORLD’S MOST AVERAGE MAN written in Sharpie on the base.
He still keeps it in his Monaco flat. Right beside the real ones.
Tonight, it’s his party. P5 in Austria. Not a podium, but it felt like one. The Williams crew had screamed in the garage, and you’d been there in the back, arms raised, mouth open in a wordless, feral cheer. He thinks about that moment now, how you practically tackled him afterward in parc fermé. Arms around his neck. Face in his shoulder. Like the rest of the world wasn’t worth looking at.
It doesn’t matter that you’re not dating. People assume. They always have. The glances, the smirks, the knowing comments. Alex doesn’t mind. He doesn’t care much how he’s perceived. Not when you keep choosing him over and over, in every small way that counts.
“Come on,” he says now, nudging your hip with his. “Everyone’s asking for you.”
“I’m protesting loud music and fake laughing.”
“Your fake laugh is top-tier, though.”
“It’s all the years I’ve spent laughing at your jokes.”
Alex fake-gasps. “You love my jokes.”
“Not the knock-knock ones.”
He leans a little closer, conspiratorial. “What if I told you I had a new one about Toto Wolff and a goat?”
Your face lights in a way that hits him like gravity. “Is the goat also Austrian?”
“Unconfirmed.”
“Proceed.”
Before he can get to the punchline, your hand shoots out and grips his forearm with sudden, startling urgency. “Shit,” you exhale.
Alex freezes. “What?”
You’re blinking over his shoulder, the color draining from your face in slow motion. “It’s my ex,” you mumble. “He’s here. Why is he here? This isn’t even his—oh my God, he’s walking this way.”
Your fingers tighten on his arm. Alex registers the heat of your skin, the press of your body turning instinctively into his side. He’s moving before he thinks, shifting slightly to block your view.
“Hey,” he says gently. “Hey. I’ve got you. What do you need?”
You stare up at him, startled. “I don’t know. I—I don’t want to look pathetic.”
Alex doesn’t hesitate. “Okay. Then let’s make him jealous instead.”
It comes out smooth, practiced. Like it’s something he’s thought about before. He doesn’t have time to examine all that. Not now, not with the way you’re holding onto his sleeve like a lifeline.
He’s always had a thing about your taste in men.
Never said much, never made a fuss. If pressed, though, he’d admit there’s not a single one of your exes he liked. They’ve all felt, to him, like half-chances. Men who didn’t see you properly. Who didn’t earn the right to touch your wrist, let alone your heart. Who took what you gave and didn’t know what to do with it.
And this one—this particular ex—he’s the worst of them.
It’s not just the breakup. It’s the way it happened. The slow, cowardly retreat. The way you’d checked your phone every few minutes for weeks, trying to laugh it off until you couldn’t anymore. The whispered explanations you’d given Alex after, eyes wet, voice small. “He said I was too intense,” you’d confessed, and Alex had felt something feral and sharp uncoil in his chest.
Worse still, the ex is now part of the motorsports world. Some junior mechanic who floats around the Williams garage like static electricity. Useless and smug. Always managing to say the wrong thing with just enough charm to get away with it. Alex has had to sit through entire debriefs with the guy breathing two seats away, talking about tire temps like he invented them. And now he’s here. At Alex’s party. Circling like a vulture.
Alex spots him through the crowd, threading his way through the cluster of guests with that same half-smile. His eyes sweep the room—and yeah, he’s looking for you.
“Shit, okay, we need a plan,” Alex grumbles.
“What kind of plan?” You’re gripping his shirt now. Not hard, but enough to wrinkle it. He doesn’t care. Your panic is rising fast, cresting in your throat.
“I don’t know,” he says, scanning your face. “Do you want me to—should I pretend we’re together? Should I punch him? I’ll punch him. I’ve been meaning to try that.”
“Alex,” you hiss, barely breathing. “He’s getting closer.”
Alex curses under his breath. He’s thinking too fast and not fast enough. His fingers twitch like they’re trying to grab the idea before it’s fully formed. “Okay. Okay, we’ll fake date. Cool. How do people fake date? What’s the move? Should I put my arm around you or—”
You open your mouth like you’re about to say something helpful. Then you just—
—you kiss him.
No warning. No build. Just lips.
You grab the front of his shirt and yank him forward, right into you. Alex blinks, stunned, as your mouth finds his like it’s a question you’ve already answered a hundred times.
And suddenly he’s aware of a few things all at once:
Your mouth is soft. Warm. Slightly citrusy, he thinks, probably from the drink you had earlier. You always preferred something with lime.
You’re kissing him like you’ve done it before. Like it’s muscle memory. Like you’re coming home.
He is absolutely not thinking about your ex anymore.
His hands find your waist like they’ve been waiting. He doesn’t even think about it. His eyes flutter shut. The kiss isn’t long, isn’t showy. It’s not performative. It’s not even that dramatic. But it’s anchored, intentional, and it hits him like gravity.
Somewhere, distantly, someone laughs. The music shifts tracks. A cheer erupts from a corner of the flat where someone’s undoubtedly doing something ill-advised with beer. Alex registers none of it. Just the press of you against him, the brush of your nose, the almost involuntary sigh you make as your fingers slip into his hair and rest there.
The kiss deepens slightly, for one breathless second. Like maybe you forgot it was supposed to be for show, too.
By the time you pull away—slow and stunned and still close enough that he can count the freckles on your cheek—Alex realizes something terrifyingly obvious.
He quite liked that.
Alex doesn’t even get the chance to speak.
Your ex materializes like a summoned ghost, all thin-lipped smile and cologne that’s trying too hard. Oliver, Alex vaguely remembers his name to be. He’s holding a red cup and some flimsy excuse for swagger, eyes flicking between you and Alex as if he’s connecting the most obvious dots in the world.
“Well,” Oliver says, tone derisive enough to curdle milk. “That explains the floor show.”
Alex tenses. You shift an inch closer to him, and it’s instinct when he hooks an arm around your waist. Protective, not possessive.
You laugh. It’s too high, too brittle. “Oh, hey,” you fib. “Didn’t see you there.”
Oliver raises an eyebrow, eyes glinting. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. You two looked busy.”
“We were. Are,” you say, then clear your throat. “Busy. We’re very... involved.”
Alex resists the urge to wince. You’re a good liar, but only when it doesn’t matter. Right now, you’re floundering. He can feel the way your hand clenches in the hem of his shirt.
“Right,” Oliver drawls, eyes narrowing. “So, what’s this? A little make out session to blow off some steam?”
You open your mouth. Then shut it. Then—
“We’re dating,” you blurt out.
A beat.
Alex nods like his heart didn’t just do a sideways flip. “Yep,” he says. “Totally. Very much dating.”
He leans in, presses a kiss to your shoulder like it’s nothing, like his lips aren’t tingling from the memory of your mouth. You lean into him, barely trembling.
Oliver doesn’t look convinced. He gives a little smirk. “Huh. Didn’t peg you as her type.”
“No one ever does,” Alex says lightly, “but here we are.”
You grab Alex’s hand like it’s a rope you’re about to swing from. “Anyway,” you announce, a little too brightly, “we’re gonna go have sex now. So. Bye.”
Alex nearly chokes. “What.”
You’re already dragging him away. Through the crowd, down the hall, past two confused Williams juniors and someone yelling about jello shots. You make a pit stop at the drinks table and knock back one, two, three shots like you’re hydrating for a marathon.
Alex stares. “What the hell was that?”
“Panic,” you say, breathless, wiping your mouth with the back of your hand. “Performance. Chaos. I don’t know.”
He grabs a shot himself and throws it back. “You told him we were going to have sex.”
“I did.”
“That is not subtle.”
“Subtlety’s dead. I’m grieving.”
“You said it like we were late for a reservation.” He mimics your pitched voice as he shoots back a bit more vodka. “Gonna go have sex now. Are you for real?”
You spin around to face him, flushed and wild-eyed. There’s a bathroom door to your left and you open it like it’s the only sanctuary left on earth. “Just get in here before I make it worse,” you snap.
Alex steps inside after you, heart rattling in his chest, mind spinning like he’s still in the car at 300 kph. Underneath it all—rising like steam in a quiet room—is the echo of your kiss.
Still warm. Still there.
Alex wakes to pain.
Specifically, a full-body, top-down, soul-crushing headache that feels like his skull got rear-ended by a safety car.
He groans. The ceiling swims.
Somewhere nearby, a curtain flutters. The room smells of faint citrus and someone else’s shampoo. He blinks against the light, tries to sit up, immediately regrets it. It’s not just the headache; it’s the thudding ache of memory, half-formed flashes surfacing like debris.
Bathroom debrief. More shots afterwards. Laughter muffled against tile. Your hand in his hair, in his lap, on his jaw—
The kiss.
The first one, yes, but also—the second. The third? There’d been more, he’s sure. Stolen ones, maybe a little sloppier. Maybe even sweeter.
He remembers your back against the sink. Your laughter slipping into his throat. The way you whispered something like, “We’re so bad at this fake dating thing,” before kissing him again, just because you could.
He winces. His ears pick up movement. Rustling. A zipper.
He turns his head and sees you.
You’re halfway into your jeans, shoes dangling from one hand, trying to be quiet in the way only someone with a guilty conscience and a mild hangover can manage. Your hair’s a mess. His hoodie’s swallowing your frame.
“Are you—” His voice comes out gravel. He coughs. “Are you sneaking out of your own apartment?”
You freeze. Look caught. Like a cat with contraband. “No. I’m... relocating.”
Alex squints. “To where?”
You sigh and flop dramatically onto the edge of the bed, one shoe still dangling. “I was trying to spare myself the humiliation of the world’s clumsiest walk of shame.”
He rolls onto his side with a groan, dragging a pillow under his arm. “You can’t walk of shame if you didn’t even get to the sex part. That’s, like, an amble of emotional damage.”
You groan into your hands. “Alex,” you huff. “I told your teammate’s girlfriend we were soulmates. I told your head mechanic we were planning a trip to adopt a dog in the Alps. I have texts, Alex. So many texts.”
He raises an eyebrow. “Texts from Oliver?”
“No. Worse. Vowles.”
Alex snorts. “Oh, then, yeah. That’s legally binding.”
You shove your face into his pillow with a muffled scream.
He reaches out, tugs gently at your elbow. “Hey. Come here.”
“No.”
“Get back in bed, honey.”
“No.”
“Please. I have a headache and abandonment issues.”
You hesitate. Then, grudgingly, you crawl back under the covers with all the reluctant grace of a cat forced into a bath. Alex immediately spoons you, arm slung around your waist, nose tucked against your shoulder.
“This is dangerous,” you mutter, already curling into him.
“You started it.”
“Don’t remind me.”
“You kissed me. Multiple times. You escalated.”
“I panicked!”
“You kissed me like it was your job.”
You groan again, burrowing deeper under the duvet. “It’s not my fault you’re so fake dating-coded.”
He exhales slowly, his breath warm at the back of your neck. “We could keep doing it.”
You go still in his arms.
“The dating part,” he clarifies. “Just. For show. Until it dies down.”
Your voice is quiet. “And when it does?”
Alex doesn’t have an answer for that. But he squeezes your hand under the sheets and kisses the crown of your head, and when you don’t protest, he figures he’s got his green light.
By the time Alex walks into the Williams hospitality unit, it’s already happening.
It started in the paddock like all stupid things do: with one overexcited media assistant whispering something to a trackside engineer, who tells a performance coach, who tells someone from catering, who tells James. And once James knows, the apocalypse is officially underway.
Alex is barely two steps through the door when someone claps him on the back.
“Congrats, mate,” chirps one of the tire techs. “Knew it was only a matter of time.”
Alex’s lips quirk in a confused half-smile. “You did?”
“Please. Everyone’s been placing bets since Baku.”
He’s still processing that when Carlos, freshly transferred and not yet fully acclimated to the chaos, strolls in with a smug grin. “So I hear you have finally stopped being a coward,” the Spaniard coos.
Alex gapes. “What?”
Carlos just raises his eyebrows. “‘Just friends’ my ass.”
“I was just saying the same thing,” James calls from across the room, where he’s attempting to make cereal with a protein shaker. “They were basically married before this.”
It’s funny, and annoying, and deeply unsettling. Because nobody’s surprised. Not even Carlos, who’s only been here a few months and already talks like he’s seen through Alex from the start. It should be a relief—this casual acceptance—but instead it kicks up something warm and sharp in Alex’s chest.
Because if everyone saw it coming, why didn’t he?
He’s mid-thought when you walk in.
You’re wearing sunglasses indoors, which is never a good sign. And your expression—somewhere between dread and barely-contained scream—confirms everything.
The room erupts into cheers.
You flinch.
Alex laughs. Actually doubles over a bit. Because the horror on your face is so pure, so you, and it hits him in the heart like a dart. “Oh my God,” you groan as someone throws confetti from god knows where. “This is my nightmare.”
“You’re a micro niche celebrity,” Alex teases, pulling you in by the elbow. “Bask in it.”
“I have six texts from my mum. She says, and I quote, finally.”
He tries not to smile too widely. “She always did like me best.”
“She says she had a dream that we got married on a beach in Phuket. She sent me Pinterest boards. This is her Super Bowl.”
“You know,” he says, a little too lightly, “this should’ve happened ages ago.”
You look up at him, mistrustful. As if you’re trying to figure out whether he’s teasing. “What?”
He covers with a shrug. “The pretending thing. We’re naturals.”
Your responding smile is faint but real, like you want to believe him. Like you might. Alex watches you get tugged away by a group of mechanics who apparently want to quiz you on his worst habits. (You already know them. You’ve memorized the list.)
And still, the thought loops in his head like a faulty radio: this should’ve happened ages ago.
The thing is, he’d buried it. For years. Wrapped it in best-friendship and late-night texts and the safety of almost. Because the idea of losing you? Unthinkable.
But now, everyone sees it. Everyone thinks it’s real, and maybe he’s the only one still pretending it’s not what he’s wanted this entire time. Alex watches you laugh at something Carlos says, your cheeks still pink.
Alex wants to touch your hand and not overthink it. He wants to kiss you without needing a cover story. He wants it to be real.
For the first time, he lets himself admit it.
Alex sees him before you do.
Oliver, back in the garage like nothing happened. Like he didn’t light a match and walk away from it, letting someone else deal with the burn. He’s got the same infuriating grin, the same sunglasses on top of his head like he’s too important for shade.
Alex feels it before he thinks it. The instinct to shift closer to you.
You’re leaning against a workbench, laughing with a junior engineer about something Alex didn’t catch. Your posture’s relaxed, but there’s tension under it. When Oliver’s voice cuts through the hum of the garage, you go still.
“Hey, stranger,” your godforsaken ex greets.
Alex watches your spine straighten. You don’t turn yet. You take a beat. Then two.
Then you twist around with a smile that’s polite and painful. “Hey, Oliver.”
Alex doesn’t wait. He slides an arm around your waist like it’s second nature. Pulls you into his side and drops his chin to your shoulder, voice casual. “Everything alright, babe?”
You don’t flinch. You just lean in. Your hand finds his where it rests on your hip. “Yep,” you say, sweet and steady. “Just catching up.”
Oliver’s gaze dips to the contact. His jaw tightens a fraction.
Alex doesn’t let it rest. “We’ve been on such a high lately. Haven’t we? All these points. All this... chemistry.”
He presses a kiss to your temple. Your laugh is half-genuine, half-mortified.
“That so?” Oliver says, sounding like he’s chewing glass.
Alex just smiles. “Oh yeah. Chemistry’s off the bloody charts, mate. Don’t tell me you can’t see it.”
Oliver barely holds eye contact before someone from the strategy team pulls him away. He leaves without saying goodbye.
As soon as he’s gone, you let out a breath like you’ve been holding it for a week. “Jesus.”
Alex drops his hand from your waist slowly. His palm tingles with the loss. You glance up at him, half a glower on your pretty face. “You didn’t have to go so hard,” you say.
He raises a brow. “Didn’t I? Felt like he needed the full experience.”
“You inhaled me.”
“I’m a method actor.”
You nudge his side. “You’re disturbingly good at pretending to be into me.”
A laugh escapes him before he can stop it, and the words pass the floodgates not long after. “Who’s pretending?”
It lands like a joke. It’s delivered like one. But it hangs there between you, suspended in the charged space that always follows your name in his mouth.
You look away first.
Alex schools his face into a grin, the practiced one, the PR-safe version that’s all teeth and no truth. But inside, something twists.
Because it’s easy, too easy, to touch you like that. To play the part. To steal little pieces of something real under the guise of performance.
He wonders how long he can keep calling it acting before he forgets there was ever a difference.
You bump his shoulder gently. “Thanks. For that.”
“Any time,” he manages. “That’s what fake boyfriends are for.”
And it stings, just slightly, every time he has to say the word fake.
Because it keeps feeling less and less true.
The panic fades, or at least it mutates into something quieter. Less like a fire alarm and more like a ringtone you keep ignoring. It hums beneath everything, soft and persistent. An engine left running.
Everyone still thinks you and Alex are together. But the novelty has worn off. The jokes taper into shrugs. People stop asking when the wedding is and start acting like it already happened. The questions become lazy teasing instead of wide-eyed speculation. And the two of you—somehow, impossibly—slip back into your rhythm.
The bickering remains. So do the late-night phone calls, the shared snacks in the garage, the borderline hostile debates about music in the rental car. Now, there’s something new beneath it all. A softness that didn’t used to be there. An unspoken clause neither of you are brave enough to read aloud.
Alex tells himself it’s fine. This is fine. You’re both handling this like adults. Mature, well-adjusted adults who just happen to be cuddling more often, and whose inside jokes have started sounding dangerously like flirting.
It’s manageable until it isn’t.
He’s on his way past the media trailer, sipping lukewarm coffee, mind blissfully empty for once, when he hears it. Not because he’s eavesdropping. Just because someone inside is that loud.
“Honestly, I give it two more weeks. She’s obviously into him, but he’s way out of her league.”
Alex slows his steps. He’s never been able to resist a bit of tea. He gets more than what he bargained for, though.
Another voice, lower, half-laughing: “Albon could do so much better. He’s just being nice. She’s like... convenient.”
His pulse spikes. His feet carry him before his brain catches up.
He steps inside the trailer and finds them. Three interns, hunched over a laptop, trying to act like they weren’t just dissecting someone else’s life. His life. Yours.
They don’t see him at first. Not until he says, too casually: “Sorry, what was that?”
Their heads snap up.
The one who probably said it—tall, wiry, self-assured in the way only someone new and clueless can be—starts to stammer. “I—uh—it wasn’t—”
“You talking about me?” Alex asks, voice calm and flat. Too calm.
They flinch.
“Listen,” he says, stepping closer, “I don’t care if you think it’s a joke. I don’t care if you think this is some group chat. If I ever hear you talk about her like that again—like she’s some backup plan, some convenience—I will make sure you don’t set foot in this paddock again. Got it?”
Silence. Wide eyes. A single, terrified nod.
Alex turns on his heel.
And, like you have some sixth sense of when Alex is fucking shit up, there you are. Standing in the doorway, arms crossed, one brow arched high enough to qualify as a warning.
“Alex,” you say, voice tight. “Walk.”
He obeys.
You don’t speak until you’re three trailers down, out of sight. Then you stop, whirl on him, and plant both hands on your hips. “You can’t just threaten interns,” you snipe.
“I didn’t threaten them,” he says defensively. “I just clarified the hierarchy.”
Your brows draw together. “Alex. You don’t have to defend me. We’re not—this isn’t real.”
He wants to argue. He wants to ask why that should matter. But he just exhales, presses the heel of his hand to his eye. “I’m your best friend,” he says softly. “That’s all the reason I need.”
You look at him for a beat too long. You know his words are true. The only reason Alex needs to step up is you. Fake relationship or not, he would always have your back.
The tension breaks eventually. “Okay,” you murmur. You step forward, reaching up to adjust the collar of his fireproof. “But next time, let me destroy my own reputation.”
He smiles weakly. “Only if I get to supervise.”
Your fingers brush the skin just beneath his collar—barely there, a whisper of touch. Maybe accidental. Maybe not.
He doesn’t pull away. Just breathes. Deeper, steadier. Like your presence recalibrates something in him.
He’d been burning, just moments ago. Fury lit in his chest like a fuse. But standing here, with you so close he can smell your shampoo, feel your breath?
It all goes quiet.
Defending you made him see red, but being near you pulls him back into color.
The team dinner is only meant to be mildly chaotic.
Instead, it veers off-road somewhere between the second bottle of wine and dessert, when someone—probably Carlos, definitely emboldened by sugar and no filter—decides to initiate a group interrogation.
“Alright,” he says, stabbing a spoon in your direction. “You two. Spill. The love story. I want origin details. I want eye contact. I want yearning."
The table erupts like a classroom with a substitute teacher. James leans forward, eyebrows waggling. One of the engineers claps like he’s been waiting for this all week. There is actual chanting. Someone starts drumming on the table with a fork.
There is no escape.
Alex exchanges a glance with you. You roll your eyes, but he catches the smile tugging at your mouth, sees the way your shoulders inch higher in amused defeat. You nudge his foot under the table like you’re daring him to do something stupid.
Challenge accepted.
He clears his throat like he’s about to make a wedding toast, carefully sets his wine glass down, and folds his hands in front of him with mock gravity. “You know,” he says, in a tone that already makes people laugh, “I think it started the first time she insulted my music taste.”
Immediate groans. Laughter. You let out an exaggerated sigh and cover your face with both hands.
“She said Oasis was ‘emotional beige’,” he continues, solemn. “And I thought—wow. That’s the meanest and most accurate thing I’ve ever heard.”
You peek out from behind your hands. “It wasn’t inaccurate.”
“It wasn’t merciful either,” Alex says, placing a hand on his chest. “But I knew, then, that this was the woman who would ruin me.”
James chuckles. Carlos mimes wiping a tear from the corner of his eye.
Alex leans into it. “She once helped me carry an entire IKEA wardrobe up three flights of stairs because I forgot to measure the doorway. Didn’t complain once. Just judged me silently the whole time. And that’s when I really knew.”
“You cried after,” you add, deadpan.
“I did not cry.”
“You absolutely did.”
“If I did, they were tears of appreciation.”
Someone clinks a glass for dramatic effect. There’s applause. There’s more chanting. Alex shrugs helplessly. “What can I say? She bullies me just the right amount.”
He doesn’t glance at Oliver, not directly. But he knows he’s there—three seats down, too quiet, stirring the remains of his dessert like it’s telling him secrets. Alex doesn't care. He tells himself that once. Then again. And again, until he can almost believe it. His hand stays where it is, resting gently on your knee under the table. His thumb traces a slow, thoughtless pattern.
Eventually, the noise ebbs again, and someone turns to you with a grin. “Alright, your turn. When did you fall for him?”
The table roars with anticipation. Alex expects a joke. A jab about his terrible taste in action movies or how he leaves wet towels on the floor. Something easy. Something safe.
But you smile, small and strange. A little embarrassed. A little vulnerable. “Honestly?” you start, and there’s a seriousness there that doesn’t belong. “I think I was already in love with him before I knew what it was.”
Everything stops.
The laughter doesn’t fade. It just disappears. Like someone cut the audio.
Alex’s world has tilted sideways.
You keep going, voice lighter now, deflecting a little with the shape of your words. “He was just… always there. Like some giant, awkward golden retriever. Every birthday. Every flat move. Every 2AM panic text. He’s part of everything. It crept up on me. By the time I realized, it was too late.”
Someone makes a heart shape with their hands. Carlos mutters something in Spanish that earns a round of teasing oohs.
Alex doesn’t laugh. He can’t.
He stares at you. At your hand, which finds his under the table and squeezes gently, like it means nothing. Like it doesn’t shatter him.
His brain catches up eventually, reminds him of the script. The part he’s supposed to play. He leans in. Brushes a kiss to your cheek. Then your mouth. It’s light. Practiced. Sweet. Exactly what people expect.
The table cheers again, louder than ever. But inside him, something tilts. Spins. Collapses and rebuilds itself all at once.
He pulls back and smiles for the group. He holds your hand tighter under the table, and he tries not to let the truth show on his face.
That he’s in love with you, and he has no idea how to come back from it.
The race weekend goes better than expected.
Clean, calculated. P4, but Alex is beaming when he gets out of the car. The points feel good. The champagne tastes better. And the adrenaline makes him bold in a way he hasn’t felt since karting days.
He’s going to tell you.
He has a whole plan. Flowers. Your favorite candies. A half-terrible, half-dramatic confession delivered with the sincerity of a man who’s spent far too long pretending not to be in love with his best friend. He’s already played it out in his head: how you’ll roll your eyes when he hands you the bouquet, how you’ll try not to smile when he fumbles the words.
How you’ll kiss him again—this time for real.
He’s halfway to hospitality, bouncing slightly on the balls of his feet, when he hears your voice.
And then Oliver’s.
Alex stops cold.
You’re around the corner, just behind one of the equipment bays. Alex stays frozen where he is. He knows it’s wrong, that he should announce himself, back away, do anything but listen.
He listens anyway.
“You can’t tell me you don’t miss it,” Oliver says, voice low and coaxing. “I know you. I know how you get when you’re pretending not to care.”
There’s a pause. Alex hears the soft rustle of a jacket, maybe a step closer.
“We were good together. You can’t deny that. And this thing with Alex? Come on. He’s your friend. It’s clearly not real.”
Alex’s chest tightens.
“We were good,” Oliver presses. “I messed up. I know I did. But I still think about you. Every day. I miss you, baby.”
Alex doesn’t hear your answer.
Because he turns away.
Walks. Fast. Doesn’t look back.
He doesn’t want to know what you said. Not really.
In his head, you’re already nodding. Already looking at Oliver with that softness you used to save for Alex. Already giving him another chance.
Isn’t this what you wanted all along?
Alex tells himself he should be happy for you. Instead, he crushes the flowers tighter in his hand, until the stems start to bend.
That’s why, later that night, Alex doesn’t expect the knock.
He’s in the middle of changing into his oldest hoodie—the truly hideous one that only travels because it reminds him of home and has a ketchup stain that predates his Williams contract—when the door rattles.
He thinks about ignoring it. He even halfway commits, dragging the hoodie over his head and tossing himself onto the bed as if he’s about to stage a one-man pity opera. The hotel room is dim, lit only by the bedside lamp, casting everything in warm, sleepy gold. It’s the perfect environment for wallowing, really.
Then he hears your voice.
“Seriously? You ghost me after race day curry? You’re lucky I haven’t blocked you yet.”
He stares at the ceiling. Sits up slowly, heart tripping in his chest like it doesn’t know what beat to follow. You knock again, then jiggle the handle. “I know you’re in there,” you complain, voice muffled by the wood of the door. “I have your location on, asshole.”
He drags himself to the door, hesitating for just one second more—a flicker of cowardice he can't afford. Then he opens it.
You brush past him with the breezy confidence of someone who’s made herself at home in every hotel room he’s ever stayed in. It’s infuriating and comforting in equal measure.
“Wow,” you say, tossing your bag on the chair. “Moody lighting. Brooding face. Albon, are you cheating on me?”
You clock the flowers before he can hide them. They’re on the nightstand, slightly wilted, petals already starting to slump like they know they’ve missed their moment. Your eyebrows shoot up. “Huh. Flowers. Wait—is there really someone else?”
He closes the door. Stands there with his arms crossed over his chest, hoodie sleeves swallowing his hands. Something inside him prickles. Something heavy and bitter and quiet. “Why are you here?” he asks, barely able to keep the waver out of his words.
You glare at him. “Because you bailed on me. I brought snacks. We were going to watch terrible TV and yell at the screen like we always do."
“No,” he says, voice sharpening. “Why are you here? After what I heard. With Oliver."
Your expression flickers. The smallest hesitation, but it rings loud in the quiet of the room. Just enough for something in Alex to slip loose.
He laughs. It sounds wrong, wrong, wrong. “Unbelievable,” he breathes. “You came here to what? Let me down easy? Pretend everything’s normal while you go crawl back to the guy who made you cry in my car three months ago?”
“Alex—”
“No,” he cuts in. “You said you loved me before you even knew it. Was that just for show? Were you performing for the table? For him? Because it worked. He sure looked rattled. And you convinced me, too."
You step closer. “Alex—”
“If you want him back, just say it,” he says, gesturing wide now, breath picking up. “Don’t come in here and act like this is all some fucking joke we can keep playing because it makes you feel good, when I—”
You kiss him.
Mid-sentence. Mid-tirade. You grab the front of his hoodie, tug him down, and kiss him hard enough to knock every single word out of his mouth.
It takes him a full second to catch up to the moment. To the heat of your mouth, to the press of your body, to the hand curled at the base of his neck like it's always belonged there.
Then you pull back.
Eyes wide. Mouth parted. Panic dawning in your expression like a curtain ripping open.
“Shit,” you breathe. “Shit, I shouldn’t—I didn’t mean to—”
You take a step back. Another.
He catches your wrist, gentle but firm.
“Don’t,” he says, soft now. Breathless in a different way. “You don’t get to do that. Not this time.”
It’s his turn to kiss you.
Slower. Like he’s learning the shape of something he’s only dared to trace in dreams. Like the ache in his chest has finally been given a name and a mouth to match.
You breathe into him. Your hand curls into his hoodie again. The kiss deepens, sharpens, softens. A thousand versions of almost finally collapsing into one real thing.
You break apart just enough to rest your forehead against his.
“I wasn’t going to say yes,” you whisper. “To Oliver. I didn’t even want to hear it. I just—froze. I didn’t know what you’d heard. I didn’t know what you felt.”
Alex pulls you close again. Tight, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he doesn’t anchor you there. “I felt like I was losing something I hadn’t even had the courage to ask for yet,” he says into your hair.
You stay like that. Wrapped in each other. The hum of the room falling away.
For once, Alex isn’t performing. Isn’t pretending. He’s just here. With you. In the honest, terrifying, electric truth of it all.
Maybe it’s messy. Maybe it’s complicated. But when he kisses you again, it feels like something simple.
You taste like the corner store mints you always carry, like adrenaline and something a little too sweet. Your fingers slide under his hoodie, tugging at the hem with practiced ease, like you've done it a hundred times before in dreams you never admitted to having.
He helps you, wordless. Arms over his head, the awful thing coming off in a tumble of cotton and static, hitting the floor with a soft thud. He barely notices it.
Because your lips are back once the hoodie has been cast aside. And every time your mouth finds his, something in his chest reshapes like it’s making room for something that’s already been there, waiting to be named. He’s dizzy with it, with you.
Your hands skate over his ribs. He catches the tremble in his own breath. It’s not nerves. Not exactly. It’s a pressure valve finally breaking open after years of holding still.
Somewhere in the haze of now, Alex sees then.
You, seven years old and already mouthy, yelling at a steward on the karting track while wearing his spare helmet. It was three sizes too big and you refused to admit it. You spun out twice and still walked off like you’d won the whole thing. He was in love with your attitude before he could even spell the word.
Seventeen. You, sitting beside him on a bench outside a test session, ankles crossed, eating crisps and talking about nothing and everything. His knees kept knocking into yours and he couldn’t tell if it was an accident or a dare.
You at twenty, crying in his passenger seat over someone who didn’t deserve to hear you laugh. First heartbreak. He remembers gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles ached, willing himself not to say something selfish. He hated that he didn’t get to be the one you trusted in that way—not yet. Maybe not ever.
More recent flashes. Your laugh in his kitchen as you made fun of his espresso skills. The way you always grabbed his arm at crossings, like he couldn’t be trusted to look both ways. How you wore his Williams team shirt around the paddock, oversized and confident, as if you belonged everywhere Alex existed. You always did.
Alex never stood a chance.
And now you’re here. In his hotel room. Kissing him like you mean it. Like you’ve always meant it. Pulling him in like he’s not a placeholder, not a maybe. Like he’s the whole damn point.
He pulls back, just slightly. Breath catching like it’s forgotten how to work. “Wait,” he says. It comes out rough.
You blink, the softest frown forming between your brows.
“I need to say—”
But you’re already shaking your head. Already smiling, like you know every word before it tumbles out.
“I know,” you say.
You know. Just like you know everything about Alex. Just like you know this was never going to be a one-act play for him, not going to be a funny story he might someday tell his kids.
You kiss the corner of his mouth, then his jaw. The line of his cheekbone, his temple. A constellation only you know how to navigate.
“I know,” you whisper again, voice warm and sure.
Your hand finds his, and you tug him toward the bed.
Alex follows, pulled by instinct and gravity.
The backs of your knees hit the mattress first. He leans in, one arm braced beside you, the other still holding your hand like it’s a lifeline. You fall into the pillows with a kind of ease that makes his heart ache.
He watches you for a second. Your flushed cheeks, your wide eyes, the curve of your smile that's almost shy. He thinks he might actually burst open with how much he wants this. Wants you.
He doesn’t doubt it.
Not for a second.
Not with the way you look at him, like he’s something rare. Not with the way you touch him, like he’s already yours.
He lets himself be pulled. Lets himself fall. Hoodie long forgotten, wallowing postponed indefinitely.
Drowning in you is the better choice.
It’s the only one he wants to make.
It’s another party.
Champagne buzz and neon spill, the kind of post-race affair that always ends with at least one person losing a shoe and another crying in a bathroom. There’s a half-hearted DJ, a rotating charcuterie table, and enough gossip in the room to power a small country.
But tonight, Alex doesn’t care about the chaos. Doesn’t care about the playlist, or the over-salted canapés, or even whether Oliver is somewhere across the room still trying to act like he matters.
Because you’re here.
Pressed against his side, half-tipsy and radiant, stealing the olives from his drink and slipping them into yours like he won’t notice. (He does. He lets you. He likes when you steal from him.)
You look up at him, all soft eyes and crooked smile, and Alex forgets how he ever pretended not to be in love with you. The music thuds around you, a blur of voices and clinking glasses and someone yelling about pit stop strategy.
It’s all background noise. Static behind the real headline: you’re his now. For real. No pretending. No show.
When someone asks for a photo, he doesn’t flinch. Just pulls you tighter to his side, hand at your waist like it’s been there for years. When you nudge your cheek against his shoulder, he leans down and kisses your temple. Quick. Familiar. Easy.
It’s all so easy now.
Somewhere between the fake relationship and the real one, the nerves and lies had dissolved. What’s left is something better. Steadier. Quietly certain in the way only long love can be. He still gets breathless when you laugh too hard at your own jokes. Still loses focus when you wear his team gear like a second skin. Still finds excuses to sit too close on the couch or brush your fingers with his. He’s not afraid anymore. Not of ruining it. Not of being too much.
“You’re staring,” you slur, voice barely audible over the pulse of the bass.
“You’re pretty,” he says, shameless, a little drunk on the sight of you.
You roll your eyes, but your hand curls tighter in his. “God, you’re so soft now.”
“Just with you.”
You laugh. Nose scrunching. It kills him, the way it always has. He’s helpless.
It used to hurt, watching you with someone else. Watching your gaze tilt elsewhere, smile curving for the wrong person. He remembers every bitter moment. Every quiet ache. Every time he swallowed the jealousy and called it friendship.
Now, he gets to be the one on the receiving end. He silently vows to never take it for granted.
Oliver does pass by at some point. Alex barely registers him. Doesn’t tighten his grip, doesn’t look twice. You don’t either. You just thread your fingers through Alex’s, thumb tracing lazy circles against his knuckles, like it’s second nature.
Later, on a balcony with cold air on their skin and distant bass rattling the railing, you curl into his side. The night hums around you, a little blurry with drink, a little sharp with meaning. He tugs your jacket tighter around you, presses a kiss to your temple.
“You cold?” he asks worriedly.
You shake your head, lips brushing his collarbone as you lean closer. “Happy,” you say. Simple. Honest.
He smiles, slow and certain, chest full in a way it hasn’t been since he was a kid dreaming about podiums and fairytale endings. “Me too,” he breathes.
You rest your forehead against his. For a while, there’s no need for words.
There’s nothing complicated about it. Nothing performative. Just you and him, toes over a line you’ve both stepped past, hearts bruised and mended. You pull back just enough to meet his gaze.
“Still soft?” you tease as a preamble for what’s to come.
“Always,” he says, no hesitation.
You kiss him like coming home. Like finally getting the timing right.
He lets himself burn. For once, it doesn’t hurt at all.
It’s everything he’s ever wanted, and finally, finally real. ⛐
hey! i'm katie. welcome :)
she/her. leo. 24. american. red bull + williams. max verstappen truther. alex albon enthusiast. charles leclerc sympathizer. summer lover. livin for the hope of it all.
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masterlist | requesting rules | requests: open | prompt list
NAVIGATION: #box box -> asks #dirty air -> reblogs #grand slam -> fic recs #media pen -> yapping/shit posting #vvwrites -> my fics #vvsmau -> my smaus
LATEST WORKS L. Norris // Last Kiss C. Sainz // Operation: Mayhem L. Lawson // Color Me in Your Key
REQUESTING RULES
while i love writing and want to help scratch everyone's creative itches, a few ground rules need to be established:
i will write requests as they come in, as long as i have the motivation/idea to do so. if a request comes in, i may not get to it immediately if i don't think i can do it justice.
i will NOT write for any driver under 21
i will NOT write for any of these situations: domestic abuse, domestic violence, miscarriages, abortions, sexual assault. etc
i will NOT write for any deceased drivers
i will NOT write smut (but that may change, idk), and if i do change my mind, it will NOT be for any driver under 21
Don’t Forget You Love Me ╰┈➤ AA23
summary: it’s your first season back in the williams garage after your and alex’s breakup. a breakup for a relationship that you’ve kept hidden from almost everyone in the paddock—making it even harder to grieve. it gets even worse, because when you spot your awful ex, working in the williams garage, the first person you grab and claim as your new boyfriend just so happens to be alex.
[word count] 13.0k
warnings: second chance romance | fake dating | angst | humor | some fluffy moments | social media girl! reader | kissing | drinking | mature themes and dialogue | cliches!! | read at your own discretion
a/n: who doesn’t love a good exes to lovers fic—combined with fake dating hello! alex is very admirable to me and I think you should love him too💙 worked all day and night to pump this out — enjoy lovelies.
🎶 don’t forget you love me by calum hood, shameless by camilla cabello, third times a charm by megan moroney, devotion by justin bieber (feat. dijon), undressed by sombr + I miss you, I’m sorry by gracie abrams
part one: the worst plan you’ve ever had (and somehow the best one too)
returning to the williams garage for the new second half of the season should feel like coming home. it doesn't.
the familiar fluorescent lights above taunt you, the sound of drills and chatter filling the paddock with the usual buzz of pre-race energy. but beneath it all, there is the familiar weight in your chest—the one that hadn't quite left since silverstone.
since him.
alex albon stands merely twenty feet away from you, laughing at something one of his mechanics is saying, with his gangly arms crossed and his messy brown hair slightly tousled under his cap.
out of the corner of your eye, you can't help but to steal glances at him. much to your dismay, alex hasn't changed. he's still impossibly handsome, and definitely—devastatingly—no longer yours.
you haven't seen alex since the night everything went wrong. it happened during the weekend in silvertsone—during that lull of time between saturday and sunday. alex had a stressful week. you had a stressful week. things were changing and time was shrinking and before you could blink, you and alex were no longer...one.
there wasn't a dramatic fight, no shouting—just a quiet breakup behind the hotel door, full of things left unsaid. It was easier that way. clean. but that didn't mean it didn't hurt.
because holy fuck did it ever hurt. the ache in your chest as soon as you walked out of that dim hotel room—not even sparing a glance over your shoulder when you knew that alex watching you leave—was unimaginable. the months that followed even more so.
but this was good—you kept telling yourself. you and alex...you weren't meant to do this. it didn't fit and a relationship most definitely went against some kind of rule about drivers and staff being interpersonal. so it's...fine.
except it's not fine because now you're back in the garage, lanyard coupled with your camera strap hanging around your neck like a cruel reminder that you and alex won't be sharing little looks through the lens anymore. it's not easy and it's certainly not clean.
you sigh—reserved and a little exhausted. you avert your gaze from alex, duck your head and hide your eyes behind the william's branded cap sitting on your rain frizzled hair. because of course it's raining. seriously—the clouds have decided to open up and pour a rainforest level of perspiration on your already wet parade.
your thumb idly moves over the pad, scrolling through the pictures you'd snapped before you saw alex, and left your world tilted on its axis. it gives you something to do. something other than looking at your ex across the garage. something other than wondering if alex is still feeling the affects of your breakup as you are.
"y/n?"
you look up, too quickly, already forcing a smile—and then that smile freezes. your face falling flat.
because It was him.
your ex.
not alex—the other one. the one from before. the one who made you feel small, the one who cheated and then had the audacity to make you feel guilty for leaving. and now? liam is here, and he is looking down at you with some kind of smug grin and it has your heart racing. "well, well. didn't expect to see you here."
you swallow roughly, dropping the camera. it's hits your belly with a dull thump. your lips part, a million things you want to say—telling him to leave being the most prominent—but they don’t fall. instead, you blink and with a timid voice, you ask—"what are you doing here?"
he laughs like you're being funny. it makes you want to shrink away. it's not that you're scared of him, per say, but you're certainly not happy to be near him. liam ignores your question just because he can, "you're still running around garages? thought you would've moved on to bigger and more glamorous things."
the words hit harder than they should. you're working in your dream profession in the most important motorsport league in the world. fuck him. "william's hired me," you state, voice firm despite the way it wobbles. "so…I guess that's glamorous enough."
"right. yeah, i'm," liam pauses, straightening up like he's about to share something world changing. you doubt that. "i'm actually helping out with logistics here now. full time. it's a lot but...you know me. can't stay still for too long."
of course he works here—you've got to be kidding.
you nod shortly like you care. "that's ones word for it."
liam, seemingly unaware of your lack of interest, keeps going. that's just him though, too busy listening to himself to be socially aware of anything or anyone else around him. "I mean, it's wild. I've been flown out to four countries in two weeks. my name's on the operations board now. we're running tight this season, but I've got it under control." he pauses, and shrugs less than humbly. his smile too wide. "pretty different from the guy you remember, huh?"
"you always did like telling people how busy you are."
he tongues his cheek in an attempt to hide a satisfied grin. liam always knew how to get under your skin, and your snarky response is enough proof of that. "yeah, well, can't help it," he pauses. "life's been good though. actually met someone not long after our split. totally different vibe. no pressure, no "career tunnel vision"—just real connection."
you blink—is he really going there right now?
"anyways. what about you, y/n?" liam quirks a brow like he already knows the answer before he can finish the question. "are you seeing anybody?"
panic takes root before you can control it. your ex is looking at you like you're nothing. like working here—just as he is, mind you—is nothing more than a pointless hobby.
your body reacts before your head has a chance to catch up. without thinking—without even blinking—you reach out and grab the first arm within range.
"babe," you declare loudly—surely earning you a few concerned glances—almost too brightly, tugging on the sleeve of the fireproof blue and white race suit beside you. "there you are."
it's only then, when you feel those familiar fireproofs beneath your plan that you realize—realize it's not some hopeless mechanic or engineer you've claimed as your fake boyfriend, but instead it's alex fucking albon.
alex blinks, eyes zoning in on your small hand wrapped around his elbow and then trailing up to yours. "...what?"
you squeeze his arm—too tightly like it's a lifeline. leaning into his space, you smile sickly sweet up at alex. a desperate and pleading look in your eyes as you silently beg for his compliance.
he catches on quickly—of course he does. alex is smart. his brows lift, barely perceptible, before sliding an arm around your lower back, keeping you close.
alex still smells the same—earthy and with a hint of rubber tire—and it invades your senses like an old friend. you hate that you welcome it the same way.
"hey," he greets, voice smooth but low, almost unreadable. "everything okay?"
you nod quickly, flashing a grin so wide that it strains your cheeks—the kind of grin that could win an award for most unhinged display of coolness while also dying inside.
"just wanted to introduce you to my boyfriend," you say, way too brightly, looking back at liam who’s still standing across from you. "alex."
your ex's jaw twitches—barely, but you catch it. that tiny, involuntary spasm of someone trying hard not to react.
ha ha.
alex blinks once, then again, like he's still catching up — but his hand stays right there at the small of your back. if anything, his fingers press a little firmer. steady. present.
a pause stretches between the three of you, taut like a pulled wire.
liam’s eyes flick between you and alex, discomfort creeping into his posture. his hands drop to his sides, flex once, then disappear into his pockets.
"this is who you're seeing? a driver?"
there it is—the sneer buried inside the question. that same patronizing tilt you remember from all those old fights. your spine straightens.
you shrug like the question didn't even land. like your heart isn't slamming against your ribs, trying to claw its way out.
you lean—just a breath—into alex's side. like it's natural. like you belong there. you remember when you did.
"it's new," you say smoothly. "but serious."
another silence. heavy. awkward. you feel the tension bubbling under your skin, the old burn of shame you refuse to let show. your ex's eyes linger on alex like he's trying to intimidate him.
alex shifts beside you, standing just a bit taller. not showy. just solid. unbothered.
"we're actually headed to a briefing," you say— all too quick and clipped.
“driver stuff,” alex adds on knowingly. his voice is low, steady. like he weighed every word before letting it out.
you see the way liam stiffens at that. not because alex is showing off — but because he isn't. he doesn't need to.
your ex nods. mumbles something — "right. see you around." and finally, mercifully, walks off.
the second liam turns the corner, you step away from alex like he's suddenly on fire. you exhale hard and press both hands to your face in some lame attempt at calming down.
"oh my god," you groan. "i'm so sorry. I panicked. he—he’s the one who cheated on me. years ago. gaslit me so hard I questioned my own name. and now he's here. I didn't know what to do. and your arm was just there and i just—"
"hey." alex's voice cuts through the spiral —calm, a little amused in a way that has your mouth snapping shut. "so i'm your boyfriend now?"
you let out a strangled laugh, and peek at him through your fingers. "please forget I said anything."
he's smiling. but not teasing, exactly. more like... amused. and something else. something unreadable that makes your stomach pull tight.
"too late," he says. "i'm flattered, really."
you lower your hands and half-glare at him. "alex."
the smile softens. fading just a little at the corners. for a second—just one—something passes between you. quiet. familiar. dangerous.
dangerous in the way you remember how his hand used to find yours under the table during press conferences. dangerous in the you remember how he'd roll over in hotel rooms and whisper your name like it was a secret only he was allowed to keep.
"i'll play along if you need me to," he says, softer now. honest.
you swallow. look down at the dusty garage floor and then back up into his familiar eyes.
"you don't have to do that." you swallow.
"I know."
a long pause settles between you while the bustle of the paddock swirls around you—but in this small space between bodies, everything goes quiet.
"but I will," he finishes.
you look at him too long and suddenly, you're back on the edge of it—that same familiar, dangerous almost. not broken, but cracked. frayed at the edges. still warm.
still there.
what have you gotten yourself into?
part two: fake boyfriend rule #1: don't accidentally make it believable
by the time you stumble back into the media tent, your whole body is vibrating with secondhand humiliation.
you drop your gear to a unoccupied table with a thud, press your hands to your temples, and exhale like maybe you can sweat the whole moment out of existence.
two things are immediately clear:
one—you're going to spend the rest of the season hiding behind a lens and pretending you don't have functioning emotions.
and two—you are never, under any circumstances, making eye contact with alex albon again.
naturally, that lasts about three seconds.
he's already there, leaning against the espresso machine like he belongs in a magazine spread. arms crossed. one brow raised. watching you like he's been waiting.
"guess the briefing was cancelled?" he says, sipping from a paper cup. it must be green tea, you think. it’s always been his favourite. you haven’t been able to stomach the smell since silverstone.
you flinch. "we never had a briefing."
alex shrugs, annoyingly calm. "could've fooled me. you dragged me into a full-blown rom-com plot twist in front of your ex. felt like a scene partner."
you groan and sink into a chair, dropping your head back with a thunk. "I panicked, okay? I didn't mean to—god, I didn't mean for you to go along with it."
"you clung to my arm and called me babe," he says, deadpan. "in what universe was I just supposed to walk away after that?"
"literally any other universe," you mumble, rubbing at your eyes with the palm of your hands. "honestly, I was half expecting you to just laugh and leave me hanging."
alex’s expression shifts then, just slightly—the corners of his mouth curving into something halfway between amused and... wounded? no. that can't be right.
he steps forward, sets his drink on the table—you, you were right. green tea—and lowers himself into the chair across from you.
"if it helps," he says, voice quieter now, "I didn't do it to mess with you." you look up, startled. his eyes are steady on yours—not smug, not teasing. just alex. "I meant what I said," he adds. "i'll play along. if that's what you want."
your throat goes dry. "you're willing to fake-date me?" you ask, half-laughing. "that's...kind of insane."
alex smiles, slow and soft—the kind of smile that used to wreck you in hotel hallways and on long-haul flights.
"maybe," he says. "or maybe I know what it's like to stand across from someone who once wrecked you and feel like the only way to win is to look... completely unbothered."
that lands like a stone in your chest. that’s the thing about your silverstone breakup. you’re not exactly sure who initiated the end. you think it was you? but it all blurs together anytime you attempt at dissecting that night.
you blink once. twice. trying not to show how hard that hit. but he knows. he always knows.
before you can speak, alex reaches for his cup again and stands. "if we're doing this—and i'm not saying we should, just... if—we need ground rules."
you blink, brain still lagging. "you're serious?"
he nods. "no unnecessary touching in front of the crew. no weird, overly specific stories about anniversary trips that never happened. definitely no real feelings involved."
you snort. "right. because we're so good at keeping feelings out of things."
alex’s mouth twitches like he wants to say something more, but doesn't. "also," he continues, "if anyone asks, we've been together since... silverstone last year?"
your eyes go wide. "alex, that's the race where we actually broke up."
he tilts his head, grinning. "exactly. it's poetic."
before you can respond, the tent flap rustles and logan, the social admin who spends too much time on celebrity gossip, sticks his head in, grinning like a kid who just stumbled onto a secret.
"there you two are," he says. "I always knew something was going on."
you tense. "what?"
"I saw you earlier," logan says. "then alex told nicky you were together. the whole garage is buzzing. you guys are, like, disgustingly cute." and then he's gone—ducking out before either of you can react.
you turn toward alex, slowly, like your body is moving through molasses. "you told people?"
he doesn't flinch. "I didn't deny anything. there's a difference."
your head falls forward into your hands. "this is spiraling."
alex smirks, but it's gentler this time—like he's trying not to push too far. "welcome to the show, babe."
you peek at him through your fingers, giving him a withering glare. "you’re enjoying this."
he shrugs. "a little. but also... not as much as you think."
you sit up straighter, watching him.
alex doesn't look like he's joking anymore. his smile has faded, replaced by something quieter—something almost tender.
"you think this is a bad idea," you admit, “I should’ve just said I was single and drowned in humiliation.”
"I think it's a complicated idea," he corrects. "but I also think it might be the first time we've actually been honest about something in a while."
for a second, you just stare at each other—not with anger, not with bitterness. just the ache of two people who've circled each other for too long. who never really stopped caring, but don't know what to do with that care now.
your voice is soft when it finally comes out. "if we do this—fake or not—it's going to get messy."
alex nods in agreement. "probably."
"and you're okay with that?"
his answer is quiet. "i've been living in the mess ever since we ended. might as well make it worth something."
you don't have a reply for that—not one that wouldn't split you open. so instead, you stand. squeeze the strap of your camera like it might anchor you. then, almost without thinking, you glance back at him.
"i've got to shoot pit lane in twenty."
alex's smile returns—not smug, not performative. just soft and familiar in all the ways that make you feel soft.
"i'll walk with you."
and you let him.
for now.
part three: team dinners and terrible ideas
the next few days pass in a strange, surreal haze.
you'd expected the whole fake boyfriend thing with alex to collapse by tuesday at the latest—expected someone (most likely you if you're being honest) to crack under the weight of the awkwardness, or for the garage rumor mill to find something more interesting, and quietly let the story die.
but it doesn't.
instead, it grows.
not wildly—not dramatically. just enough to have you on the edge of your seat.
a hand placed gently on your back when you pass each other in the hospitality tent. shared looks from across the pit wall that linger a second too long. the occasional inside joke said just loud enough for someone else to overhear. it's convincing.
the worst part? it's not even that hard.
alex has always been easy. easy to fall into rhythm with. easy to trust. easy to miss.
too easy now, especially with the way he's slipped back into your life like he never left. alex still knows your tells—when you're tired, when you need water, when your shoulders are about to lock up from crouching behind your camera too long. he doesn't make a show of it. he just... shows up. quietly. constantly.
and that's the dangerous part.
you don't talk about silverstone. or the weeks after when you were left to wallow on your apartment couch and unfollow him on instagram. or the long, empty stretch of silence that lived between you since the breakup.
you just pretend.
by the time thursday rolls around, the whole team has gone full throttle into "bonding mode." or that's what logan calls it. you call it pointless.
there's a dinner booked at a quiet local restaurant after the press of media day—half casual, half corporate, with just enough pressure to show up looking vaguely put-together. the kind of outing where you'd usually blend into the end of the table, camera slung over the back of your chair, half-listening and half-editing photos between courses.
but tonight?
tonight is different. because now, no matter how hard you try to rationalize things, your stomach won't stop fluttering at the idea of walking into that dinner and sitting beside the boy who used to kiss your collarbone in parking garages between media calls.
the restaurant is tucked behind a narrow stone alley, the kind of place you'd only find if you knew where to look. warm light glowing against the windows, candle-flickers dancing across long wooden tables inside.
you hesitate at the threshold. you can already hear the laughter from within. the clinking of plates. someone doing a bad impression of someone important—you're pretty sure it's carlos.
you take one deep breath. it's just dinner. you've survived press days and pit lane stampedes. you can survive sitting next to your fake boyfriend and across from your cheating ex. easy.
with one more exhale, you push the door open.
warmth hits first—roasted garlic, butter, whatever wine they opened first. probably red if lisa from HR had anything to with it. your eyes scan the table automatically, spotting finalists engineers and mechanics, logistics crew, social media staff already two glasses in.
and then.
there.
alex.
he's sitting near the middle of the table, arm slung casually over the back of the chair beside him like he already knew it would be yours. once again—you could kill logan. alex’s got on a plain white shirt, sleeves rolled. a soft gold chain catching the light at his collarbone.
he looks up just as you step inside.
not a smirk. not a grin.
just that look. calm. soft. knowing. the same one he used to give you across hotel beds before whispering come here and pulling you close to kiss your neck.
you swallow hard. get it together, you tell yourself. he's pretending. you're pretending. this is fine.
before you can move, logan spots you—and lights up like a stadium floodlight. "she arrives!" he yells, throwing his arm out like you're royalty.
you cringe. "please don't start."
"oh, it's too late," logan says, patting the empty chair beside alex. "come sit, romeo's been saving you a seat all night."
alex grins while he stands—slow and easy—pulling the chair out for you with a maddening calm. "chivalry's not dead," alex teases, just loud enough for you to hear.
you arch a brow as you sit, voice dry. "you're enjoying this."
"i'm surviving," he replies, settling back into his chair, voice low enough that no one else hears. "you look good."
your breath stutters—just slightly. "don't start."
"i'm not," he chimes. "i'm observing."
your knees brush under the table, and neither of you make any moves to move.
soon enough orders get taken, more wine gets poured and bread sticks are consumed quicker than they are being restocked. the table comes alive, humming with stories and offhand jokes. carlos orders way too many appetizers and acts surprised when they barely fit on the table.
you keep yourself half-turned toward alex, hyper-aware of the space between your chairs—or lack of space, more accurately.
alex leans in when he talks to you, fingertips brushing your forearm once as he points at something on the menu. his hand rests on the back of your chair. not touching you, but close enough that you feel the heat of him.
and then you see liam.
two seats down. white button-down, sleeves pushed to the elbows. fork picking at food he isn't really eating. he's angled just enough toward you to be noticeable, but not obvious. he hasn't said much. but he's listening.
watching.
waiting.
you take another sip of wine and try really hard not to throw it in his face.
alex's voice finds your ear. "you okay?"
you blink up at him. he hasn't looked away.
"yeah," you say, almost convincing. "just... thinking."
he nods, but his hand shifts slightly, fingertips brushing your shoulder. barely there.
you don't flinch.
you’re not sure if alex believes you, but he doesn’t push it. and that’s enough for you now. you set down your wine and browse the menu again.
energy at the table ramps up again just as mains arrive. conversation shifts to race chaos, missed flights, media week horror stories. and then, inevitably—"so who made the first move?"
logan again, of course, grinning like a fox, white wine glass dangerously close to empty. "come on. spill. albon or the lens queen?"
you nearly knock over your drink, but alex doesn't flinch. he’ll, he doesn't even look up from his plate as he answers around a mouthful of carbonara. "she did."
"i did not—"
"she cornered me after qualifying in hungary," he says, smooth as silk and full of playfulness. "told me if I didn't kiss her that second, she was revoking my media privileges."
the table bursts into laughter.
you stare at him, half-horrified, half-laughing. "that's not even remotely what happened."
"i'm paraphrasing," he shrugs.
"you're lying."
alex leans in again, voice low, eyes glinting. "you never said it wasn't love at first insult."
you blink. because that? that didn’t feel scripted. that was you. and him. and it sure as hell felt real.
across the table, liam shifts in his seat. "must be nice," he mutters into his glass—low, but not low enough. conversation stutters. not a full stop. just a beat.
alex goes still beside you.
you swallow hard while your stomach twists—wine and butter smothered bread threatening to make a reappearance.
slowly, alex leans back again, his hand finding the back of your chair. this time, fingers curling just slightly into the fabric. a quiet claim, but also quiet reassurance.
you don't say anything and once again, you don't pull away.
dessert comes and goes.
coffee—green tea for alex like usual, which earns him a pestering from carlos—orders blur. plates clear. the team gets louder and softer all at once. that unique haze of long weeks and longer races.
your muscles are just starting to unclench when alex turns to you again. his voice is low, "you good?"
you nod once. "yeah. just...digesting."
alex doesn’t buy into your lame excuse of a deflection. “you want to go?" no pressure. just an offer, tucked gently inside concern.
you look at him—really look. at the line of his jaw. the crease in his cheek when he half-smiles. the soft warmth of skin where his shirt opens, the gold chain against it. he hasn't changed, not really. and that feels worse than it should. because he’s still your alex, even when he’s not.
your lips part. you want to say yes. take me away and show me how much you miss me.
but then liam stands from the table— all too quickly with his chair scraping the tiles. mumbles something about needing the bathroom. he sends you and alex one more harsh look before leaving.
with a flickering pulse, you send alex a look, "five more minutes. I just need to get some air.”
alex nods. doesn't look away. "okay."
something in your chest splinters—not sharp, but just enough to let something old, familiar, unfinished slip through. you stand before you do something stupid like tell him you love him, making your way through the dim restaurant the same way you came in.
outside, the air is cooler than expected and it hits you like a refreshing wave, brushing against your shoulders as you step out onto the sidewalk, arms folding across your chest like armor. behind you, the restaurant still hums—laughter, clinking glasses, someone yelling for the check. but it’s distant now.
you lean against the stone wall once you’re knees start to feel a little funny. it’s probably the wine and it’s also definitely alex.
a beat, and then the door creaks open. you don’t need to look to know that it’s alex. you know him well enough to know that your exit would’ve had him up and out of his seat only seconds after you. despite what it seemed like.
he steps out with that quiet, easy confidence—hands in his pockets, shirt slightly rumpled, a faint crease between his brows as he looks at you.
"you ran."
you huff, a little incredulously. "I stepped out."
"looked like running."
"don't flatter yourself."
he smiles—just a little. it’s crooked and familiar. the kind of smile that used to unravel you at 3 a.m. "thought you liked dramatic exits."
you roll your eyes, look toward the street. "I like controlled exits. that was more of a flight response."
he nods like that tracks. "was it the bread pudding? I warned them it was suspiciously wet."
you snort. "i've eaten track food in the rain. I can survive damp dessert." a beat passes. the kind that hovers.
alex rocks slightly next to you, close enough to share body heat, but not touching. "liam looked like he was trying to vaporize me with his mind," he says casually, like it's just another debrief.
your jaw tightens. "liam can choke," you say flatly.
he blinks. "wow."
you don't elaborate.
he waits and then, "that's not even your creative insult voice. that's just pure hatred."
"because I do," you say, turning toward him. quieter, but sharper. "I hate him. I hate the way he makes me feel like I still owe him something. hate that he acts like none of it happened."
alex doesn't move, but his eyes darken. his jaw flexes once. he doesn't touch you. he just stands there, steady but also ready to turn heel and punch liam out of you gave him permission.
you breathe in and out. long drags that almost have you feeling wobbly. "anyway," you mutter. "not here to spiral. just here to not punch anyone in front of pr."
"proud of you," he murmurs. "growth."
you elbow him. "you're annoying."
"yet here you are. on a chilly sidewalk. with me."
"believe me, i've had worse company."
he glances down at you, amused. "like who?"
your mouth twitches. "want a list? liam's got a permanent spot at the top." you make an imaginary ranking with your hands, earning a fond smile from alex.
"I could've guessed. at one point I thought he might’ve jumped over the candles in order to choke us out.”
you huff a laugh because you could see it. a beat passes, a car horn honks down the street, and then, quieter—“I don't get how I ever believed him."
alex doesn't answer right away—he can’t—he just nudges your foot lightly with his. "people like that are good at sounding true," he says. "until they're not."
you look at him, and for a second, there's no act. no joke. just street noise and the ache of history between you, not full covered by the months and months of burying.
your voice is softer when you respond. "yeah. well, never again."
"good," he notes. another beat and then—“so do we think logan's still in there giving his ted talk on pasta shapes or did someone finally cut his mic?"
you snort. "he tried to argue tortellini is an 'elite-tier personality food.' I almost threw a knife at him."
alex grins. "that's the woman I remember."
part 4: if this is gake, then why does it hurt?
the sun isn't fully up yet, but the garage is already stirring with low voices, soft clangs of metal, and radios crackling faintly with logistics chatter.
you move quietly behind the lens, slipping through the garage like a shadow. the camera hangs in a familiar weight around your neck, and the steady click of the shutter is the only thing keeping you grounded in the early haze. you focus on the details—a mechanic's gloved hands tightening bolts, steam rising from a half-drunk coffee, glints of light off carbon fiber.
you keep working. you keep moving. you don't think. you certainly don’t feel. you round a corner, eyes on your viewfinder—and nearly walk straight into him.
alex, of course.
you go to apologize, some half joke about him taking up too much space for his own good ready to roll of the tongue, but that all stops and your stomach sinks the moment you see who he's with.
a woman in black clothes. tall. ridiculously pretty. she’s blonde, with one of those confident laughs that belong to people who've never been heartbroken. her hand rests casually on alex's arm. it’s looks easy, intimate, like she's done it before. like she has every right to.
you freeze. just half a second. but it's enough for heat to rise along the back of your neck like an unwanted spike.
alex hasn't noticed you yet. he's smiling—a real and relaxed smile. his head tilts slightly toward her, eyes crinkling at the corners.
and just like that, something inside you twists hot and mean. god, get over it. he's not yours. not anymore. maybe he never was. despite what your brain is saying, your heart still beats wildly, and your grip tightens around the camera until your knuckles go white.
you mutter something—half apology, half excuse—and move past them before either one can say a word. your shoulder brushes his as you pass.
you don't look back. not when he says your name and certainly not when the girl beside him asks what happened.
it doesn’t take long for alex to follow your footsteps, and by the time he catches up to you, you're halfway down the back corridor, scrolling through your sd card with all the frantic focus of someone pretending they're not spiraling.
he falls into step beside you, close enough that you catch the faint earthy smell of his aftershave. "hey," he says, voice careful.
you don't look up. "busy."
alex almost snorts. "I can tell." a beat passes before he continues, quieter. "you okay?"
you give a humorless laugh under your breath. "peachy."
he looks at you like he doesn't buy it for a second. "she's from pirelli. we were talking tires."
you stop walking and turn to him, slowly, and your eyebrows drawn with caution. your voice is calm—too calm—in a way that makes alex gulp. "why are you explaining that to me?"
he blinks and doesn't answer right away. much to your dismay, the pause—that second of hesitation—says more than you want it to. finally, alex swallows, eyes soft. "because you looked like you cared."
your heart drops straight into your stomach. you stare at him, throat tight. his face is maddeningly unreadable. it’s too open, too steady, like he's waiting for you to say something he already knows you won't.
"I don't," you mumble, fingers absentmindedly fiddling with the strap of your camera.
you hate how quiet it comes out—how timid you sound. how much it sounds like a lie. alex doesn’t push—just nods once. slowly.
"okay," he says, softer now. "but if you did...I wouldn't mind." the words land between you like a weight. solid and impossible to ignore.
your chest tightens—not from panic, not with alex—but from something far more dangerous. the kind of ache that lives between denial and want.
he steps in, not close enough to touch, but just close enough for you to feel him. to feel that pull that never really went away. "you've got that look," alex murmurs, eyes dancing around your expression like you’re painting.
you narrow your eyes. "what look?"
"the one you get before you do something reckless. or throw something."
you huff. "you're not that important." but you don't move. you don't leave. because he is that important.
alex’s gaze flicks toward the empty photo bay—it’s quiet, tucked behind equipment cases and fluorescent shadows—then back to you.
"five minutes," he says. it’s not a question, it’s just an offer.
you hesitate, pulse kicking up, hard and sudden.
you should say no.
you have work. you have boundaries. you have no business wanting five more minutes with someone you're not supposed to miss. but.
your voice barely makes it out.
"okay."
you end up settling onto an old crate, tucked away just far enough to avoid most eyes—or at least the ones that might ask questions you're not ready to answer.
the thwack-thwack of impact wrenches and the soft hum of paddock chatter fills the background, steady and strangely calming.
you lean back, balancing a lukewarm paper cup between your fingers. alex had handed it to you a few minutes ago, and somehow it feels like the only tether holding the two of you in the same orbit. it’s something sweet and warm. you drink it in small sips.
out of the corner of your eye, you glance at him.
he's not looking at you—not yet. his eyes are fixed on the cracked pavement, thumb tapping a restless rhythm against his own cup's rim.
then he speaks. his voice low and a little rough—like it's been sitting in his throat too long. "I hated pretending you didn't exist last year. when we were together."
your breath catches. you turn slowly toward him, pulse hitching.
he still doesn't meet your eyes. "i'd be walking past you on the grid," he says, just above the garage noise, "and you'd smile like we were just coworkers. like it was nothing. it felt... wrong."
your chest tightens—that same old ache folding into something more fragile. you want to be sharp. or say something clever. but all that escapes is a quiet, "you were the one who said we had to keep it quiet."
it’s then that alex finally looks at you. his eyes are shaded—not just tired, but heavy with something softer. something that lives between guilt and memory. "I know," he swallows, voice gone thick. "I thought I was protecting you. from the noise. from the press. from all the questions. but mostly... from me."
you blink. eyebrows lifting, surprised. "from you?"
a small, almost broken smile curves his lips. "I thought i'd mess it up.” he sends you a gentle look, one that holds even more truth that words. “and I did. in silverstone. I gave you no other option.”
your heart slams against your ribs. maybe because you know exactly what he means. or maybe because deep down, you've been waiting to hear it.
you don't think, you just reach out, brushing your fingers against his hand around the cup. barely a touch. it’s hesitant but it’s alive.
his fingers twitch and then—then—curl gently around yours.
you don't say anything.
neither does he.
you don't need to.
in that quiet space between breaths, it feels like the world shrinks to just this—the weight of old truths, the warmth of his skin, the closeness you swore you wouldn't miss and somehow always did.
you almost laugh. not out of humor, but out of disbelief. because here you are, fake dating for the cameras, sitting in a garage full of noise, and somehow this feels more real than anything's felt in months.
alex clears his throat, like he's trying to shake it off. "so, uh... the espressos not terrible, huh?"
you grin and some of the tension slips loose. "better than I expected."
he bumps your shoulder, light and easy, "see? progress."
and just like that, the silence changes. it’s still full and most definitely still complicated, but... not final.
part 5: one bed, too many feelings
the paddock fades behind you, replaced by the soft mechanical hum of the hotel elevator as the day finally comes to a close. the chaos of race day slips away bit by bit, leaving just silence and nerves. your shoulders still ache from crouching to capture the perfect image, and as you reach out to press the button for your floor, your muscles cry.
your eyes stay fixed on the little screen counting floor numbers, but your mind's occupied with the familiar stature of the man next to you. alex. he had caught up to you before you could escape the paddock—fans and reports still lingering around as he grabbed your elbow. with a soft grin and squinting form the setting sun, he insisted to walk back to the hotel with you.
and you let him.
if you knew what mishap was waiting for you at the reception desk, you may of just stayed overnight in the williams garage and prayed no janitors thought you were dead.
the receptionist had frowned, clicking around for a bit too long, and then said the words that made your heart stutter: "looks like there's been a mix-up — only one room left on this floor."
alex raised an eyebrow beside you, spun the room key once between his fingers, and shrugged. "guess we're roomies."
you had stared at him. the disbelief, the exasperation—and, fine, the flicker of something else—all twisting in your chest. "great," you muttered, tone flat, but something in your face betrayed you.
he flashed you that crooked grin. "hey, at least it's not carlos—he farts in his sleep."
so here you are, replaying everything—the weight of his words, the way his fingers brushed yours, the stupid crooked smile that still makes your chest twist.
alex stands still next to you, hands shoved into his pockets. he watches the numbers, too—or pretends to always. he doesn't look at you. okay he does, but only when he thinks you're not paying attention.
when the elevator dings, the hallway unfolds quiet and soft, muted hotel lighting casting everything in beige and cream. a world away from the sound and sweat of the circuit.
you glance at the door number engraved on the silver key dangling from alex’s long finger.
412.
alex leads you to the room with a hand hovering near your lower back. he unlocks the door in silence, just the clinking sound of the lock unlatching to be heard in the otherwise quiet hallway.
once it opens, you step in and alex follows suit. the door shuts behind you with a soft click that sounds louder than it should—like it just locked in something you can't quite name.
your eyes dance around the space. crisp paint, even crisper bedding. a bathroom and a nice chair. but there's one bed. of course there's only one bed. and it's king-sized, which somehow makes it worse. like the universe had a sense of humor and was currently laughing its ass off.
you stand there for a second, just staring at the bed. your heart does a weird, awkward flip and you inhale slow through your nose so you don't turn heel and run. it's just a bed. you're a professional. you've shared hotel rooms before. just... not with an ex who you're still holding on to.
alex leans casually against the wall, arms crossed, watching you. his smirk is infuriatingly calm. he knows exactly what you're thinking. and he's definitely enjoying it. at least, on the outside he is.
"well, this is... cozy," you chirp, trying for breezy, but your voice catches slightly at the end.
he pushes off the wall and gestures toward the bed. "you can have the window side."
"how generous," you deadpan. "i'm sure you'll be stealing the blankets by midnight."
"probably," he says. "don’t know if you recall, but I snore like a dying engine."
"I remember," you mutter, already regretting everything. you climb onto the edge of the bed like it might bite you. your camera bag stays between you like a buffer zone.
alex sits on the other side, long legs stretched out, keeping his distance. for now. he's still in his team kit, and his hair has curled at the edges caused by the humid rain that drenched the track earlier.
"so what's the plan?" you ask, voice lighter than you feel. "we just... pretend this is totally normal?”’
he glances over at you. "isn't that what we're good at?"
your lips twitch into something half between a laugh and a sigh. "we're going to regret this."
"probably," he says again, voice edging with exhaustion. "but i'm too tired to care."
the air conditioner hums. the silence stretches.
you turn away first and tuck your legs under yourself, desperately trying to ignore the fact of how your pulse won't calm down.
"you don't usually share beds with your exes on race weekends, right?" you ask, more to fill the quiet than searching for an actual answer.
he laughs softly. "nope. you're a first."
you glance at him out of the corner of your eye. "don't get cocky."
"too late." god, it's so dangerous—how easy this still is. how he can sit next to you like no time has passed, like nothing's broken.
you pull your knees closer. a beat passes, and you take the time to let your eyes wander further. a tv remote, faded curtains and a room service menu. a smile automatically tugs across your face, your voice is quieter now. "you remember japan?"
he turns slightly toward you. "which part?"
"the night after the race. the room service. the natto."
he groans through a laugh. "it tasted like something that should've been banned by the fia."
you laugh too—real, reluctant. "you made the worst face."
"you were laughing," he says, his voice softer now. "I remember thinking that was it. like... that was the happiest i'd ever been."
you freeze.
it's too much. too honest. too real.
you meet his eyes. "alex."
he doesn't move. his voice drops lower, almost a rasp. "i'm not pretending right now."
you swallow hard. "I know," you whisper back, just as quiet and hopeful.
the air between you tightens, turning electric. you lean in—just a little. barely enough to count. but he mirrors the motion, slow and careful, like the slightest wrong move might shatter everything.
your noses nearly touch. you can feel the warmth of his breath, the tension from the race still lingering in his shoulders. his eyes flicker to your lips and back again.
your heart is hammering. you stop breathing. and then—you pull back. just a few inches. your breath leaves you in a tremble. you’re not sure why you feel like crying. "this is a bad idea."
alex watches you for a beat, expression unreadable, and then nods. "I know."
but neither of you move. seconds stretch. your fingers twitch at your side. his jaw clenches, and then loosens. you glance down at his hand—so close to yours. too close.
the silence isn't empty—it's full of things neither of you say.
you turn your face away, but not fully. just enough to break the spell. "we should go to sleep."
alex doesn't answer. just looks at you like he's memorizing something. and slowly, quietly, the moment fades—like warm breath on cold glass. "yeah," he murmurs.
part 6: the things you don't say out loud (until you do)
the morning light slices through the curtains in soft, fractured beams. it catches on the tangled sheets around you, on the curve of your shoulder—on the shape of his absence.
you wake slowly, blinking quickly to discover that you're alone in the bed. your heart drops before you can stop it—some ridiculous flare of disappointment that makes you feel silly almost instantly.
just before you can reach for your phone, you hear it—the soft creak of the bathroom door opening, followed by the sound of a toothbrush working.
alex steps out a moment later, hair damp form the shower and, toothbrush handing form his mouth. "oh," he says around the handle once he sees that you’re awake. "sorry. didn't mean to wake you."
the relief at seeing him is almost as embarrassing as the where are you text you planned to send him in a desperate panic. you sit up, rubbing at your face. "you didn't."
but your voice betrays you. it’s hoarse and uncertain and it’s definitely a tell that you’ve only been conscious sub 30 seconds.
alex notices. of course he does.
neither of you mention the night before. not how close you were. not how close you still are. not the way it almost felt like nothing had ever ended.
once he spits his toothpaste in the sink and wipes his mouth with a towel, alex crosses the room, and grabs a hoodie from the back of a chair. he tosses you a glance. "tea?" he prompts like it's any other morning.
all you can do is nod. but you're still carefully watching him—and alex knows it.
because whatever happened between you last night, even if you didn't say it, even if you didn't touch...it still happened.
and it's still happening. and you’re not sure when it’s going to burst out the seams.
the paddock is already buzzing by the time you get there. sunday mornings always carry that low-grade tension—early press huddles, fans behind the barriers, pr people power-walking through garages with phones glued to their ears.
you hang near the media tent, adjusting your camera strap like it's armor, trying to ignore the extra attention that seems to follow you now.
people nod at you more than usual. a ferrari photographer winks. someone from alpine throws you a thumbs-up like you're part of an inside joke no one told you about. even logan, across the garage, catches your eye and wiggles his eyebrows like a kid who definitely knows something he shouldn't.
perfect. the entire paddock thinks you're starring in a romcom you didn't sign up for.
you duck behind one of the support trucks, and lift your camera, adjusting the lens for the morning light. you focus on the movement—pit lane crew working on piastri’s car, glints of chrome, the way the sun skims across the front wing of the williams car.
focus. breathe. this is your job, not a soap opera.
"hey."
the sound startles you, nearly colliding with alex as you turn fast on your heels. he's close. just inside that invisible boundary line, leaning in so his voice doesn't carry.
"you okay?" he asks, brows furrowed, eyes scanning yours.
you nod too fast, heart beat recovering from the scare. "yeah. just avoiding logan's smug face and trying not to become the lead in the group chat this weekend."
a flicker of a smile tugs at his mouth. "he does have a flair for drama," alex notes, stepping slightly closer as someone walks behind you both.
his hand brushes the middle of your back so light that it’s maybe nothing. or maybe too much. either way, it sends a ripple through your spine.
thankfully, you don't react. not visibly anyways.
alex tilts his head, watching you. "for what it's worth... I think we're pulling it off. the couple thing."
you shoot him a deadpanned look. "great. i've always dreamed of being pit lane's most convincing pr stunt."
he grins. "you're a natural."
you roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you with the faintest twitch.
a pause settles between you. alex watches you for a beat longer, and there's something different in his eyes now. softer. also heavier? like he's debating whether to say what he really wants to.
and then, in a voice quieter than before, he admits, "i'm glad it's you."
your brow lifts. "what?"
he rubs the back of his neck, suddenly shy. "just... if i've gotta fake-date someone on the grid, i'm glad it's you."
you blink, surprised. caught off guard by the honesty of it. "okay," you say slowly. "that might be the nicest weird compliment i've gotten all weekend. but i’ll take it, considering I put us in this mess.”
before alex can respond, someone shouts his name from across the garage—a team comms person pointing toward the media pen, no doubt waiting for him to hurry the hell up. alex gives you a small nod and that signature half-smile. "catch you in a bit, fake girlfriend."
you call after him, "try not to fall in love with me mid-interview."
he tosses a wink over his shoulder without missing a step.
and then he's gone. swallowed back into the noise and speed of race day, leaving you with a camera full of photos and a stomach full of butterflies you definitely did not invite.
part 7: caught staring, caught feelings
the week between race weekends passes in a blur of flights, overflowing laundry, packing cubes, deadlines, and pretending like everything's totally fine.
you barely see alex after austria. a few texts here and there. mostly logistics. timing. one half-joke about shared hotel rooms again—neither of you really reply to that one.
but the silence isn't awkward. it's worse than that.
it's deliberate.
like you both know exactly how close you got in that hotel room—under thin sheets, too many inches stolen between unspoken things. every brush of his hand, every quiet breath in the dark, none of it was in the script. and neither of you stopped it.
now, silverstone looms.
his home race. big crowds. bigger press. and all eyes on him. which means all eyes on you, too.
you show up early, camera slung over your shoulder, lanyard bouncing against your chest as you weave through rows of fans crowding the barriers. the energy hits different here. louder and deeper like the track itself is holding its breath.
you haven't seen him yet, and honestly, you're not sure if you want to.
which makes it all the more jarring when you step into the williams hospitality tent and walk straight into carlos sainz mid-bite—and somehow still smirking.
the spaniard he leans back in his chair, fork dangling lazily from his fingers, that familiar gleam in his eyes. "well, well," he says, tone already smug. "the famous girlfriend.”
you freeze mid-step, camera swinging at your side. "excuse me?"
carlos gestures with his fork, like he's presenting hard evidence. "alex. he told me. you two've been keeping secrets, no?"
you open your mouth, then shut it again. breathe. play it cool. "we're... private," you say eventually. tone neutral, but not entirely convincing.
he raises a brow, clearly unconvinced. "ah," he says, stabbing at his pasta. "so private you forgot to tell half the paddock for a year. must be very real." he's not being rude, you know that. carlos is just blunt, and in turn, very intelligent.
you're still trying to come up with something halfway decent in response when a voice cuts in behind you—low, dry, and unmistakably alex.
"carlos."
you turn just as alex steps up beside you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, expression pulled tight like he's fighting a smile.
"what?" carlos shrugs, far too pleased with himself. "I like her. she's honest. and clearly too good for you."
you almost laugh. almost. but you can feel the heat crawling up your neck. not from carlos, but from the way alex is standing a little too close, his hand hovering at the small of your back.
like a reflex and habit.
"you didn't deny it," carlos points out, clearly enjoying himself.
alex smirks—calm, controlled, practiced. "didn't have to." and that? that lands right in the center of your chest. not a full ache, but definitely not nothing.
carlos grins. "fine. don't tell me. but i'm bringing this up at the next drivers' dinner."
"please don't," alex mutters.
"too late," carlos says, already typing something into his phone. when carlos turns his attention back to his food, alex leans in just a little, voice soft near your ear.
"you okay?"
you nod, even though you're not sure. maybe because if you don't, you'll say something you can't take back.
alex watches you for a second longer, eyes scanning like he's searching for the truth underneath your silence. but whatever he sees, he doesn't push. "i'll find you after practice," he says, even quieter. "if I don't get mobbed first."
you offer him a crooked half-smile. "tell your fans to chill. you're spoken for, remember?"
he chuckles as he backs away—but the look he gives you isn't staged. no, it's something that's been building long before the fake dating started. maybe even before the breakup.
and just like that, he's gone— swallowed up by the buzz of debriefs and interviews and everything else that keeps this world spinning.
you exhale, adjust your lens, and pretend your heart isn't racing just because of a look.
qualifying day — morning
the paddock pulses with energy, the kind that vibrates through the soles of your shoes and makes your chest shake. silverstone's always been a beast—home crowds, unpredictable skies, and more cameras than common sense.
you move through the chaos with your own camera slung across your body like usual, caffeine buzzing in your veins. your lanyard bounces with every step, and your hair's already a mess from ducking under scaffolding and sneaking between barriers for the right shot.
you don't see alex until you turn a corner and nearly run straight into him. he's leaning against a stack of tires, helmet tucked under his arm, grinning like he's been standing there just long enough to wait you out. knowing alex, he probably was.
"you always film me when i'm sweaty and sleep-deprived. it's targeted."
you raise your camera. "it's authentic. be grateful."
"i'm a driver, not a documentary."
"you're both now. sorry." there’s not hint of an apology in your voice as you lift the viewfinder and snap a few frames all while he mock-grimaces.
he steps a little closer, just enough that your shoulder brushes his when you adjust the lens. his voice drops—low and soft under the hum of the paddock.
"you nervous?"
"why would I be nervous?"
he tilts his head slightly, like he's trying to read through you. "because today's going to be loud. for both of us."
you keep the camera up. "i'll survive."
his eyes linger, like he wants to say more. but instead, he just taps the front of your lens gently.
"get my good side, alright?"
"you only have one side," you deadpan.
"which is devastatingly handsome. I agree."
you both laugh, too loud for how close you're standing, too easy for people pretending this is nothing.
later, back in the garage, everything tightens. the air feels heavier and more focused. qualifying's coming fast, and every person here moves like they've got a stopwatch ticking in their head.
you sit tucked into a narrow desk station between two walls, downloading footage from earlier. your focus is clipped, sharp, jaw tight as you scan through frame after frame of alex in motion.
you hear footsteps. and then your name.
"didn't expect to see you here still."
you go still and the turn in your seat slowly, stomach sinking as an all too familiar and unwanted sight greets you.
liam.
he's wearing sunglasses even through its just been pouring, and his team branded zip up has a coffee stain near the logo. he's still smiling like you're together. like you're friends.
"get some good shots?" he asks, nodding at your gear. but his words hold no weight. liam doesn't care, he never has.
your jaw tightens. "I'm happy with them, yes." you mutter, turning back to your screen.
liam's eyes flick to the far end of the garage where alex is adjusting his gloves, laughing with one of the engineers. "I honestly didn't think albon would be your type." he steps in closer. "can I ask," he doesn't wait for you to speak before leaning in too close, almost bumping your camera off the table in the process. "was he your first choice? or did sainz blow you off and leave you with no choice?"
you stand abruptly, chair scraping across the floor with a loud, sharp noise. "what is your—"
"hey, relax," he interrupts, smirking. "i'm just saying... you always hated the spotlight. and now look at you. all over the paddock like some trophy girlfriend."
before you can utter a word, you feel someone step up beside you. a quiet and steady presence that comes as an immediate relief.
alex doesn't speak right away, and he doesn't touch you. he just stands there, like a wall between you and the echo of everything liam still knows how to twist.
"everything alright?" alex questions, voice low and unreadable. he's not looking at you though. no—his sharp gaze is set on liam.
liam scoffs. "wow. you really trained him, huh?" he glances alex up and down. "didn't know you were into playing guard dog."
alex's jaw ticks, but his voice stays level and cold. "she doesn't need anyone to guard her," he states. "but if you keep talking to her like that, i'll stop pretending to be polite."
the silence that follows is thick and tense—like the whole garage is holding its breath.
liam glances between you both. then shrugs, fake-casual. "touchy, touchy." and then he walks off like he won something.
you let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding, eyes fixed on the floor. you can feel that your face is hot with rage, and your eyes burn with unshed tears from your exes awful insinuations.
"you didn't have to do that," you say, quieter now.
alex keeps looking in the direction liam disappeared, his expression unreadable.
"yeah," he says finally, voice softer now. "I did."
you don't know what to say to that. not when something heavy is pressing behind your ribs—something like guilt, something like gratitude, something you don't want to name.
alex turns to you, gentle now. he reaches out, and tucks a piece of hair behind your ear like it's the easiest thing in the world.
"you okay?" he asks again.
this time when you nod, a shaky breathing leaving your chest that tells the opposite, alex doesn’t believe it. he pulls you in for a sweet hug—pressing a kiss to your hairline that says more than words could.
late night — post-qualifying, hotel rooftop
you found yourself outside only a few hours after the saturday evening bleeds into night. your hair is still wet from your shower, pyjamas clinging to your skin in a comfortable way.
the hotel rooftop was mostly empty, the city's neon lights flickering distantly, traffic humming far below. it's a quiet and much needed relief after a day that felt like being microwaved inside a media cage.
you don't know why you came up here. maybe to breathe? maybe to be alone? maybe because a part of you hoped he'd follow.
and, of course, he did. it's like alex knew that you were awake even despite your usual early bedtime. he steps out onto the rooftop minutes after you, two mugs in hand and his hoodie zipped only halfway up. you catch sight of the t-shirt you used to steal adorning his chest.
"I come bearing tea," he breathes, holding out one mug like a peace offering. "because coffee at this hour felt like a crime."
you took the mug wordlessly, fingers brushing his briefly. your hands are cold; his aren’t. probably due to the fact he made drinks.
"I would've taken coffee."
alex grins, "I know, that's why I didn't make it."
you sip instead of answering him, letting the steam warm your face before continuing, "shouldn't you be asleep?"
he shrugs, stepping beside you but careful not to crowd your space. "couldn't. brain won't shut off." he paused. "you?"
you gave a half-smile, eyes on the glittering city below. "same." your response is quick. posed and breezy. it’s easier than trying to explain how you’re really feeling—how your fake relationship with alex feels so identical to your past real one, that it’s almost cruel.
for a few seconds, the only sound between you was the whistle of wind and distant bass from the hotel below.
then, just before it gets too quiet, alex speaks. "carlos asked me if we were in love."
you nearly choke on your tea. "what?" you splutter, wiping a dribble of tea that escapes form the corner of your lips.
"you know carlos. subtle as a tire wall." alex laughs softly, but it didn't quite reach his eyes as he continues. "he cornered me in the cooldown room. asked if we were real, or just good actors."
your chest tightens incredibly fast. "and you said?” you trail off, something like hope lacing your tone.
alex glances at you, something unreadable flickering in his expression. "I said no."
his answer hits like a dropped wrench—sudden, ugly and almost makes you jump. your grip tightens on the hotel mug in your clutches as you turn back toward the skyline, trying not to let anything show.
of course he said no.
this whole thing is fake. pretend. a performance. any word of the sort. you can’t curse yourself too hard though, not when the line between real and fake has blurred into nothingness.
just as you go to excuse yourself to go cry silently against the crisp hotel pillow you left behind, alex steps a little closer, just close enough for your breath to catch and shoulders to tighten.
"I said no," he repeats, slower this time, "because I didn't want to lie."
you turn toward him, brows furrowed. you’re not sure how this is better—and clearly alex sees your distraught eyes, because he holds your gaze, steady and sure. "I didn't want to say we were in love like it was some joke. not when I mean it."
your mouth opens, but no words come.
alex exhales through his nose, suddenly feeling awkward as he runs a hand through his unruly hair. "god, that was... not smooth."
"no," you answer quietly. "but honest."
there was a pause.
then.
"say it," you whisper.
alex blinks. "what?"
"say it." your voice is steady now, tinged with hope and something promising. you don’t know where the courage came from, only that you needed it. needed to hear it in something more than touches, glances, and almosts.
he stares at you for a long moment, like he’s searching for an escape. searching your eyes to ensure that yes, you want this. want him. after a second that feels like a thousand, alex steps in. he’s close—close enough for your pulse to jump and breath to catch.
"you know I always look for you," alex’s words are no higher than a whisper, voice almost lost in the wind. "in every paddock, every crowd, every press line. even when I act like I don't care. especially then."
your chest aches.
he doesn’t touch you—not yet. his hands stay wrapped around the mug, like it was the only thing holding him together.
"I wanted to say something that day," he admits, “as soon as you walked out that door. but I couldn’t. not when i’d just broken your heart.” alex sighs shakily, eyes locking with yours as he continues. "and then we were halfway across the world and pretending to be fine. I didn't want to add to the noise. or say the wrong thing. or make you stay when you didn't want to."
"you think I didn't want to?" you asked, stunned.
"I don't know." his voice cracks just enough for you to notice. "you left. I let you. that's on me."
your breath hitched, tea was cooling fast under your hands, but you don’t care. "you didn't stop me either," you whisper sadly, “I wanted you to stop me.”
"I thought i'd already lost you," alex sighs.
the silence that followed was louder than anything either of you could say. then, carefully, like gravity gave up holding you apart, he stepped into your orbit. you watch carefully through tear filled eyes as alex sets his mug down on a ledge, between flower pots like it belongs. he takes yours next, sitting it next to his with a dull clink.
this time, when alex reaches out, it’s not for the mug. it’s for you. his touch is gentle—thumb brushing along your cheek, fingers settling against your jaw. you lean into the touch like it was instinct. mostly because it is.
and when he kisses you—quiet and slow—it doesn’t feel like a grand gesture, and it’s certainly doesn’t feel like an act. it feels inevitable. it feels like a hundred wordless sorries spoken against your lips.
the kiss—you and alex—feels like something you've both been circling around since the start. no cameras, no lies, and right now, certainly no pretending.
part 8: now what?
next morning, race day, austin TX
you'd slept, technically.
your eyes were shut. your body still—letting the weight of the duvet press you into the mattress. but your mind replayed last night on an endless loop. the rooftop, the tea, his voice, the kiss—over and over until dream and memory blurred.
by the time you stepped into the paddock, like usual, everything was already moving full throttle. race day. cameras flashing everywhere. fans chanting from behind fences, waving flags like lifelines.
you pull your cap lower, trying to focus. camera? check. lanyard? check. resolve not to combust every time you saw alex? well, that’s still pending.
he spots you before you spot him.
you’re by the williams garage, adjusting light settings on your camera and completely encapsulated by the lens.
he passes you by with his trainer talking about something alex doesn’t really care to hear. his fireproof undershirt is tucked messily into his race suit, zipper halfway down, hair still damp from running drills.
when your eyes catch his, alex is already smiling. the eye contact is brief, and he looks away like if he stares too long you might blind him.
your stomach flips. because alex is acting like normal. of course he is. you'd only kissed, not rewrite the laws of physics. no big deal. just two exes faking a relationship who maybe weren't faking anymore and also maybe still wanted each other and—
you nearly walk into a cart stacked with tires.
"you good?" logan appears beside you like some chaos-summoned spirit. you wouldn’t be suprised if he is.
you blink at him, brushing imagine dust off your shirt. "fine."
he raises a brow. "you look like you saw a ghost."
"just...pre-race nerves."
"you're not the one driving."
you mutter something incoherent under your breath and pretend to scroll through photos. but logan would never let you get away that easy. he leans in, conspiratorial. "so... is it weird if I say you two actually seem more believable now?"
you freeze. "what?"
"you and alex. the fake dating thing. didn't buy it at first, but now? there's like... a vibe."
you gave him a half mortified look. "what kind of vibe?"
"like..." he pauses, clearly enjoying this, "'i'd fight someone in parc fermé for you' vibes."
before you could respond, you felt it—that prickle at the back of your neck, that sudden awareness you always get when alex is near. he’s across the garage now, leaning over the nose of the car, deep in discussion with an engineer. but his eyes find you anyway. just for a second.
you look back, and this time, neither of you look away. not until someone calls his name and alex has no choice but to turn, slipping into driver mode like it’s second skin.
you exhale shakily, hand pressed to your stomach like that will make everything feel better.
the problem with kissing alex albon is that now you remember exactly how it felt. and the problem with pretending is that, suddenly, you don’t know what part is real anymore.
austin – mid race
the pit wall buzzed like it had a heartbeat of its own. telemetry data streamed across the monitors. radios cracked and chimed. engineers shouted lap times, tire wear, gaps. you stood just behind the controlled chaos, headphones on but turned down low—enough to catch alex's voice when it filtered through comms, smooth but taut with focus.
you usually don’t wear the headphones. not because you don’t want to, but because hearing alex’s voice used to make you want to die. but now—with him slipping them over your ears before the race with a half lipped grin—you don’t ever want to take them off.
so you half pretend to take photos of inside the garage while you’re actually listening to every complain, praise and breath fall from his lips.
twenty-five laps in, and alex is holding p7. grinding it out on aging mediums, defending like hell from george in the mercedes behind him, and chasing hamilton ahead.
every time his name flashed on the timing screen, your heart stutters. not because it’s your job to care, but because it’s him.
the same man who kissed you like you were the only real thing left in the world last night. the same man you'd once left, terrified he'd forget you in the next country. the same man now threading a car through corners at 190mph like it was nothing—trusting you'll still be there when it stopped.
"box, box," came the call on lap 27.
in the blink, he was in. the garage exploded into repetitive movement. tires, jacks, and helmets all snapping into place. you step back, camera raised to catch the choreography with the detachment of a professional.
but your hands trembled.
alex's car hit the marks perfectly.
the stop was fast—2.3 seconds—the cleanest of all the stops so far.
until it wasn't. a rear tire gun jammed. only for a beat, but it was enough to fuck everything off.
2.3 seconds turned into 4.8.
you felt it like a punch to the chest.
"go, go, go." alex peeled out of the box with a certain pull, already yelling over the radio. not furious. just frustrated—controlled but frustrated—you could tell that by the edge in his voice.
"what happened with the left rear?"
no one answers right away. you look over at the crew. everyone back in position, reviewing footage and telemetry. fixing. adjusting. pretending like they aren’t holding their breath.
alex was back out in p9.
you lower your camera slowly, and then glance at the monitor again. you see him taking copse flat, no lift, chasing time like he could will it back.
and he did. sort of. he finished p8. it wasn't a disaster but it wasn't what it should've been either. the whole garage buzzed with what-if energy.
you wait by the monitors, unsure if you should stay or go. unsure if alex wants to deal with you and whatever weird state you’re both hovering in.
the paddock is thinning, the crews already packing up their things and heading to their hotels. somewhere nearby, champagne pops from another team's podium celebration.
you don’t move, not until—"you're still here?"
it’s alex's voice, left hoarse from the race, but unmistakably his. he’s still suited, fireproof top clinging to him and sweat caked in his hair. he looks tired, yet also wired—and something else you can’t name.
"you usually disappear right after interviews," alex adds, stepping closer.
"I was going to."
he raises a brow. "but?"
you exhale slowly. "you looked like you needed someone to be here."
his expression softens. "I did."
for a second, the noise of the track seemed far away. like the whole world has been pressed on pause. there’s no screaming fans or lando’s laugh between chugs of champagne. just your breathing and alex’s heart beat.
you study his face—flushed, raw, and real. so much left unsaid.
"that stop... wasn't your fault," you say quietly.
alex scoffs under his breath. "tell that to the two places I lost."
"you still drove the wheels off that thing."
he doesn’t answer right away, just nods once. and then, finally, he looks at you like you aren’t a ghost anymore. like he was still holding that kiss in his chest. "you helped today, you know," he murmured.
"I didn't do anything." you laugh shyly.
alex shrugs like it’s simple. to him, perhaps it is. "you stayed."
you swallow, pulse ticking louder than the fading engines. you want to touch him. want him to touch you. you want to say everything you aren’t supposed to.
instead, you shove your hands into your jacket pockets, voice light. "don't get used to it. I might disappear on you again."
alex smirks faintly, but his eyes? his eyes don’t play along. "if you do," he mutters, "i'll come after you this time."
evening — post-race team dinner, silverstone
the williams hospitality tent glowed under soft fairy lights strung across the ceiling. long tables were littered with paper plates, half-finished burgers, and flutes of bubbly champagne passed around like trophies. loud in that post-race way—adrenaline, exhaustion, and celebration all tangled.
you slip in late, camera still around your neck like it always is, hair windblown from standing trackside as the last drivers crossed the line. technically, you’re still working—someone always wants footage for socials—but your fingers haven’t touched the shutter in twenty minutes.
you spot alex across the room before he sees you. or maybe he did see you first, because he is already walking towards you.
there’s no hesitation in his steps. suddenly he’s just there. alex doesn’t say anything at first, just reaches over and takes the strap of the camera from around your neck. he lifts it off gently and then sets it on an empty chair even softer.
"you're done for the night," he breathes.
"you don't get to decide that."
"I do when your eyes are half-closed and your fingers are frozen."
you roll your eyes but don’t protest when he nudges a glass into your hand before tugging you toward the back table, away from the noise and the heart of the crowd.
you sit side by side on a bench, knees barely brushing—a closeness that doesn’t need announcing anymore. alex runs his finger over the stem of the glass in his hand, glancing at you sideways like he id trying to hide it.
you lean in, just slightly. "you always this twitchy after a top-ten finish?"
he scoffs but it has no bite. "it's not nerves."
"no?"
he looks at you—properly now—and something about the curve of his mouth makes your stomach flip. "you looked really good in that stupid team vest today."
you choke on your drink.
he continues like you didn’t almost just spit take, “and then with my headphones on. god.”
"you're unbelievable."
"i'm serious." he shrugs. "you wore it better than me, and that's saying something."
you bump your shoulder against his. "you're just trying to distract me so I don't ask how many places you could've gained if your left rear hadn't jammed."
"low blow," he murmurs, mock offended. his hand finds your knee beneath the table, and he just rests there, warm and steady. no drama, no show. just... easy.
your chest tightens with something unspoken. it’s something old and also something very, very new.
you and alex stay like that for a while, letting the the buzz of celebration, murmurs of post-race interviews, and even logan's obnoxious laugh from two tables away fade into background static.
and when you tilt your face toward his—just a little—he doesn’t ask. he just leans in without a blink and kisses you. it’s slow and casual, like the ones you’ve shared many times before.
like it didn't mean everything to you right now.
the kind of kiss shared with someone who already knew you—knew the things you didn't say out loud. familiar. certain.
when you pull apart, neither of you smile right away. you both just sit there—close, still, quiet and completely content.
eventually, you break the silence. "so should we just... talk about it?"
alex's lips quirk. "we are talking about it."
you huff, but don’t move away. his hand is still on your knee, and your fingers curl into the hem of his sleeve without thinking. "okay," you sigh happily, voice quiet as you peer up at him. "but... this isn't fake anymore, right?"
alex doesn’t answer. he doesn’t need to. instead he leans in again, pressing his forehead to yours before placing another chaste kiss to your lips.
he doesn’t even pull away before he answers. "was it ever?"
morning before zandvoort race day
it had taken you and alex months. a dozen cities, two hotel mishaps, and one very unconvincing fake relationship—and somewhere between a late-night balcony kiss and a quiet team dinner, something had shifted.
you never really said it out loud—not like people expect you to. no big declarations. no perfect moment with violins in the background.
but the world around you notice.
especially now.
the paddock at zandvoort was alive with heat and music and that strange electricity that only comes before lights-out. the sun split through passing clouds, flags waved, people shouting alex's name from the barriers, and still—somehow—you manage to forget it is all this big.
because when you spot him before the drivers' parade, leaning against the barrier with his helmet in one hand and eyes scanning the crowd—then inevitably landing directly on you—everything else fades to background noise.
that smile. quick, crooked, a little private.
the kind of smile he used to hide. but now? he gives it to you freely.
you lift your camera without thinking.
click.
you didn't even need to check the screen. you already knew it was your favorite photo of the weekend.
"still pretending?" came a voice beside you.
you turn, a little startled, to find carlos grinning, arms crossed casually next to you.
"sorry?"
carlos nods towards alex. "him. you. that look he gives you. it's different now."
you hesitate. "it's not a story."
"no," carlos hums, smiling softer. "it's something better.”
you blink. "what do you mean?"
carlos shrugs casually. "he used to look like he was running from something. now he looks like he's staying for someone."
you don’t reply. not because you didn't know what to say—but because there was nothing left to explain.
your answer is already written in the lines of alex's face, the ease in his shoulders, the way his eyes always find yours even in a crowd of thousands.
this isn’t some rom com. it’s something real. something chosen. and when alex catches your eye again from across the barrier with that same grin and same quiet certainty, you feel it fully—for the first time.
you lower your camera and take a deep breath, the noise of the paddock washing around you like a distant tide.
alex's eyes hold yours once more—steady, soft, and real.
no words were needed. not now. because for the first time in a long time, everything feels like it’s exactly where it’s supposed to be.
and that was enough.
at least gabi is p6
looking for opinions both from americans and non-americans: what would you consider to be the big 4 american cities in terms of like, vibes-based cultural impact?
