your boyfriend declares something you do as a red flag. he faces the consequences. (𝘧𝘦𝘮!𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥𝘦𝘳)
ꔮ starring: oscar piastri, isack hadjar, lando norris, carlos sainz, alex albon, george russell.
ꔮ word count: 3.9k.
ꔮ includes: romance, humor/crack, fluff. mention of food. established relationships, the drivers grovel!!!, reader is rightfully petty (#isupportwomenswrongs). references to F1 Drivers Decide Their Personality Red Flags.
ꔮ commentary box: look. i’m not fond of writing grid fics, but when george in the video said “i think my girlfriend does that, hang on,” my ass kicked into high gear. finished this in one deranged sitting because, sometimes, the stories truly do write themselves. they’re all just men, dawg 🤥 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
OSCAR P. ⸻ 🚩 PHOTOGRAPHING THE MEAL BEFORE ALLOWING PEOPLE TO EAT.
Oscar first clocks you somewhere around week three.
At first, it didn't register. There are plenty of other photos in your latest dump: a blurry sunset, your sock-covered feet tangled with his on the couch, some artistically chaotic overhead of your cluttered nightstand.
But not a single photo of the mille-feuille from last Tuesday. Which is strange, because the plating was obnoxiously good. Food magazine good. The kind of good you usually made everyone wait to eat so you could get the angle just right. He ate it without pause, and you didn’t say a word.
He tells himself not to overthink it. Maybe you just didn’t like the lighting.
A week later, it’s ramen. A new spot. Big ceramic bowls and frosted glass dividers and lanterns that would’ve made for a great moody backdrop. You sit down, murmur something appreciative about the soft-boiled egg, and then just—dig in.
Oscar blinks. He waits for you to stop him. You still don’t.
It’s not until he scrolls through your camera roll on a flight to Austria, looking for a photo you took of his hoodie on your desk chair, that it really hits him. Because there are still photos of food, sure. Just… not his. One sad little snap of a half-eaten bao bun, probably taken when he went to the bathroom.
No more overheads. No more rearranging the table for composition. No more sighing at shadows or holding up menus for bounce lighting.
The worst part is, he knows exactly when it started.
He can picture it perfectly. How he, the genius, the romantic, the absolute idiot, had laughed and said, As soon as that plate's on the table, I’m eating it. So if anyone’s stopping me...
He hadn’t thought twice about it. Not until now, anyway.
By the time he books dinner for the two of you at the trendy bistro in Notting Hill, he’s borderline subtle about it. It’s got a tiled floor. Terracotta plates. A whole skylight situation. He figures, if anything’s going to tempt you into propping your elbow on the table and telling him to wait, it’s this. Instead, you just smile, thank the waiter, and start on the roasted carrots like it doesn’t hurt your soul to leave that burrata unrecorded.
When he finally brings it up, it’s less a confrontation and more of a low-stakes science experiment.
“Did the food get uglier, or did I say something dumb?”
You stare at him from across the kitchen island. You’re in your pajama shorts and one of his old team shirts, chopping strawberries. He watches your mouth twitch. “Be more specific,” you say.
Oscar gestures toward the pan on the stove, which still smells faintly of vanilla and burnt sugar. “You made crêpes. They’re perfect. Where’s the Instagram story?”
You glance at the pan. Then at him. Then back at the strawberries. “Oscar,” you say sweetly, “you once said—and I quote—As soon as the plate’s on the table…”
His face folds into a groan before he can stop it. “You’re still mad about that?”
“Not mad,” you say airily, slicing another berry. “Just respectful of your dining philosophy.”
He leans his elbows on the counter, eyeing you. “You’re telling me you gave up a six-year food photography streak because of a side comment I made?”
You hum noncommittally, but the corners of your mouth are doing something very close to smug. Oscar lets out a short laugh, half in disbelief. “Unreal,” he mumbles. “I miss it, you know. The hovering. The adjusting of cutlery. The way you used to bully me into not breathing on the plate.”
“You said it was a red flag.”
“Yeah, well.” He shrugs. “Turns out I like your shade of red.”
You pause mid-chop. It only lasts a second, but he catches it—that soft hitch in your breath, the way your gaze flickers up to meet his. “You liked being told not to eat yet?”
“I liked watching you fuss over things that made you happy,” he says, voice steady and firm. “Even if I had to pretend my pasta wasn’t going cold.”
You set the knife down. Walk around the island. Slide your arms around his waist, your cheek pressing against his chest. Oscar wraps his arms around you and kisses the top of your head. “Just take the photos, okay?” he sighs, holding you like you might slip away from him in the face of his sheer stupidity.
Your voice is muffled against his shirt. “I’m going to take a dozen of the crêpes.”
ISACK H. ⸻ 🚩 SLOW WALKING IN BUSY PUBLIC AREAS.
Isack used to joke that your natural walking pace was somewhere between a daydream and a scenic detour.
Not that he minded. He liked it, actually. Liked the way your fingers would slot into his, how your pace slowed time down. Sunday markets, grocery store aisles, even airport terminals. You never walked like you had anywhere to be. He used to tease you about it, but secretly, he enjoyed that you made the world feel less urgent.
Lately, though, he feels like he’s dating an Olympic speed walker.
He has to jog to catch up to you outside the baggage claim in Barcelona. You’re weaving between people like a salmon upstream, carry-on bag in tow, jaw set in quiet determination. He reaches out to grab your hand, but misses. Again.
“Do you have a flight I don’t know about?” he calls out, the frustration edging his tone ever so slightly.
You glance back at him over your shoulder, barely slowing. “The cab queue fills up fast.”
He huffs a laugh as he tries not to get shoulder-checked by a tourist group. “You used to take pictures of the floor tiles,” he bites out.
“They were nice tiles.”
“They’re still there, you know! They didn’t run off!”
You flash him a grin but don’t slow down. He frowns, adjusting the strap of his backpack. He doesn’t know when this started, exactly. Just that his arm feels colder without your hand in it.
It gets worse in Heathrow. The terminal is chaos, all metallic ceilings and garbled announcements and snaking queues. You’re ahead of him again, fast-walking toward passport control like it’s a competitive sport.
Isack’s about to tell you to slow down when you trip.
It’s not graceful. Your bag wheels the wrong way and your ankle buckles. The slap of your hands on the tile echoes, and so does the word you mutter under your breath. He’s at your side in an instant, crouching next to you, heart doing something unpleasant in his chest.
“Hey, hey. What the hell. Are you okay?”
You nod, but you’re wincing. “Think I twisted it.”
He checks your ankle gently, jaw tight. There’s already a faint redness blooming, and you hiss when he presses lightly against the bone. “You were practically sprinting,” he mutters.
“I was not sprinting.”
“Mon coeur, you were drafting off an old lady with a cane.”
You let out a pained laugh. “It’s fine. I’ll walk it off.”
“The only thing you’re walking is slowly, beside me, like a normal person,” he snaps, pulling a pack of instant cold compresses from his bag.
You go quiet, watching him shake the pack and press it gently to your ankle with a kind of exasperated care that only makes your cheeks burn. Eventually, in a voice barely above a whisper, you murmur, “You said it was a red flag.”
He pauses, hand still pressing the pack to your inflamed ankle. “What?”
You look everywhere but him. “In that video. They asked about red flags. And you said slow walkers in busy places.”
Isack stares at you. Then: “You changed your entire walking speed because of something I said in a video?!”
“I just didn’t want to annoy you.”
He groans. Loudly. Like he’s being haunted by his own past stupidity. “Mon coeur,” he says, pressing the cold pack a little firmer, “you could be moving backwards on a conveyor belt and I’d still want to hold your hand.”
You look like you’re biting back a grin. Progress, he supposes.
He sighs, brushing your hair back from your face. “I said something dumb. I’m allowed. I was raised in a paddock. But if you think I care more about getting to the taxi stand than walking next to you, you’re an even bigger idiot than me.”
You sniff, leaning your head against his shoulder. He shifts a little to accommodate you, wraps one arm around your waist. “You sure?” you ask, just for good measure.
“I’d wait light years for you,” he says. “Just maybe not in Heathrow ever again.”
You laugh, soft and sheepish. He smiles against your hair.
“Now let me carry you to the taxi queue before you try to walk again and ruin both our lives,” he declares, one arm already snaking around your waist.
“Romantic.”
“You know it.”
LANDO N. ⸻ 🚩 INSTANT TEXT REPLIES.
Lando tells himself you’re just busy.
That’s all it is. Bad Wi-Fi. Time zones. A dead phone. You’re not ignoring him, not really. Your texts still sound like you, peppered with emojis and the same dry jokes. It’s just the timing that’s off.
Where you used to reply within minutes, now it’s hours. Sometimes half a day. Sometimes he checks his phone and there’s nothing, and then he keeps checking, like maybe the notifications are delayed.
He doesn’t say anything at first. Just refreshes your chats more than he should, tells himself he’s being clingy. It’s not a big deal. You’re allowed to have a life. Except when it happens for the fifth day in a row, he rereads your last message six times trying to decide if there’s some kind of shift in punctuation.
After two weeks, he’s convinced you’re slowly breaking up with him.
He books a flight the next morning.
You open the door in sleep shorts and an old hoodie. There’s a dent in your cheek from your pillow. “Lando?” you say, voice rough with sleep.
He doesn’t say anything for a second. He just stands there, backpack hanging off one shoulder, trying to read your expression. “Hi,” he breathes.
“What are you doing here?”
“I thought we were breaking up.”
You stare at him in that way that makes him want to melt, or go stupid, or both. “What?”
“Or you were about to,” he blurts out. “I don’t know. You weren’t texting back. I thought maybe I said something, or forgot something, or—I dunno, babe.”
You squint at him. “You flew across countries because I was texting slower?”
He shifts on his feet. “...Yes?”
You drag him inside by the wrist, as if the answer itself is proof you don’t hate him. He doesn’t let go. Your apartment smells like laundry and mint tea. There’s a blanket balled up on the couch and your laptop still open on the dining table.
“I didn’t want to seem too keen,” you say plainly, dropping onto the couch.
Lando drops his backpack by the door and draws his eyebrows together as he tries to process your words. “Pardon?” he says, only because it makes absolutely no sense to him.
You reach for your tea and take a sip. Then, as if it’s obvious: “You said instant replies were a red flag. In that video. I didn't want to come off too clingy.”
He stares. Then he laughs. Sharp, breathless, stunned.
“You were trying to not seem too keen? Have you met me?” he says incredulously. “I check our chat thrice an hour. I’ve reread your ‘good night’ texts like they’re Pulitzer material.”
Your eyes widen behind your cup. “You what?”
“Shut up,” he groans, flopping down next to you. “God, you’re such a menace. Do you know how many times I checked to see if your read receipts were broken?”
You lean into his side, smugness radiating off you in waves. “So you’re saying you’re the clingy one?”
“I’m saying we can both be keen. Equally keen. Keen as hell.” He pauses, then adds, just on the right side of desperate: “Just text me back like before. I don’t care if it’s in under ten seconds. Fuck being nonchalant; I want us to have all the chalants about each other.”
“That’s not—”
“You know what I mean, numpty.”
Your smirk melts a little. “Okay, okay.”
He presses a kiss to your temple, then mutters, “I flew across Europe like a complete loser. You better reply with at least two heart emojis next time.”
“Four,” you bargain, “if you buy us lunch today.”
He grins, cheek pressed to the top of your head. “Deal.”
CARLOS S. ⸻ 🚩 TAKING A GYM MIRROR SELFIE.
Carlos never thought he’d become someone who looks forward to Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays. But here he is, eyeing his phone like a teenager, waiting for that familiar notification.
You at the gym: ponytail messy, cheeks flushed, smile cocky. Sometimes it’s a mirror selfie with your shoe on the bench. Sometimes a blurry video of your form mid-rep, with music blasting in the background and your caption reading something like form check or thirst trap?
He doesn’t care which it is. He opens them all immediately. Saves every single one. Watches the videos at least twice; once to appreciate your form, the second time just because.
Lately, though?
Crickets.
You still text after your workouts. Little things. Done for the day, or PR’d squats, almost cried, or Leg press almost killed me. But no photos. No clips. Nothing to tide him over while he’s stuck at media days or pretending to listen in debriefs.
Carlos gives it a month. A month of maturity. And then he decides that maturity will get him nowhere.
Carlos: So who is he?
You: ?
Carlos: Your new gym boyfriend. Must be hot if u are not sending me anything anymore :)
You: 🚩🚩🚩
Carlos immediately hits call. You pick up on the third ring. “Are you serious?”
“Yes,” he says, deadpan. “Do you know how many Tuesdays I’ve had to go without your gym face? I’m wasting away.”
“Carlos—”
“Don’t Carlos me. You’re punishing me because I made one comment. One! And I was clearly talking about the guys.”
“You literally said gym selfies were a red flag. You called it icky.”
“From men! From other drivers!” he says frantically. “Not from you, mi vida, who has the best gym selfies in the known universe!”
You go quiet for a second. He can hear you breathing, the soft shuffle of fabric like you’re sitting back on your couch. “So you’re saying my gym selfies aren’t cringe?” you ask, and even though Carlos knows you’re just fishing at this point, he rises to the bait.
“They are elite content,” he declares. “They are the highlight of my week.”
You hum. “Maybe I want that in writing.”
“Text or handwritten? I can send a notarized statement. I can tweet it from the Williams account if you want. Just send me the mirror pics again. Please.”
He hears you laughing now, amused and soft. “You’re ridiculous,” you tsk.
“No,” he exhales, sighing like he’s Atlas bearing the weight of the world. “I’m deprived of my girlfriend.”
The call ends with a promise to check his phone in ten minutes.
He lasts seven.
The selfie hits his inbox at minute eight: your face glowy, sports bra matching your nails, the gym mirror smudged like always. He grins so wide, the engineer across from him gives him a look.
All is right again in Carlos’ world.
ALEX A. ⸻ 🚩 TALKING DURING A MOVIE.
Alex had really thought this one would get you.
It’s a Friday night. The lights are dimmed, the couch is a mess of blankets and limbs, and the opening credits of the rom-com he swore was actually good are rolling. He’s already chucked a pillow at your legs for trying to guess the twist too early, but he’s grinning when he does it. It’s the kind of movie night that’s become a ritual by now.
Fifteen minutes in, he’s already whispered two jokes into your hair. You’ve smiled. You’ve laughed, even. But you haven’t said a word about the plot, and that’s when Alex starts to feel a little off-kilter.
Because you’re quiet.
Suspiciously quiet.
You’re not doing your usual commentary—no side remarks, no scoffing at the over-the-top meet cute, no delighted gasps when the soundtrack hits. You’re sitting curled up next to him, expression warm, sure, but the running commentary? The back-and-forth he usually loves? It’s missing.
Alex, idiot that he is, keeps trying to coax it out. He makes a joke about the best friend’s eyebrows, nudges your arm when a line is especially cheesy, even points out a continuity error like a gift-wrapped invitation. Still nothing.
You chuckle when appropriate, lean your head against his shoulder like the world’s coziest silent film date. But it’s not the same. By the time the credits roll, Alex is pouting in that half-dramatic, half-serious way of his, picking at the popcorn bowl like it’s betrayed him.
“So you hated it.”
You blink before frowning at him. “What?”
“The movie. I thought you’d like it! I’ve been saving it for a month. But you barely said anything.”
You blink again, incredulous, like he’s grown a second head. Then slowly, very calmly, you say, “Alexander Albon. You literally said talking during movies was a red flag.”
It’s Alex’s turn to frown. “Yeah, but that’s—”
You raise your eyebrows, challenging him to go back on his word. He groans and sinks lower into the couch. “I was talking about, like, loud talkers. People who explain the plot as it happens. You’re—you’re different. I’m colorblind to your red flags.”
You narrow your eyes, sinking your teeth into something new entirely. “Red flags. Plural?”
Alex’s expression stutters.
You shift forward, eyes narrowed in mock interrogation, cornering him against the armrest with the casual menace of someone about to win an argument and enjoy it. “What else, Albon?”
“Nothing,” he says quickly, voice going a bit high-pitched like a cartoon character under pressure. “I love all your weird little traits. Every single one. Especially the one where you interrogate me like a detective from a teen drama.”
“Mhm.” You fold your arms. “Is that another one?”
“No, no,” Alex says, voice cracking with laughter now. “That’s my favorite one, actually.”
You let him stew for half a second longer before lunging. Alex tries to climb over the back of the couch, but you pull him back by the hem of his hoodie. He tumbles against you with an oof, limbs tangled, laughing as you trap him under your weight. You poke at his side until he squirms, cheeks warm, grin helpless.
“I really thought you lost your personality for two hours,” he says, flipping you onto your back. “Turns out I just red-flagged myself out of the best part.”
You reach up to tug at his hair, fingers threading through soft strands. “That’s what you get for being fake deep in interviews.”
“I’ll never recover.”
“You’ll live.”
Alex kisses you once, twice, lingering the third time. The TV is still softly playing previews in the background, forgotten. He pulls back just long enough to rest his forehead against yours. “Next time,” he says, “talk through the whole thing. I want every thought. Every gasp. Every rant about pacing.”
You smile against his lips. “Even when I complain about how they kissed too early?”
“Especially then.”
He kisses you again. That one, in his humble opinion, is just on time.
GEORGE R. ⸻ 🚩 LIKING ALL PHOTOS ON YOUR SOCIAL MEDIA FEED.
George doesn’t notice it at first.
Which is, in his opinion, fair. He doesn’t obsessively track notifications like some people. He’s a busy man. He has training schedules and simulator runs and six different WhatsApp group chats muted for mental health reasons. He doesn’t exactly sit around checking who’s liked his most recent Instagram post.
After the third post in a row goes without your name popping up, though, he starts to feel it.
It’s not even a proper jealousy thing. He’s not spiraling. It’s just that—well. You always like his posts. You react to the Mercedes team reels with unrepentant bias. You comment the most cursed memes under his podium photos. You once made a slideshow on Facebook called George Russell: The People’s Princess and tagged him in it.
So yeah, maybe George’s ego has grown used to the digital affection. Maybe it expects a little fanfare from you.
Maybe it sulks when it doesn’t get it.
He holds out for a bit. Tells himself you’re just swamped with work. Tells himself the algorithm’s being weird. Tells himself anything but the thought that’s slowly growing louder in the back of his mind: that you’re doing it on purpose.
It all comes to a head one lazy Sunday afternoon. He’s draped across your lap like a Victorian heroine with a fainting spell, scrolling through his phone while you absentmindedly rake your fingers through his hair.
“Hey,” he says, angling his screen up at you. “Did you see the photo I just posted?”
You hum, glancing down. It’s him standing next to his AMG ONE, sunglasses pushed up into his hair, all long lines and smug satisfaction. It’s the kind of photo he knows you usually clown him for.
You smile. “Very dreamy. Should I be worried you’ve found someone hotter than me?”
He snorts. “It’s a car.”
“You’re not denying it.”
George grins and elbows your thigh. Then, more casually, “So, you liked it?”
“I said you looked dreamy.”
“No, I mean—you liked it?” He waggles the phone meaningfully. “With the little heart button?”
You blink. “Oh. No. I don’t do that anymore.”
His head lifts off your lap. “You don’t—what do you mean you don’t?”
You pause. Shrug. “You said in that video that it was a red flag.”
George looks personally victimized. “I meant people who like every single post, like bots. Not you. You’re allowed. You’re grandfathered in.”
“Too late,” you say dismissively. “I’ve reformed. No more Instagram validation for you.”
“But—but that’s not fair!” he splutters, sitting up fully now. “You’re taking it seriously? That interview was mostly me taking the piss!”
You raise an eyebrow. “I don’t know, love. Seemed pretty sincere.”
He looks scandalized. Like he’s been hoisted by his own curated online persona. “You mean to tell me I’ll be doing this season without your moral support?”
“You’ll be winning even without it.”
“That’s not the point,” he grumbles.
You lean over and kiss his cheek. “Don’t pout.”
“I’m not pouting.”
He falls dramatically backward into the couch, muttering something about betrayal. For a few minutes, he’s quiet, phone in hand, frowning at the screen like he’s planning a very slow, very petty war.
Then your phone buzzes.
And buzzes again.
And again.
The Instagram notifications pop up in a steady stream across your lockscreen.
George Russell liked your photo from last week. George Russell liked your photo from 23w ago. George Russell liked your photo from 103w ago.
You glance over. He doesn’t look at you, just keeps scrolling, jaw set. “I can keep going,” he huffs. “I’ve got time.”
You start laughing. “George,” you wheeze, “are you liking my entire archive out of spite?”
“Out of principle,” he corrects. “Equality in red flags. If I have to be loved embarrassingly, so do you.”
You reach over and muss his hair. He lets you. “Fine,” you acquiesce. “I’ll go like your car thirst trap, you lunatic.”
George finally looks satisfied. “Good,” he says. “I deserve it.”
He keeps scrolling until your very first Instagram post, and then he switches on over to Facebook. ⛐
oscar’s heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. he just nods and says, “we make it work.” short, clipped, but it’s the truth. somehow, you and him fit.
ꔮ starring: divorce attorney!oscar piastri x wedding planner!reader.
ꔮ word count: 20.4k. (!!!)
ꔮ includes: romance, friendship, light angst. alternate universe: non-f1. mentions of food, alcohol; profanity. set in new york, pining... yearning..., idiot best friends in love, a bout of miscommunication, sunshine/grumpy trope, carmen & george name drop. title from gracie abrams’ in between.
ꔮ commentary box: nobody talk to me about the word count. this is one of my favorite tropes of all time, and i always thought my pipe dream romcom novel would sing a similar tune to this. until that day comes, we see it play out in fanfiction 🩷 this fic means a lot to me, so if you ever decide to consume this behemoth: thank you in advance!!! 𝐦𝐲 𝐦𝐚𝐬𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐥𝐢𝐬𝐭
Oscar spots them before you do.
You have your nose in your tablet, scrolling through sample menus and floral arrangements, completely oblivious to the couple two tables over who are clearly yours. Matching mood boards, latte art going untouched, the sort of soft hand-holding that suggests they’ve already merged Spotify playlists. You’ve got that look you get when you’re planning someone else’s Happily Ever After: focused, bright-eyed, borderline evangelical.
Oscar, on the other hand, believes in love the way he believes in Wi-Fi on the subway. Pleasant in theory, disastrous in practice. And, as your best friend, he sees it as a public service to intervene before strangers spend years in litigation over who gets the air fryer.
When he recognizes the telltale signs of a newly engaged pair, he leans forward, forearms on the table, voice warm but edged with professional mischief. “Congratulations,” he says. “When’s the big day?”
They share a look. The woman says, “Oh—we haven’t set a date yet.”
“Well,” Oscar says, lowering his voice just enough to feel conspiratorial, “whenever it is, make sure you get a prenup. Best gift you can give yourselves, trust me. Think of it as insurance. Romance-proof.”
The fiancée’s smile falters. The fiancé tilts his head, as if trying to work out if Oscar’s joking. He isn’t. By the time you glance up, the conversation is mid-sentence and heading straight for a cliff. “Piastri!” you snap, sliding out of your chair like a general striding into battle. “What the hell are you doing?”
He sits back, lazy grin in place. “Just offering professional advice. You know. Free consultation.”
The couple look between you and him, confusion thick enough to stir into their cappuccinos. “Do you know him?” the groom-to-be asks carefully.
“Unfortunately,” you grit out. “That’s Oscar. He’s a divorce attorney. Which explains why he’s trying to assassinate your wedding before it even starts.”
“I’m not assassinating,” Oscar protests mildly. “I’m safeguarding. Big difference.”
You plant your hands on your hips. “You’re meddling. Again.”
The bride-to-be laughs nervously, still unsure if this is a bit. Oscar reaches into his jacket pocket, produces a sleek business card, and slides it across the table toward them with the kind of flourish usually reserved for magicians revealing the queen of hearts. Oscar Jack Piastri, it says. Associate Attorney at Brown & Stella, PLLC.
“In case you change your mind,” he says. His tone is maddeningly polite, as though he’s offering directions to the nearest subway station.
You snatch the card before it can land. He raises both hands in mock surrender, pushes back from his chair, and retreats to his own table by the window. He glances at you one last time; you look like you’re resisting the urge to throw a sugar packet at his head. Turning back to your clients, you smooth your skirt and force a professional smile. “So,” he hears you say, as if the last sixty seconds never happened, “let’s talk about the wedding.”
Oscar, nursing the last of his coffee, watches you slip into that peculiar rhythm you have. The one that’s equal parts dreamy and surgical. You’re talking to the couple now, voice low but animated, eyes alight. They lean in, enchanted, and Oscar can’t decide if it’s the story you’re selling or the way you sell it.
Your pen glides over your notepad as you sketch out ideas. Ivy-wrapped arches, candlelit dinners, first dances under fairy lights. You tilt your head as you listen, nodding with the kind of reverence usually reserved for religious confessionals. You treat their love like it’s sacred, like you believe in it. And maybe that’s what gets him.
It’s been a while since Oscar has been in love with you, after all.
Not that he’s admitting it aloud. He never has, never will. But it was there, once.
Back in high school, when he’d sit two rows behind you in AP Lit and pretend he wasn’t staring while you debated the symbolism of a green light with a ferocity that could scare lesser mortals. You were sunshine with sharp edges, a hopeless romantic who didn’t mind being right about everything. He was the cynic with a dry remark always cocked and ready. You butted heads over everything. Song lyrics, cafeteria pizza, the proper ranking of Bond actors. He thought it was exhausting. He also thought it was the best part of his day. Somewhere along the way, you grew into different lives but kept orbiting the same way. Maybe that’s why it works. You stayed in love with love; he stayed skeptical.
Present-day Oscar, watching you now as you light up over centerpieces and seating charts, feels that old pull in his chest. It’s not a sharp ache anymore. It’s softer, settled. This—what you have now—is the best possible result. A withstanding friendship, no messy confessions to ruin it. He can sit here and admire you without wanting more, without needing to risk what you’ve built.
The couple laughs at something you’ve said, and you beam, scribbling down notes. Capturing lightning in shorthand. Oscar smirks into his empty cup.
Let them have their fairytale, he thinks. He’s already got his.
Hours later, Oscar’s halfway through drafting an email to a client when your shadow falls across his table. He doesn’t look up right away. He’s learned this is part of the performance. You standing there, arms crossed, foot tapping just enough to register as a warning sign. He lets you stew for a moment, because he knows you like to deliver your charges with maximum dramatic timing.
Finally, he glances up, all false innocence. “Problem?”
“You ambushed my clients,” you say point blank.
“Ambushed is a strong word,” he says, clicking his laptop closed. “I prefer ‘enlightened.’”
You slide into the chair opposite him, the scrape of wood on tile sharper than necessary. “They came here to talk about centerpieces, not contingency clauses.”
Oscar leans back, folding his arms. “And yet, contingency clauses are what keep centerpieces safe in the event of an irreconcilable breakdown. No one wants a custody battle over a floral arrangement.”
You roll your eyes, but there’s no real heat behind it. “You owe me for that.”
“Oh? What’s the damage?”
“Dinner tonight. My pick.”
Oscar pretends to weigh his options, tapping his fingers on the table. Honestly, for all his stubborness, he can’t remember the last time he said ‘no’ to you. “Fine,” he concedes. “But if you pick that vegan place again, I’m bringing a steak in a to-go box.”
You grin, victory claimed. “Noted.”
It’s easy, this back-and-forth. Always has been. The two of you were the only ones in your friend group who stayed close after college; everyone else scattered across the map, swallowed by jobs and relationships and time zones. You’d kept in touch through blurry FaceTime calls and the occasional holiday reunion, but when you both ended up in New York, it wasn’t even a discussion. The apartments across the hall were open; you took one, he took the other. Done, dusted.
And now, you’ve built a life that overlaps without ever feeling crowded. M-W-F dinners (alternating who cooks, though Oscar’s idea of cooking is Thai takeout artfully decanted onto ceramic plates). Quarterly road trips, usually with you in charge of the playlist and him complaining about it until track five, when he inevitably starts humming along. Sunday mornings, one of you knocking on the other’s door with a coffee and a headline to discuss. Emergency grocery runs, emergency advice, emergency laughter in the hallway when neither of you can remember why you were mad in the first place.
There’s the spare key that’s changed hands so many times it barely qualifies as ‘spare.’ There’s the unspoken agreement to check in after long days, even if it’s just leaning against opposite doorframes. And there’s the strange comfort of knowing that no matter how messy his cases get or how stressed your wedding timelines become, the other is just a few steps away.
Oscar picks up his coffee, takes a long sip, and watches you fish your phone out of your bag, already scrolling through dinner reservations. He knows you’re thinking of places that will irritate him just enough to make it fun. He should probably dread it. Instead, there’s a part of him—small, quiet—that wonders if this is what people mean when they talk about home.
When it comes down to it, Oscar doesn’t actually remember agreeing to pizza. One moment, you were tucking your phone away with that mysterious, self-satisfied look you get when you’ve made an executive decision. The next, he was being ushered out of Arrow Central, corralled into the stream of foot traffic like a particularly unwilling briefcase.
“Is this my punishment?” he asks as you stride ahead, skirt catching the late-summer breeze. “Public humiliation via grease stains?”
“It’s called dinner,” you toss over your shoulder, weaving through pedestrians without slowing down. “Also, you like this place.”
“I like the idea of it. I like it when I’m not wearing a suit that costs more than your entire outfit.”
“Your dry cleaner will survive. Also, rude.”
You’re an odd pair. He’s always known it. You, with your free-flowing skirt and unshakable knack for making mismatched colors look like a deliberate choice; him, in his uniform of suit and tie, the kind that announces courtroom even when he’s just standing in line for coffee. Somehow, walking side by side down these blocks, it’s never felt like a mismatch. It’s only you and him. An established unit.
The pizza joint isn’t fancy. Red vinyl booths worn to a soft shine, the faint smell of oregano and melted cheese baked permanently into the walls. It’s the kind of place where the outside world blurs out the moment you step inside. The air is noisy in that particular New York way: clatter, conversation, the hiss of the oven door. No one here cares about job titles, or what you wear, or whether you spent the day dismantling marriages or assembling them.
You claim a booth by the window with the casual entitlement of someone who has done it a hundred times. “Same order?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You mean the one you pretend is ours but is actually just yours?”
“It’s called a compromise.”
“It’s called you ordering half with pineapple and daring me to complain.”
“You always eat it,” you counter, already flagging down the waiter.
Because it’s easier than arguing, he thinks, though he’d never hand you that victory. Besides, he’s learned you have a habit of leaning across the table mid-meal and swapping slices without warning, like his plate is just an extension of your own.
The order arrives, steam curling off the cheese. You’re already halfway into a story about a florist who nearly set her arrangement on fire with an ill-placed candle display, your hands sketching shapes in the air as if the details need choreography. Oscar props his chin in his hand, letting the words spill over him.
There’s a rhythm to this—to you. The bickering, the shared meals, the comfort in the background hum. It’s the kind of thing you don’t notice you’re missing until it’s gone. At some point, you slide the first slice his way without looking. He takes it, because he’ll take anything and everything you think to give. Even the ones he claims he doesn’t want.
The walk back is unhurried, partly because you stop at every other storefront, and partly because Oscar doesn’t mind. Tonight’s detour is a bodega window that hasn’t changed since the Obama administration, but you stand there studying it as if the oranges might suddenly reveal a plot twist. He lingers just behind you, watching your reflection in the glass, the curve of your mouth lit faintly by the streetlamp. Not that he’s about to say anything sentimental. He’s not that foolish.
By the time you make it back to the apartment building, you’re rifling through the layers of your bag. Oscar leans on the wall, arms crossed. This is the dance: you muttering about receipts and lip balm, him tossing in the occasional dry remark, neither of you breaking the rhythm.
“Lose them again?” he says, purely for sport.
“They’re in here somewhere. Don’t act like you’ve never—”
“I have a system,” he interrupts.
“You have a filing cabinet for a personality.”
“Which is why I’m never locked out.”
You glance up, one eyebrow raised. “Except that one time—”
“That was a faulty lock,” he deapdans. “And slander.”
The keys appear with a metallic jingle, your victory grin annoyingly smug. “Saturday, movie night?”
“Depends. Is it going to be another three-hour period drama where the only action is people sighing over teacups?”
“You loved that one.”
“I tolerated it.”
“You cried.”
“Allergies.”
You unlock your door, turning to fire off one last line: “Friday dinner, Saturday movie. Don’t forget.”
He watches you vanish inside, the door shutting with a soft click. The hallway feels oddly warm, filled with the low hum of pipes and the faint scent of your perfume. He imagines years of this—key hunts, snide comments, plans penciled in without asking—and a strange steadiness roots itself in his chest.
When he finally turns his own key, he tells himself he wouldn’t mind if this were it for the rest of his life. Standing in the quiet of his apartment, he almost believes he truly will be okay with nothing more, as long as he gets nothing less.
It’s Saturday night, and Oscar’s already questioning his life choices before the opening credits even hit. He should have seen this coming. He should have known. Years of empirical evidence suggested that “You pick the movie” was never actually a gift—it was a trap. Yet, here he is, sitting on your couch, holding a paper plate with a cupcake you’d baked, watching the title card for Maid of Honor flash on the screen.
He glances at you. You’re tucked into your corner of his sofa, skirt draped over your knees, smug in that way people are when they’ve won a battle you didn’t know you were fighting. He takes a bite of the cupcake. It’s good in that sickly sweet way. Irritatingly so. “You’re not even trying to hide your agenda,” he says.
“What agenda?” you say, faking innocence so badly it should be a crime.
Two hours and several predictable plot twists later, the credits roll. You stretch, all casual, and then drop it: “So… have your thoughts on marriage changed?”
Oscar sighs. Not just a sigh. An exhale steeped in years of repetition. “Why do I even let you pick movies?”
You tilt your head, smiling just enough to make it worse. “I’ve been good. I haven’t asked in, what, six months?”
He levels you with a look. “Three.”
“Six,” you insist.
He leans back into the couch, shaking his head. This is familiar territory. Uncharted for most friendships, but well-trodden for you two. He thinks about all the other times: in cafés, on road trips, once while he was battling in an IKEA bookshelf you swore you could assemble yourself. Always the same question, always the same dance. “You’re relentless,” he says, the slightest hint of annoyance tingeing his tone.
“And you love me for it,” you retort.
The thing is—well, yes. He does. But Oscar isn’t about to scream that from the rooftops.
Oscar stacks the empty cupcake plates, balancing them like evidence exhibits, and heads for the sink. His sleeves are already halfway rolled before you even follow, trailing after him with the tenacity of a lawyer smelling a weak spot in the witness’s story. You prop yourself against the counter at just the right distance to be distracting. Not enough to be obvious, but close enough to make him aware of you in his peripheral vision.
“You can’t tell me Maid of Honor didn’t soften you up even a little,” you say, voice pitched with a teasing lilt that masks a pointed challenge.
“I can, and I will,” he replies, turning on the tap. The water hisses over porcelain, steam curling into the air. “You’re forgetting I’ve got a canned answer for this, refined over years of ambushes like tonight.”
“Oh, the infamous speech,” you say, shit-eating grin widening. “Do I get the deluxe edition tonight?”
He smiles faintly, eyes fixed on the plate he’s rinsing. “C’mon, you know this story. Grew up watching my parents’ marriage collapse in slow motion. Ten years of silences, slammed doors, and holidays you could cut with a knife. Was old enough to Google the numbers, and surprise, surprise. Half of all marriages end in divorce. The odds for second marriages? Worse.”
You grimace, as if he’s told you cupcakes are a controlled substance. “You know that’s depressing, right?”
“It’s realistic,” he says, scrubbing at a fork with the methodical rhythm of someone who likes his thoughts as tidy as his cutlery.
Soap, rinse, stack. Facts don’t break hearts. They just prevent them from getting too ambitious.
The hem of your skirt sways as you shift your weight, brushing your legs in an idle, thoughtless way that’s absurdly distracting. “Or maybe you just like having an excuse,” you say.
He exhales through his nose, resisting the temptation to glance at you too long. Leaning there with your hair slipping loose around your face, you look maddeningly like you belong in his kitchen. It’s an alternate timeline he’s already filed away in the ‘unwise’ drawer. “Or maybe,” he says, rinsing the last plate and shaking off the water, “some of us don’t believe in signing legally binding contracts for feelings.”
You hum. Low, thoughtful, not remotely deterred. It’s the sound of a wheel turning, of a strategy in motion. He’s not sure if you’re trying to change his mind or just enjoying the act of cornering him.
Oscar slides the last plate into the drying rack, flicking suds from his hands and briefly feeling like the conversation is over. Safe. Ready for you to pivot to some other harmless hill to die on.
Instead, you lean forward, bracing your elbows on the counter, eyes gleaming with a challenge he’s already certain he won’t like. “Alright,” you say, deliberate and smug. “I’ll drop it forever if you give me one wedding.”
He freezes mid-motion, wrist dripping over the sink. “I’m sorry. One what?”
“One wedding. Just one. To change your mind.” You say it with the same breezy cadence as a promotional offer. Limited time only! Terms and conditions apply! Cancel anytime!
The words take their sweet time sinking in. When they finally do, it’s like something snaps in his chest. He starts to laugh. Not polite, not even dignified. Full-bodied, doubled over, holding the edge of the counter because his knees apparently no longer feel trustworthy.
“You—” He tries, fails, tries again. “You want to—” A wheeze interrupts him, laughter tearing through the attempt. “—undo two decades of carefully cultivated cynicism with… a catered buffet and bad DJ remixes?”
You smack his arm in mock outrage, which has the exact opposite effect. He’s gone. Helpless. The kind of laughter that shakes his ribs and leaves him gasping for air, his eyes blurring with the kind of tears he refuses to admit exist.
“God, you’re—” He presses the heel of his palm to his face, still grinning like an idiot. “—ridiculous. So, so ridiculous.”
You’re still watching him with that infuriating calm, as if you’d known this was exactly how he’d react. As if the laughter was, in some small way, the point.
Oscar’s still teary-eyed and winded when he straightens, managing, “Alright, but what’s in it for me?”
The pause is telling. He can see the gears in your head stalling. You’ve clearly lobbed this dare without a single contingency plan. “What do you mean, ‘what’s in it for you’?” you ask, as though the proposition of staging an entire wedding purely to sway his opinion should be incentive enough.
“I mean,” he says, leaning back against the counter because his sides hurt too much to support him, “you’re asking me to gamble my time, dress up, and endure whatever Pinterest-board fever dream you’ve been hoarding. That’s a high-stakes request. I want terms.”
You cross your arms. “Fine. What do you want?”
You, some quiet voice chirps in the back of Oscar’s head. He assassinates its source immediately. “What do I want?” He taps his chin, feigning thoughtfulness, as he fights down a grin. “I dunno. You tell me.”
“You can choose the movies for six months,” you try, “or I’ll pay for the next roadtrip.”
“Wow. Nice to know what my views on matrimony are worth to you.”
“Oscar.”
The thought occurs to him like a lightning strike. “If I’m not convinced by the end of this wedding, you have to admit, on record,” he says, the words falling out of him in a stream, “that marriage doesn’t guarantee a happily ever after.”
Your mouth falls open. “That’s—”
“A direct contradiction of your tagline, yes,” he cuts in, feigning sympathy. “Weddings: The first chapter of your happy ever after. Catchy, but tragically optimistic.”
The man has no shame. You stare at him for a beat too long, probably weighing the public humiliation against the joy of watching him eat cake in formalwear. His expression doesn’t waver. If anything, it sharpens with the smugness of someone who knows he’s cornered you. Eventually, you sigh. “Alright. You’ve got a deal.”
He extends his hand, but just as your fingers brush his, he pulls it back with a shake of his head. “No, no. Not like this. If we’re doing this, we’re doing it my way.”
You arch a brow. “Your way being…?”
“Contract,” he says, already heading for his desk. “Drafted, signed, possibly notarized. Witness signatures optional but encouraged.”
“You’re unbelievable.”
“And yet,” he calls over his shoulder, tapping the spacebar to wake his laptop, “you still want to marry me off.”
Oscar knows the second you text him the address that this isn’t going to be a normal afternoon.
The day’s plans are not in the city. It’s at that suspiciously photogenic park wedding photographers swear by for its natural light and timeless atmosphere, which is code for: there will be at least three other couples here today in matching beige, posing like they invented romance. Still, Oscar doesn’t expect this. To be standing ten feet away from Carmen Mundt and George Russell, whose faces he only half-remembers from yearbook spreads stuffed with pep rally candids and overwrought prom photos.
“You didn’t tell me this was going to be a high school reunion,” he says flatly, hands buried in his coat pockets. He watches George dip Carmen for the photographer, the scene so perfectly manufactured it could be the poster for a holiday rom-com. All that’s missing is a fake snow machine.
You’re crouched two feet away, adjusting a loose strand of Carmen’s hair over her shoulder for ‘balance.’ Oscar doubts ‘hair balance’ is an actual, measurable metric, but you treat it with the seriousness of a NASA launch. “Hm?” you murmur, not looking at him.
“This couple. Russell. Mundt. You’re telling me this wasn’t intentional?” He leaves the question hanging in the crisp air, because if there’s one thing he knows about you, it’s that plausible deniability is rare currency.
You glance over your shoulder, catch the exact look he’s wearing—the one that says he’s about five seconds from declaring this whole wedding experiment null and void—and straighten. “Oh, no. God, no. Total coincidence. I didn’t even realize until they sent their headshots.”
“Headshots.”
“Pre-wedding portraits. Same thing.” You wave toward Carmen and George, now forehead-to-forehead beneath the draping limbs of a willow tree. “Also, you didn’t go to our prom. You can’t call it a reunion.”
“Because I had the foresight to avoid things like this,” Oscar says, sweeping his hand toward the setup: the strategically rumpled picnic blanket, champagne flutes brimming with something so pale and fizzless it might as well be Sprite, and the pièce de résistance—a rented golden retriever who looks like it would rather be anywhere else.
You sigh, a soft, apologetic puff that—much to his irritation—makes him feel like he’s being the difficult one here. “Look, I swear, it’s not some nostalgia trip,” you say patiently. “They booked me months ago. And they’re nice people. You’ll like them.”
Oscar’s about to tell you that liking them is irrelevant to the point when George dips Carmen again. She’s laughing into the collar of his sweater, eyes shut, the sound carrying just far enough to make the whole tableau feel uncomfortably genuine. Oscar isn’t sure he likes that. Still, there’s no denying it: they look happy. Annoyingly, effortlessly happy. If this is the couple you’ve chosen to chip away at his long-held dogmas, maybe you’re not just playing matchmaker. You’re playing chess.
The shoot winds down with the photographer packing up lenses in meticulous slow motion, and the rented golden retriever trotting off to its handler with the air of an exhausted professional. Carmen and George spot Oscar before he can retreat to the safety of the car. In hindsight, it’s inevitable. Oscar’s tall, and he’s been loitering in plain sight. George waves, cheerful in that easy, quarterback-turned-finance-guy way, and Carmen’s smile is the same one that made her prom photos look like toothpaste ads.
“You’re Piastri, right?” George says, extending a hand that could probably still throw a perfect spiral. “We thought we recognized you.”
Oscar glances at you, already halfway through winding up a polite smile. “Right,” he says, shaking George’s hand. “From high school.”
Carmen laughs. “I can’t believe this is happening!”
Before Oscar can prepare himself, George cocks his head, all innocent curiosity. “So, how long have you two been together?”
There’s a beat—long enough for Oscar to hear the faint click of your brain short-circuiting—before you blurt, “Oh, we’re not—” at the same time he says, “Absolutely not.”
You both stop, glance at each other, and promptly talk over each other again, this time with clarifications that only make it worse. Something about being friends, something about just helping out. Oscar’s aware it sounds exactly like the sort of thing people say right before announcing their engagement. Carmen’s grin turns knowing. George looks amused in a way Oscar finds faintly irritating.
You recover first, smoothing it over with a smile that’s maybe three watts too bright. “We work together. Sort of. Different fields.”
“Opposite fields,” Oscar adds, because precision matters. Especially when one’s career revolves around making the difference between amicable and messy sound like a legal argument.
“Oh?” Carmen tilts her head to Oscar. “What do you do?”
“I’m a divorce attorney.”
The effect lands exactly as expected: first the blink, then the snort of laughter, then the delighted realization of the irony. The wedding planner and the divorce attorney. George, grinning, throws out, “So… she starts the story, and you end it?”
“Something like that,” Oscar replies, letting the corner of his mouth tip up just enough to make it unclear whether he’s joking.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you looking at him with that expression that’s part amusement, part something softer. He tells himself it’s just your way of keeping the bit going. But the truth is, the warmth that flickers through him says otherwise, and it’s annoyingly hard to shake.
Carmen’s smile could power a small city when she says, “You should join us for dinner. Our treat.”
That’s a bold assumption. Oscar has at least four solid excuses queued up, none of them true but all perfectly plausible. He’s already flipping through the list when you look at him. Not just look. You deploy the full arsenal: tilted head, softened grin, those eyes doing that thing that could disarm a firing squad.
And that’s it. Game over. He exhales, already hearing the gavel in his head. “Sure,” he says, because apparently his willpower folds faster than bad origami when you’re involved.
Dinner turns out to be… something. A bizarre theatre production where Carmen and George play the leads in a romance so committed it borders on parody. They feed each other, trade bites back, and laugh in perfect sync, like they’ve been secretly training for the Olympics in synchronized infatuation.
Across from them, Oscar sits beside you, playing the role of vaguely polite companion. He holds the door, pours your water, throws in the occasional wry remark that Carmen misses entirely but earns you a small laugh. George squeezes Carmen’s hand mid-story. “You two must have so much fun being friends.”
Oscar chews his food slowly, buying time, then deadpans, “Oh, sure. Nothing says fun like contract law and flower arrangements.”
You kick him lightly under the table. He pretends not to notice, but the curve at the corner of his mouth gives him away. Underneath all the polite detachment, he’s hyper-aware of how close your arm brushes his, of the way your laughter curls somewhere in his chest.
Carmen and George launch into a greatest-hits reel of their history. Promposals, senior pranks, late-night drives. The nostalgia is so sweet it’s practically crystallizing in the air. You lean in to listen, smiling in all the right places, your hair brushing your cheek. Oscar leans back in his chair, arms crossed, the picture of practiced disinterest. But when your knee bumps his again, he doesn’t move it away. If anything, he leaves it there.
Later, the apartment hallway is quiet except for the faint hum of an old ceiling light that flickers like it’s paid by the hour. The air smells faintly of takeout—someone’s stir-fry, maybe—and there’s a scuffed shoe print on the wall opposite your door that Oscar can’t stop noticing. You’re in front of your door, patting down your bag like the keys might have sprouted legs and made a break for it. He leans against the wall, watching you with the same patient skepticism he reserves for opposing counsel mid-argument.
“So,” he says, drawing the word out, “that was… dinner.”
You glance up briefly, distracted. “Dinner was fine. You were the problem.”
He lets out a low laugh. “I was polite. Mostly.”
“Polite is a strong word,” you mutter, rifling through your bag. A pen falls out. A crumpled receipt. Half a packet of mints, which you don’t offer him.
“Carmen and George are intense.” He pauses, pretending to search for a diplomatic synonym, but gives up. “Like a rom-com no one asked to sit through.”
That gets you to smile before you toss out, almost absently, “What if we’d been like that? Back in high school?”
The words land heavier than you probably intended, though they sound casual enough. Oscar freezes for half a second, just long enough for the thought to lodge somewhere inconvenient.
What if he went to prom? No, more than that. Asked you to prom. Asked you out in between reads of The Catcher in the Rye and Pride and Prejudice. Would you have stayed together throughout college, throughout his time in law school? Would you have been the annoying kind of high school sweethearts posting about about seven-year anniversaries?
Would you have been happy? (He knows he would have been.) What if, what if, what if.
“What if,” he echoes, not quite a question, not quite agreement.
You don’t elaborate. He doesn’t press. It’s not the kind of conversation you dismantle under the buzzing light of a hallway that smells like someone else’s leftovers. Your keys finally appear. You flash him a victorious smile and an off-tune sing-song of ‘good night’ before slipping into your apartment, door clicking shut behind you.
Oscar stays where he is. His eyes linger on the door as the hum overhead grows louder, or maybe it’s just the absence of your voice making the silence feel bigger. He tells himself he’s only standing there because he’s tired, that moving takes effort after a long night. But the truth is simpler: He stays because he wants to.
Oscar’s commute is, like most of his mornings, unremarkable. Train, sidewalk, coffee, the whole civilized crawl toward another day of dissolving other people’s happily-ever-afters.
The train rocks along, every stop unloading a tide of commuters in a mix of suits, sneakers, and faces wearing that blank morning mask, all moving as though on the same reluctant conveyor belt. He wears the same look, though his coffee at least pretends to help. A man two seats over is watching videos without headphones. Oscar imagines citing him for cruelty.
The city’s already in motion by the time he hits the sidewalk. Shop shutters halfway up, buses sighing at curbs, a street vendor shouting in two languages at once. He sidesteps a puddle, considers the physics of how that much water exists on a perfectly dry street, and joins the slow drift toward the firm.
His office hums its usual chorus: phones ringing somewhere down the hall, printers coughing up paperwork, the faint scent of burnt espresso curling out of the break room. Janine at reception looks up from her desk, bright as a storefront window display. “Morning, Oscar.”
“Morning, Janine. Bribed the coffee machine yet?”
“Gave it a stern talking-to,” she says. “It’s ignoring me.”
Mick is leaning against a doorframe ahead, looking like a man allergic to chairs. “Got the Delaney file?”
“Do I look like I bring work home?” Oscar asks.
“Yes,” Mick says, without hesitation.
Frederik’s in the bullpen already, sleeves rolled, surrounded by the mild chaos of three open case files and a half-eaten muffin. “Your client’s at two,” he says.
“Perfect,” Oscar replies. “Plenty of time to remember why I chose this noble profession.”
His office is exactly as he left it. Papers stacked in controlled disorder, legal tomes on one side, mugs on the other that have begun to resemble a science experiment. The desk tells a quieter, stranger story if you bother to look closely.
A Post-It stuck to the monitor in your handwriting. Half a grocery list, half a doodle of a cat with questionable anatomy. A worn Polaroid from high school, the two of you barricading at an All Time Low concert. A single black hair tie looped carelessly around his pen jar, forgotten or maybe not.
He doesn’t touch any of them right away. Boots up his computer. Skims his calendar. Pretends to be a man with a normal Tuesday ahead of him. But his gaze keeps catching on the hair tie, like it has its own gravitational pull. You don’t put something like that in a drawer. You leave it out where you can see it, and pretend you don’t know why. Eventually, he picks up the Post-It, rereading it again as though it might have changed overnight. It hasn’t. Still absurd. Still you. He delicately puts it on the stack of other Post-Its you’ve left him this past month.
Oscar’s afternoon is the kind of appointment that would give most junior associates hives. High-asset divorce, two parties who can’t even agree on the shape of the conference table, let alone custody. He sits at the head of the long, too-polished wood, flanked by Mick on one side, Frederik on the other, both of them looking like they’re preparing for trench warfare.
Across from him: the soon-to-be-exes, glaring through their respective attorneys. Their glares are precise. Practiced. They’ve probably been rehearsing in the mirror. The couple—Arthur and Dana—sit on opposite ends of the table, as if physical distance will keep the arguments from ricocheting. Spoiler: it won’t.
Dana leans forward, jabbing a finger at the paperwork. “He’s keeping the cabin? After everything? That cabin was mine before we even—”
Arthur cuts in, voice sharp. “Yours? You didn’t even like going there unless the Wi-Fi worked. Which it never did, by the way.”
Oscar sets his briefcase down, calm to the point of suspicion. “Let’s try to avoid turning this into a wireless connectivity debate,” he says. “We’re here to divide assets, not discuss rural internet speeds.”
Dana huffs, crossing her arms. “Fine. Then I want the dog.”
“You didn’t even walk the dog! I walked him every morning.”
“Because you were always up at five to doomscroll!”
Oscar glances at Mick, who’s taking notes on the far side of the room. “Remind me why we haven’t separated visitation for the dog yet?” asks Oscar, as if it’s a matter of national concern.
Mick shrugs. “Because they can’t agree on who buys the treats.”
“Let’s focus.” Oscar doesn’t raise his, because he doesn’t need to.
There’s a rhythm to these sessions, and he’s the metronome. Every word measured, every concession framed as a strategic victory, every flare-up dampened with a tone that’s just this side of condescending. It works. It always works. When one spouse snaps about the other’s spending habits, Oscar doesn’t flinch. He slides in a question that reframes the conversation into something quantifiable. When the other starts to cry, he doesn’t do the sympathetic head tilt. He keeps it moving. Efficiency isn’t coldness. It’s survival.
He’s not unemotional, though he lets people think that. What he is now—this calm, this precision—was learned the hard way. Back when his parents’ divorce was a slow-motion implosion and he’d been all shouting, all shaking hands, all wanting someone to pick a side and stick to it. He remembers the heat of that anger, the way it never helped. Now it’s gone, dissolved into something sharper, more useful.
The session ends with signatures and clipped handshakes. The couple leaves without looking at each other. He’s already halfway through making notes when his phone buzzes with a text from you. lol it’s us ^^, it says.
It’s a TikTok. From the thumbnail, it seems to involve two animated penguins. Oscar can feel the corner of his mouth pulling upward despite himself. Professionalism, temporarily postponed. He pockets the phone without opening it yet, saving the video you sent like a cigarette after a long day. Something small and certain to cut through the taste of other people’s endings.
Oscar takes the train home in that post-work daze everyone wears like a second suit. Sshoulders heavy, tie slightly askew, head still full of someone else’s marital collapse. He tells himself it’s fine. It’s just the job. It’s not like he hasn’t seen worse, and it’s not like he hasn’t learned how to compartmentalize. Except, of course, he has. That’s the whole problem.
Despite all his cultivated detachment, some afternoons get under his skin. Watching two people dismantle the life they built together isn’t exactly uplifting, no matter how cleanly you draft the paperwork. He knows he’s good. Clinical, precise, quick on his feet. ‘Good’ doesn’t make it pleasant, though. The arguments echo longer than he’d like, little splinters lodging in his thoughts.
By the time the train slows near his stop, he’s already trying to shake it off, to think about dinner, laundry, anything else. He steps out into the evening air, which smells faintly of rain on concrete, and heads down the block toward home. That’s when he sees you. Through the big glass windows of Arrow Central, you’re at one of the tables by the back. Headset on, utterly absorbed. Your fingers move in quick bursts over the keyboard. You’re singing some song he can’t hear, your mouth shaping the lyrics with unselfconscious precision.
You’re in your own world, and he’s the idiot standing on the sidewalk watching it like a scene from a movie. He doesn’t know how long he’s there. Long enough for the windows to start fogging slightly from the inside, long enough for him to realize that people probably walk by and think he’s lost.
You look up eventually. Your eyes land on him, widening in surprise before they light up. The change is instant, like flipping a switch. You smile so wide he almost forgets how to breathe.
He manages a tired smile in return, the kind that still somehow carries all the warmth he’s been trying to keep to himself. He lifts a hand and waves, brief and almost shy.
And in that moment, the day feels a little less heavy.
“You’re my logistics team.”
Oscar narrows his eyes at you across the coffee shop table. “That’s not a real job title.”
“It is if I say it with enough confidence,” you counter, already scrolling for the address Carmen sent. “Besides, I need someone to keep track of my bag while I’m helping her. You’re perfect for it.”
“Ah, so I’m a coat rack now.”
“Don’t be dramatic. You’ll be a supportive friend.”
That’s how he ends up in the passenger seat of your car, wondering if this is karmic punishment for every time he’s told a client they ‘just need to compromise.’ You’re humming along to something on the radio, blissfully unaware that you’ve roped him into the ninth circle of hell: bridal retail.
The boutique smells like roses and champagne. An aggressive kind of luxury that makes him feel like he should’ve worn a better shirt. The sales associate greets you with an enthusiastic, “You must be here for Carmen!” and sweeps you both toward a back fitting room.
Carmen, radiant and rosy, is already mid-spin in a lace creation that probably costs more than Oscar’s rent. “You made it!” she beams.
“You look amazing,” you say, darting toward her.
Oscar hangs back, watching you fuss with the hem, adjust the veil, squeal at the beadwork. He’s not sure what his role here actually is, aside from existing quietly in the corner like an unwilling chaperone. “How do I look, Oscar?” Carmen asks, turning toward him.
He gives a diplomatic nod. “Like you’ve single-handedly funded a Parisian designer’s vacation home.”
You shoot him a look. “Translation: gorgeous.”
“That too,” he says, because apparently sarcasm isn’t bridal-friendly.
From his perch by the wall, he listens to you and Carmen debate the merits of tulle versus organza, which sounds like a legal dispute he’s unqualified to mediate. Every so often you throw a comment over your shoulder, usually to mock him for looking ‘like a dad in a mall’ or to demand he fetch the sales associate. He does it, because despite his better judgment and the fact that he’s absolutely being used as a pack mule, he’s signed a contract. One supposedly life-altering wedding which is beginning to look like an unpaid internship.
Oscar’s halfway through deciding whether the armchair in the corner is comfortable enough to nap in when Carmen says, “You should try that one.”
At first, he assumes she’s read his mind about where he wants to nap. Then he glances up and sees you. Holding a dress against yourself, hesitant but smiling like you’ve already pictured it on even if you’re pretending you haven’t. You laugh, shaking your head. “I’m not the bride, Carmen.”
“So? Humor me.” Carmen waves a manicured hand, all command and no room for argument. The kind of gesture that once made high school teachers wilt.
Oscar leans back, waiting for you to refuse, maybe stutter some excuse about time or budget or basic dignity. Instead, you grin—a grin that’s trouble in heels—and vanish into the dressing room without another word.
He plops down into the chair and goes back to scrolling through his phone, telling himself he’s not thinking about it, about you. He’s just killing time. That’s it. Until the curtain swishes open, and you, stepping out, say, “Alright. How do I look?”
Oscar looks up. The entire room forgets how to function. Or maybe just him.
The dress fits you like it was built around your laugh, your shoulders, the way you stand when you’re not paying attention. Fluid lines, quiet elegance, and—God help him—a certain kind of light he’s pretty sure wasn’t in the room before. Every smart remark in his arsenal packs up and leaves without notice.
You tilt your head, waiting. “Well?”
He should say something clever, something that keeps him behind the usual fence of sarcasm. But his mouth has gone rogue. “You look…” He stops, blinks, as though the perfect adjective might appear if he stares at the floor long enough. None does. “… sufficient.”
Carmen giggles, somehow managing to disguise it as a cough instead.
Oscar leans back in the armchair, pretending to check something on his phone. Really, he’s watching you from under his lashes. You’re a whirl of movement. Spinning in front of the mirror, adjusting the hem, babbling to Carmen about how surprisingly comfortable the dress is. You’re lit up in a way that makes the entire boutique feel warmer, like the overhead lights are conspiring with you.
It’s ridiculous, he tells himself, that his brain immediately starts filling in the gaps. Swapping Carmen out for a crowd, replacing the fitting room with some floral arch, and suddenly it’s a wedding. Your wedding. His imagination, ever the sadist, paints it in perfect detail. Your laugh, the way your hand would linger on someone’s arm, the curve of your smile. He tries—really tries—to slot himself into the groom’s position.
But the thought catches somewhere in his chest and refuses to move, heavy and impossible. He can’t make it fit. The groom’s face blurs until it’s just… not him.
It’s pathetic. And worse, it’s dangerous. Because if he lingers too long, he’ll start wondering about timelines and choices and every stupid what-if he’s trained himself to shut down.
“Hey,” you call, jolting him back. You’re grinning at him in the mirror. “Don’t look so serious. You’re starting to scare the mannequins.”
He exhales, aims for nonchalance, misses by a mile. “I’m just wondering how you conned me into being your unpaid bridal consultant.”
“You’re logistics,” you say, prim as anything. “It’s an important role.”
“Right,” he mutters, “because when I imagined my Thursday afternoon, I definitely pictured tulle.”
You flash him that over-the-shoulder look. “Admit it. You’re having fun.”
He snorts, which is safer than answering. But his voice still comes out a little uneven when he says, “Sure. Let’s call it that.”
The wedding dress fiasco messes with Oscar so badly that he agrees to a date with somebody from law school.
Oscar meets Isabella at a quiet Italian place in the Village, the sort of restaurant that looks like it was decorated entirely by someone’s nonna and smells like oregano and faint regret. She’s already there when he arrives, sitting at a corner table in a crisp white blouse that says she’s come straight from work, or at least wants to look like she has. “Hey, stranger,” she says, standing to greet him. Warm smile. Firm handshake. A deposition, but friendlier.
“Hey,” he says back, sliding into the chair opposite her. “You look lawyerly.”
She laughs. “That’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me all week.”
They order wine—red for her, white for him—and the conversation falls into the easy rhythm of two people who’ve survived the same hellish coursework. Law school war stories, professors they loved and loathed, nights when the library coffee tasted like burnt cardboard but kept them awake long enough to memorize the finer points of civil procedure.
On paper, it’s great. She’s great. Smart, funny, ambitious. The kind of woman his colleagues would tell him he’s an idiot not to marry. She even does pro bono work on weekends, for Christ’s sake.
But halfway through her story about a particularly messy corporate merger, he catches himself looking at the way the candlelight reflects in her wineglass rather than at her face. His mind drifts—uninvited, annoying—to you. How you’d wrinkle your nose at the breadsticks, claiming they’re ‘too chewy,’ and then steal half of his anyway. How you’d nudge his foot under the table just to throw him off mid-sentence.
Isabella smiles mid-story. “You’re quiet. I didn’t bore you with that, did I?”
“No, no,” he says quickly, forcing his attention back. “I was just… thinking about something.”
“Hopefully something good.” She smiles, and he feels that familiar twinge of guilt. She deserves someone who’s not half-distracted by a ghost.
He tries harder. Asks about her current cases, listens to her take on the latest SCOTUS decision, even cracks a joke about how law school didn’t prepare them for navigating restaurant menus with too many pasta options. She laughs at the right beats, but every time she leans forward, he can’t help thinking of how you’d do it differently. Chin propped on your hand, eyes dancing like you’ve just baited him into an argument you fully intend to win. He’s not even sure if he’s comparing, or if you’re just there in the background, stubbornly refusing to leave the room.
The date survives dinner, and now they’re roaming the streets, hunting ice cream like two people who have run out of small talk but are determined to keep pretending otherwise. The summer air is heavy, and the neon of a late-night gelato place blinks as if it’s in on the joke. Isabella is easy company. That’s the problem. Easy means Oscar can’t point to anything wrong. Easy means she’ll nod at his dry remarks, volley back something light, and he’ll smile not because he wants to but because it’s what is expected.
“So,” she says, scanning the display case of ice cream, “how’s your best friend—what’s her name again? Oh! Right.”
The sound of your name catches him like a tripwire. He blinks at the pistachio gelato as if it just insulted him. “You know her?”
Isabella nods, scooping her hair over one shoulder. “I mean, yeah. When you weren’t stressing over moot court, you were spending time with her.” There’s a half-smile there, amused but not unkind. “We all thought she was your girlfriend.”
Oscar shrugs, which is his roundabout way of stalling. “She wasn’t,” he says, barely resisting the urge to add, End of story.
“Mm.” Isabella takes a taste-test spoon from the server. “Funny, though. Every time I run into someone from our circles, your name and hers come up in the same breath. Like a matched set.”
The truth makes him feel like the ground beneath him is shaky. He tries to deflect. “Maybe you’ve just got a bad sample size.”
She arches an eyebrow, lets the joke hang between them, then changes the subject. He catches the flicker of something in her expression. A note of recognition, the kind you file away for later. She’s perceptive. Probably too perceptive. They both end up ordering the same flavor, which feels too much like a metaphor for him to enjoy.
As they leave, cones in hand, Oscar wonders—not for the first time—if there’s anyone in his life you haven’t already quietly colonized.
The walk to Isabella’s apartment is pleasant in the way most well-lit, tree-lined streets are pleasant. Pretty, unthreatening, and peaceful enough to hear your own thoughts. Unfortunately, Oscar’s thoughts are not the kind you want amplified. Isabella is talking about a new case at her firm, her voice warm and animated. He listens, really listens, because she’s truly the kind of person you can imagine parents approving of in seconds. The problem is that his brain keeps running a silent parallel commentary: not her, not you.
They reach her building faster than he expects. She pauses at the door, smiling up at him. “You want to come in?”
It’s said casually, but there’s something in her eyes. Hope, maybe. He hesitates. A fraction too long. She reads it instantly, because she’s no fool. “Right,” she says lightly, smile dimming just enough to be polite instead of inviting. “Then I’ll just do this.”
Before he can ask what this is, she leans in and kisses him. He kisses back. Well, he tries. It’s competent, technically fine, like both of them are following choreography they learned years ago. But there’s no spark, no pulse of something unexpected. Just the faint, sweet aftertaste of her pistachio gelato.
When she pulls away, she studies him for a beat and then says, “Take care, Oscar.” It’s not cold, but it’s final.
“Yeah, Isabella,” he sighs, the well-wishes sounding a lot like I’m sorry for wasting your time. “You, too.”
He watches her slip inside, the lobby light catching in her hair for a moment before the door shuts. Then he turns and starts the walk back to his own place. The night air is cooler now, brushing his skin, and his hands are sticky from where his ice cream dripped down the cone. He licks at it absently, the sugar grit catching on his tongue, wondering why something as small as this feels heavier than it should.
Oscar’s still working out how long it’ll take to get the sticky patch of melted ice cream off his hand when he unlocks his apartment and stops dead.
You’re there. Not metaphorically. Not in some wistful, post-date replay of memory. Physically there, padding around his kitchen like you own the lease. Which, he reminds himself, you absolutely do not.
You glance over your shoulder mid-chew. “Oh. Hey. Hope you don’t mind—”
“What are you doing here?”
“I ran out of cereal.” You gesture at the open box on his counter, spoon already in your hand. “You had some. Problem solved.”
You hadn’t even bothered to dress up in any way, shape, or form. Ratty pajamas, hair a little mussed, posture loose in that way people only get when they’re somewhere safe. You look better like this than Isabella had tonight. Than anyone has, probably.
He drops his jacket on the back of the couch, still mentally tripping over the fact that you’re here at all. “You could’ve just… I don’t know, gone to the store?”
“Could’ve. Didn’t.” You point your spoon at him. “How was the date?”
Oscar hesitates. He could give the diplomatic answer, keep it vague, spare himself the self-awareness. Instead, he exhales, “Don’t think anything’s gonna come out of it.”
“Bummer,” you say, not missing a beat before going back to your cereal.
You change the subject, launching into some story about your mutual friend’s ill-fated attempt at baking bread. Oscar half-listens, half-watches you, wondering why it feels like the night only started making sense once you showed up.
You’re halfway through crunching another spoonful of cereal when Oscar says it, casual in tone, not so casual in timing. “Why haven’t you dated anyone lately?”
A smile tugs at your mouth, the kind that says you’ve already got your answer and he’s not going to like it. “Because I’ve always been date-to-marry.”
He should’ve seen that coming. He did see it coming, if he’s honest. It’s just different hearing it out loud, the words sliding into place with a kind of brutal simplicity.
Oscar leans back against the counter, nursing the chocolate milk he’d poured himself. Date to marry. Right. He thinks about your exes. Not a sprawling list, more like a curated exhibit. Each one stuck around for years, long enough to look like they might last forever, long enough for him to get used to seeing them in your orbit.
And then they were gone, quietly, for one reason or another. Oscar, whether or not he cared to admit it, was always a little glad to see them go. You shovel the last bite of cereal into your mouth, unfazed. “Why? You trying to set me up with one of your friends?”
“God, no,” he says automatically, which earns him a raised brow from you. He swallows down the too-quick denial with a shrug. “They’re all idiots.”
You laugh—easy, unbothered—before you go to rinse your bowl in his sink like you live there. When you pad over to the door, Oscar almost says something stupid. Something like, stay. Stay the night. I never want you out of my sight, and if I could keep you here forever, I would.
Instead, he calls out, “Good night,” and you don’t even say it back. You just wave, leaving Oscar with the bitter reminder that he never quite measured up where it mattered.
The rehearsal dinner is not, by any stretch of the imagination, going smoothly.
The caterer’s late, the florist’s lost in traffic, and someone apparently thought now was the time to test how much champagne a tablecloth can absorb. Oscar would feel bad for you—actually, no, he does feel bad for you—but mostly he’s impressed. You’re everywhere at once. Smoothing ruffled tempers, delegating with military precision, somehow making people think fixing the seating chart is their idea. You look like you’re running a high-stakes covert op, except your comms are a phone glued to your ear and a pen stuck in your hair.
He watches from the corner, pretending not to be entirely captivated. You point at the florist when they finally arrive, then pivot to soothe the maid of honor, then somehow charm the caterer into an apology and extra dessert. When you finally pass him, breathless but smiling like you’ve just single-handedly prevented an international crisis, he says, “You’re a miracle worker.”
You glance at him, brow arched. “Flattery won’t get you out of moving chairs.”
“Wasn’t trying to get out of it,” he says, but it’s a lie. A charming lie. The kind you both know he’s telling.
You roll your eyes, even though the corners of your mouth betray you with that quick, appreciative curve. Then you’re off again, darting back into the chaos, and Oscar follows. Partly because you told him to, partly because watching you do this is better than any dinner theater he’s ever seen.
Despite your utter salvation of the shitshow, Oscar spots the tells before anyone else does. The quick snap in your voice when someone hands you the wrong seating chart, the way your smile freezes for half a second before you glue it back on. Everyone else sees a flawless operation humming along. He sees the seams, the hairline fractures running under the polish.
You’re spinning plates, charming guests, redirecting disasters before they sprout teeth, all without breaking stride. He’s the spectator who notices your every pivot, every little flicker of irritation you think you’ve buried. He catches your shoulder, hour later, as you pass by him. Clipboard in hand, no sign of a dinner plate. “When was the last time you ate something that wasn’t pure stress?” he presses.
“I’m fine,” you tug away from his grip, already halfway to the florist.
Oscar is not fine with that answer. “That’s not a binding statement. You can’t just say ‘fine’ and have it hold up in court,” he bites out.
You keep moving. Rookie mistake. Two minutes later, he’s in your path again, armed with a small plate stacked like a peace offering except it’s more like evidence in a trial. “Eat,” he commands.
“Oscar, I have a million—”
“Eat.”
Your team, the same people you’ve been barking orders at all evening, suddenly finds themselves with front-row seats to a public hostage negotiation. There’s a ripple of laughter when he steps in closer, lowering his voice but not his resolve. “I’ll wrestle you,” he threatens. “Don’t test me.”
You glare, equal parts exasperation and disbelief. “You wouldn’t.”
“I would. Happily. In front of all these people.”
The absurdity hangs between you, but there’s something else too. The way his eyes soften under the joke, the concern tucked into the stubbornness. You take the fork. One bite. Then another. Then a sigh that’s part defeat, part reluctant gratitude.
“There,” he says, smug as anything. “Miracle worker status revoked until you prove you can keep yourself alive.”
You roll your eyes, the corner of your mouth betraying you. A ghost of a smile, there and gone, meant for him alone. Then you’re off again, clipboard in hand, spinning back into the chaos like you were never gone. Except now, he knows you’ll make it through the night without fainting.
It’s not even up for debate: you save the rehearsal dinner. There’s no polite phrasing, no humble alternative. You flat-out rescue it from the jaws of chaos, and Carmen and George know it. They corner Oscar near the dessert table, beaming like proud parents. Carmen gushes about how flawlessly you handled every last hiccup, George nods so hard his tie shifts sideways, and Oscar—cool, composed Oscar—has to bite back the urge to smirk like he had anything to do with it.
He does, however, get the tiniest satisfaction in thinking, Yeah, that’s my girl.
It takes him a minute to realize you’re not in the room. Which is odd, considering you’ve been the gravitational center of the evening all night. But Oscar knows your habits, where you’d vanish to if given half a second. He ducks out a side door, following instinct and maybe a little muscle memory. Sure enough, there you are in the garden, exactly where he expects. Among the flowers you’ve always loved, their scent carrying just enough to soften the night air. You’re not doing anything grand. You’re standing there, hands loose at your sides, shoulders relaxing for the first time all evening.
He keeps his voice low. “Just checking in,” he says lightly as a way of introduction. “Making sure you’re still breathing.”
You glance over, smile faintly. “Still breathing.”
“Good.” He takes a step back like he’s about to retreat, because maybe you came out here to be alone and he’s never wanted to be the person who ruins that for you.
But then you say, “You don’t have to go. I never mind if it’s you.”
Oh. Well. That’s… unfair.
Regardless, he stays, sliding into place beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world. You lean into his side. Not much, just enough for him to feel the weight of you. He pretends it’s nothing. Forces himself to keep his hands in his pockets, because holding you would be a bad idea. The worst kind of good idea.
The flowers rustle in the evening breeze, and for a few beats, neither of you speaks. Oscar decides this is the sort of silence he could live in forever.
The road out of the city unspools in long, lazy stretches, all cracked asphalt and the occasional reckless squirrel. You’ve got both hands on the wheel like a model citizen, which is funny considering you’re ten over the limit. Oscar, meanwhile, is in the passenger seat, laptop balanced on his knees, looking like he’s running a hedge fund instead of answering three mildly urgent emails.
“This is the part where I remind you,” you say, glancing at him, “that you volunteered for this.”
“I recall being threatened with cake withdrawal if I didn’t.”
“That’s volunteering.”
He snorts, not looking up from the screen. “That’s coercion with frosting.”
You let the radio fill the gap for a minute. Static, pop ballads, the occasional truck blasting past. He catches you humming along and files it away for later, because apparently even your off-key is better than most people’s pitch-perfect.
“So,” you say, eyes still on the road, “how’s it feel knowing you’re basically my unpaid intern for one more week?”
“I’ve had worse bosses,” he says. Then, after a beat: “Though none of them yelled at me for holding a bouquet wrong.”
“That bouquet was worth more than your rent.”
“And yet you trusted me with it.”
“Desperate times.”
He finally looks up, catching the faint curl of your mouth. It’s the kind of almost-smile that makes him close the laptop. Not because the emails are done, but because you’re better company than the screen. The trees outside flicker sunlight across your face, and he has the passing thought that maybe the whole lackey thing isn’t the worst gig he’s ever had.
You choose your topic with the precision of someone sliding a particularly risky track into a playlist. Light in tone, catastrophic in potential. “Divorce,” you announce, like you’re pointing out a roadside attraction.
Oscar glances out at the sprawling neighborhoods. “We’re really doing this now?”
“Better now than during the vows,” you say, one hand drumming on the steering wheel.
He exhales through his nose, the sound of a man already exhausted by a conversation that hasn’t even started. “Sometimes it’s the right call,” he says simply. “Two people know they’re not good together anymore—why drag it out?”
“Because you can fix things,” you counter, eyes steady on the road. “People just don’t try hard enough. They quit when it’s inconvenient.”
“That’s not quitting, that’s self-preservation. Staying miserable just because you swore a promise?” Something inside him churns. “That’s not noble, that’s masochism.”
You throw him a sidelong glance, half amusement, half challenge. “Wow. Remind me never to marry you.”
Damn. “Don’t worry,” he says, his jaw working in that careful way that means he’s holding back sharper words. “Mutual self-preservation.”
It should come off as a joke. It doesn’t. The air in the car cools just enough to notice. The steady rhythm of passing fields outsides suddenly becomes riveting. He leans back, eyes on the horizon, shoulders angled away like the conversation is already several miles behind you. For a while, only the hum of tires fills the space between you, along with the faint, uneven tap of his fingers against his thigh. He’s probably thinking he went too far. You might be thinking the same about yourself. The silence stretches, not hostile exactly, but brittle. Something that could break if either of you pressed just a little too hard.
The two of you pull up to the curb of your destination with the kind of synchronized silence that only two very stubborn people can manage. Oscar stares at the dashboard like it’s personally responsible for the last thirty minutes of conversational shrapnel. You’re already slipping on that brittle, party-ready smile—something shiny to hide behind—when he reaches across and catches your wrist.
“Hey,” he says, soft but pointed, as if he’s trying to sneak past your guard without setting off alarms. He’s a prideful man, but his pride is a sand castle when it comes to your tsunamis. “I’m sorry.”
Your eyes flick down to where his hand holds you, then back to his face. It’s the kind of look that could be filed under ‘Neutral’ but is definitely under ‘Weapons-Grade Silence.’ He swallows, tries harder. “Anybody would be lucky to marry you.”
The silence deepens. If it were a drink, it’d be straight whiskey, no ice. So he keeps going. “You’re smart. You’re funny—though you weaponize that, obviously. You make people feel taken care of without making it feel like a debt. You remember the little things, like who hates olives and who only pretends to hate olives because it’s trendy. You’d be the kind of bride who—” He stops, recalibrates. “—who makes the whole marriage thing actually look worth it.”
“You really think that?” you ask, voice small with disbelief.
Oscar nods. “I’ve never lied to you,” he says delicately. “I’m not about to start now.”
You blink, slow, deliberate, and then lean in. Not to kiss him properly, but to press your lips once, briefly, against his shoulder through his shirt. It’s the kind of gesture that says, Fine. Truce. Oscar exhales, almost a laugh, and lets you go. You push open your car door, the fake smile now replaced with something just slightly realer.
The front door to your house swings open before you’ve even knocked. Your mum has a sixth sense for arrivals, honed over years of intercepting neighbours before they ring the bell. She pulls you into a hug so tight Oscar half-expects to hear vertebrae shift. Then she turns to him, and the smile doesn’t even dip.
“Oscar, love,” she says, already pulling him in to dole out the same bone-crushing embrace. “You’ve gotten taller.”
He hasn’t. Not since he was sixteen. But he grins anyway. “And you’ve gotten better at lying.”
She swats his arm in that way that means she’s pleased. Your dad’s already at the door, hand outstretched, but it turns into a half-hug, half-back-pat before either of them can stop it. The kind of greeting reserved for family members you see less than you’d like but more than you can forget.
“Good to have you back, son,” your dad says, and Oscar pretends it’s dust in his eye.
He’s been ‘son’ since he started hanging around after school, eating whatever biscuits your mum pretended were ‘for guests’. He never left without a Tupperware container, usually returned weeks later with something completely unrelated inside. Inside, the familiarity swallows him whole: the faint smell of laundry powder, the buzz of the fridge, the same photo frames on the wall except now with more moments crammed in. Your mum’s already fussing over both of you, asking if you’ve eaten, offering tea before you can answer, and trying to herd you towards the kitchen like two sheep that have wandered into her hallway.
Oscar catches your eye as you’re divested of your coat. It’s that look—shared history folded neatly between you—that says he knows exactly where the biscuits are kept without being told. He could play the part of guest, but why bother? He’s been part of this script for years.
“I can’t believe you’re planning Russell’s wedding,” your mother says as all of you settle into the living room. Your parents, side by side; you and Oscar, crammed into the arm chairs that are a little too small. “He was always a good fellow, that one.”
“Still is,” you offer, sipping at your tea. “The ceremony’s going to be in town, so Oscar and I decided to stop by.”
There’s a couple more minutes of small talk. Not the forced kind, but the one that genuinely takes the stress out of Oscar’s limbs. At one point, your father asks if Oscar is dating anybody, and he nearly answers, No, sir. Too busy pining over your daughter.
You excuse yourself to go grab some of your clothes from your bedroom. Oscar stays with your parents because they’re some of his favorite company, really. Amicable, easygoing, welcoming of his dry personality. There’s a lull in the conversation when you leave, but your mother cheerfully picks it up once the sound of your footsteps fades. “How’s work, Oscar?” she asks.
“Same old, same old,” he responds. “Last week, I had to help a couple settle on who gets to keep the Roomba.”
Your mother laughs. Your father cracks a smile. Oscar thanks every higher power that led him to you, led him to them.
“Say, son,” your father says suddenly, his voice lowering ever so slightly. Like he doesn’t want to be overheard. Oscar has to lean in to hear. He’s still halfway through a smile when your father asks in a whisper, “Do you think we could have one of your cards?”
Oscar’s grin freezes.
Your parents, with their thirty-odd years of marriage, should not be asking Oscar that. Yet here they are, on their couch, watching him with a delicateness that dates back to when he was a teenager watching his parents’ marriage dissolve. Oscar sees you in his mind’s eye—bright smile, wide eyes, the way you used to say, I believe in true love because of my parents.
He knows why they’d ask him. He knows. He’s had relatives and friends ask for his services. Divorce proceedings are a monster in their own right, and it helps to go through them with someone you trust. Your parents trust Oscar. They have since he was a lanky teenager, throwing rocks at your window because you were upset over something he’d said. They’ve trusted him enough to let him crash on this couch when his parents were being messy; they’ve trusted him to be your best friend, your next door neighbor, your go-to for everything in life.
He’s not about to take their trust for granted. “Yeah,” he manages, fumbling for his wallet. “Yeah, yeah. Of course. Here.”
For the first time ever, Oscar’s fingers tremble as he hands his card over.
Oscar spends the morning pretending he isn’t in the way. It’s not difficult; you’re preoccupied enough with hair and flowers and a checklist that’s longer than most depositions. He’s used to being told where to stand, when to speak, what papers to file. Here, you don’t tell him anything. You just move, efficient and elegant, and he hovers, cosplaying background furniture that has opinions it won’t share.
It should feel like relief. Finally, a day where you don’t conscript him into service. Instead, it gnaws. The silence from last night’s conversation with your parents presses on him like a poorly fitted suit. He had smiled and nodded and deflected, said all the right things while trying not to let the weight of implication crush him. They had praised him, teased him, looked at him with a familiarity that made his throat tight. And you had no clue. At least, he hopes you don’t. You have enough to worry about without his conscience leaking into the bouquet arrangements.
He watches you. Watches the way you smooth your dress before you even sit, the way you give orders with a smile that masks the bite underneath, the way you pause every few minutes to take a breath, reset, then whirl forward again like a clock wound too tightly. And he thinks: if anyone deserves honesty, it’s you. Then he thinks: not today. Maybe never.
You catch him staring. He’s never as subtle as he believes himself to be. “What?” you ask, not unkindly, but with that edge that suggests you’ll only allow a five-second detour from your warpath.
He shakes his head. Lies like it’s his job, because today it is. “Nothing. I’m fine.”
Your eyes linger, suspicious, as if you can smell the fabrication. But then someone calls your name, another fire to put out, and you’re gone, swallowed back into the swirl of pre-ceremony chaos. Oscar exhales slowly. Fine. That’s what he said. That’s what he’ll keep saying. Even if it’s the biggest lie of the day, and that’s including the ‘for better or worse’ someone else is about to recite.
It’s an hour before go-time when chaos gets a name and a face: George’s mother, flustered, red-cheeked, eyes darting. A hawk that’s lost its prey. She corners you near the catering table, voice pitched in a whisper that carries far too well. “I can’t find George.”
Oscar’s standing two feet away, holding a cup of terrible coffee, and he honestly thinks he’s misheard. You stare at George’s mother, steady but pale. “What do you mean you can’t find him?” you grit out.
“He’s not in his room. I thought he was with his groomsmen, but they haven’t seen him either. He’s just—gone.”
Oscar feels the floor shift under everyone’s feet. George, of all people. Steady, buttoned-up, mildly boring George. Hardly the type to bolt. He looks at you, waiting for you to laugh it off, except you don’t. Your jaw is tight, your eyes are already flicking through contingency plans like cards in a Rolodex. “Okay,” you say, voice clipped but calm. “Nobody tells Carmen. Not yet.”
George’s mother nods furiously, like secrecy will summon him back. You turn toward Oscar, already mid-stride, ready to take charge of yet another potential disaster. He sees it. The way your shoulders square, the muscles in your jaw working overtime, the storm gathering in you. And he decides he’s not letting that storm break.
“I’ll go,” Oscar says, stepping in front of you. “You stay here. Keep things steady. I’ll find him.”
“You?” Your brow arches. “Oscar, you don’t even know where to start.”
“I’m a divorce attorney,” he counters. “Missing grooms are basically my clientele-in-training.”
Your lips twitch, but you shake your head, unconvinced. “This isn’t funny.”
“Wasn’t trying to be,” he says, softer now. He lowers his voice, just for you. “You’ve got enough on your plate. Let me handle this one.”
There’s a beat where you almost argue. He can see it in the way you open your mouth, close it, open it again. But then you nod. A sharp, reluctant motion. “Fine. But call me the second you find him.”
“Scout’s honor.”
As he heads out of the reception hall, he feels the weight of it. Your trust, however begrudging, pressing into his back. Maybe, just maybe, he’s more rattled than he’ll admit. George better be hiding somewhere stupid, Oscar thinks, because if not, he’s not sure what the hell he’ll do. He pushes open the doors and steps into the warm afternoon, beginning the search.
The church is quiet in the way only a building this old can manage. Heavy with incense, dust, and the weight of a thousand whispered prayers layered into its walls. Oscar walks the aisle as if he’s a man on a mission, though in truth he feels more like a private investigator in an overpriced suit than a wedding guest. His shoes click against the stone, each sound bouncing up to the rafters like a tattletale. When he catches the faintest shuffle from the direction of the confession booths, well—case closed.
He stops in front of the carved wood door, ancient and foreboding, and clears his throat. “You know, George, these are usually reserved for sins. Unless you count hiding from your own wedding as one.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then, muffled through the screen: “Go away, Oscar.”
“Tempting,” Oscar says, shifting his weight. “But Carmen’s about fifteen minutes away from suspecting you’ve been abducted by rogue groomsmen. I figured I’d head that off. So here I am.” He leans against the booth, arms crossed, looking casual enough that no one would suspect his stomach is twisted into knots on the bride’s behalf. “Mind letting me in on why you’re pulling a Houdini in a church of all places?”
The wood groans faintly as George shifts. He doesn’t open the door, but his voice comes clearer now. “I love her. I do. That’s not the problem.”
Oscar arches a brow even though George can’t see his face. “Funny. Usually when people vanish before the ceremony, that’s exactly the problem.”
George exhales, shaky, almost embarrassed. “I’m not scared of marrying Carmen,” he reasons. “I’m scared of… everything after. What if it goes wrong? What if I wake up in ten years and I’ve failed her? I keep thinking about what you said—that sometimes divorce is the kindest option. What if we end up there?”
Ah. And there it is. His own cynical quip coming back to haunt him, boomeranging with perfect aim. Oscar closes his eyes briefly, exhaling through his nose, the irony settling heavy in his chest. “George, you’re asking the guy who pays rent watching marriages implode in real time. And yet—even I know fear isn’t a reason to bolt. If it were, no one would walk down the aisle, ever.”
The booth goes quiet, save for George’s breathing. Shallow, uneven, like he’s bracing for a blow that doesn’t come.
Oscar taps the wooden frame with his knuckle, then presses on, surprising even himself with the earnestness creeping into his voice. “Look. Divorce isn’t proof of failure. It’s proof that people tried. Tried hard, even,” he says. “And yeah, sometimes it doesn’t work out. But that doesn’t make the trying worthless. If you love Carmen—and I know you do—then marry her. Not because it’s risk-free. Because she’s the person you want to take the risk with. That’s the point, isn’t it? You’re not promising perfection. You’re promising to try.”
Another pause stretches out, thick with doubt and something else. Hope, maybe. Then George, softly: “You actually believe that?”
Oscar huffs out a laugh, low and dry, as though he can’t quite believe himself either. “Don’t spread it around. Ruins my reputation. But yeah. I believe it.”
The latch clicks, tentative but decisive, and the booth door eases open. George steps out, white-faced but steadier, like someone who’s just found the floor under his feet again. Oscar claps him on the shoulder. Firm, grounding, the closest thing he can offer to reassurance without choking on sentiment. “Now. Let’s get you married before Carmen figures out I let you stall in a confessional,” says Oscar. “Do you know how quickly she’d kill me for that?”
George manages a thin, grateful smile, the kind that says the panic hasn’t vanished but at least it’s not steering the ship anymore. “Thanks, Oscar,” the older man says shakily.
Oscar grins in return, steering him toward the nave where the light spills like a reminder of what’s waiting. “Don’t thank me yet. I plan on charging for emotional labor. Weddings bring a premium, you know.”
By some miracle, they arrive at the wings of the church just as the final notes of the prelude swell. And then you’re there, sweeping in like a general surveying her battlefield. One glance at George, present and upright, and your shoulders lose a fraction of their tension. You brush past Oscar, fingertips grazing his arm in a quick, instinctive squeeze. It lasts less than a breath, but it’s as good as a confession. Oscar covers it the only way he knows how: by pretending it didn’t knock the wind out of him.
The ceremony begins. The church doors open, and Carmen steps through, radiant in a gown that makes even the stained glass look dull. The room collectively exhales, but Oscar—traitor that he is—finds his gaze drifting. He tells himself he’s just checking that you’re still in position, orchestrating with your clipboard and muttered commands, invisible yet entirely in control. But the truth is simpler. He can’t stop looking at you, looking for you.
Everyone else sees Carmen gliding down the aisle, but Oscar sees the invisible current you’re steering beneath it all. He catches the curve of your profile in the soft light, the way concentration sharpens your features, the way you’re biting the inside of your cheek to make sure no detail slips. Ridiculous, he thinks, that the most commanding presence in the room is the one people aren’t even supposed to notice.
The vows begin and the congregation leans forward, hungry for their words. Oscar leans back. His eyes find you across the nave, tucked discreetly by the side pews. You look up. Just for a second, maybe checking on him, maybe accident, maybe not. But it’s enough.
There it is: the moment he’s been avoiding like a hairpin curve in the rain. He imagines it. What it would be like if this weren’t George and Carmen standing at the altar. If it were him. If it were you. The thought crashes into him with the force of a spinout. Utterly uninvited, utterly undeniable.
Oscar swallows hard, forces his attention back to the couple trading promises that aren’t his. The image lingers, stubborn as tire marks on asphalt: you, a gown that would outshine every candle in this place, saying words that could undo him. To him. With him.
There’s nothing that Oscar has wanted more in his life.
The reception is a blur of clinking glasses, distant laughter, and Carmen’s veil catching the light as if it’s made of spun sugar. Oscar’s been lurking at the edges, the way he always does when there’s too much spectacle. Half amused, half bored, wholly aware that he doesn’t belong to this carefully choreographed world of champagne flutes and choreographed entrances.
You appear about thirty minutes in, armed with two paper plates of whatever the caterers managed to squirrel away for the vendors. Professional efficiency, no-nonsense stride. You steer him to a peaceful corner near the kitchen door, away from the storm of speeches and flash photography.
“Eat,” you say, shoving one plate into his hands. “Consider it your reward for saving the wedding.”
Oscar glances at the heap of chicken skewers and roasted vegetables. “Saving the—what?”
“George told me.” You spear a potato wedge, casual, as if you’re not detonating small bombs in his chest. “About the confession booth. About what you said. He was nervous, but you got him back in time. You saved the day.”
Oscar makes a noise somewhere between a scoff and a cough. “I didn’t save anything. I just—” He waves his fork, hunting for the right word. “Talked. That’s all. People talk. Sometimes they get married after.”
You grin, leaning just slightly into his space. “Don’t be modest. Admit it,” you say, lofty despite your obvious exhaustion. “You believe in marriage now. Or at least you believe George and Carmen will make it. Which means I win.”
“Win what?” he asks, though he already knows.
“Our little contract.” You pop the potato wedge into your mouth, smug. “You said divorce was sometimes the kindest option. I said anything can be fixed. Guess who was right?”
Oscar stares at you over his fork, chewing slowly, deliberately, like he’s buying himself more time than the bite of chicken really requires. His brain is yelling don’t give her the satisfaction. His chest, annoyingly, is yelling something else entirely. Something softer, warmer, unhelpful. Finally, he sighs, long-suffering, as if you’ve dragged this out of him against his will. “Fine. Maybe you won. A little.”
“A little?” You tilt your head, eyes bright with victory. “That’s all I get?”
“That’s all anyone gets.” He shrugs, but the corner of his mouth twitches upward. “Don’t push your luck.”
You laugh, low and genuine. What Oscar doesn’t quite say is that he will always, always let you win. That’s long since been established.
The drive back to your place is quiet. Not awkward. Quiet, like both of you are storing the night away in some mental scrapbook, cataloging details you’ll never say aloud. Oscar’s fine with silence; he usually prefers it, really. But this silence trills in the space between your elbows brushing on the shared armrest, in the way you don’t reach for the radio, in the occasional flicker of the dashboard light across your face that makes him glance over longer than he should. He tells himself he’s imagining it. He tells himself a lot of things. None of them hold.
The house looks exactly as it always has, which is both comforting and mildly suffocating. Curtains drawn, porch light on, that faint scent of grass and cement he’s always associated with late nights here. The place hums with the stillness of sleeping parents, furniture resting in their well-worn grooves. Oscar trails you in, carrying the scent of champagne and flowers and his own unspoken thoughts. He toes off his shoes, careful to line them up neatly, because your mother notices when he doesn’t. She never says it, but he knows.
You’re bent over, slipping your heels off, when you say his name. Soft, but not casual. Never casual. “Oscar.”
He looks up, and there it is again. That pull he’s been batting away for years. Familiar hallway, familiar you, nothing objectively remarkable happening, except every nerve in his body seems to think it is. The faded family photos on the wall, the buzz of the old refrigerator in the background—mundane details that, somehow, are staging the most dangerous moment of his life. He’s supposed to be on the couch. He’s supposed to brush his teeth with the travel toothbrush in his bag and scroll his phone until sleep finds him. He’s supposed to.
Instead, the two of you just look at each other. Too long. Long enough that he can hear the slow shift of your breathing, notice the faint flush on your cheeks that might just be the heat of the day lingering. Long enough that he feels the weight of every almost over the years crowding into this very small, very ordinary space. He thinks of high school evenings when he lingered too long on your porch, of college breaks where you laughed just a little too hard at something he said. He thinks about every moment he could have leaned in, and didn’t.
Because apparently tonight is the night the universe cashes in on all his self-control, you both lean in. At the same time, like you’ve rehearsed it in some dream. Which, to be fair, he has dreamed off. More than once.
Oscar kisses you the way he’s wanted to since high school: certain, careful, a little incredulous that it’s real.
The hallway smells faintly of laundry detergent and floor polish, a deeply unromantic backdrop, but none of it matters. Not when you’re this close. Not when your breath hitches against his. Not when every sharp edge inside him finally, blessedly, goes quiet. He thinks, with a rush of clarity he’ll never admit out loud, that maybe he was always meant to end up right here. Bare feet on linoleum, parents asleep down the hall, and you, finally, leaning toward him instead of away.
Oscar’s never been one for clichés. He scoffs at them, actually. Rolled eyes, muttered commentary, the whole bit. But standing in this hallway, lips pressed to yours like he’s been holding his breath for years, he has to admit: it feels like the biggest cliché of all. Dream come true, corny title card and everything. And worse, he doesn’t care. Not even a little.
You laugh against his mouth, which is unfair, because the sound shivers right down his spine and makes him kiss you harder. Greedy. That’s the word. He’s greedy for this, for you, for the taste of champagne still lingering on your lips, for the warmth of your skin beneath his hands. He’s everywhere at once. Your waist, your shoulder, the back of your neck. It’s as if he can make up for lost time with sheer persistence.
“Careful,” you murmur, tugging back just enough to breathe, your smile brushing his jaw. “We have to be quiet. My parents—”
“Are asleep,” he interrupts, already chasing your mouth again. God, he’s shameless. He knows it. He can’t stop.
You huff out a giggle, muffled by his insistence, and press a palm to his chest like maybe you mean to hold him back, except you don’t. You never do. “Oscar,” you whisper, but it’s not really a warning. More like an acknowledgment of the obvious: he’s lost the plot entirely.
“Don’t care,” he gasps, his words swallowed in another kiss. And it’s true. He doesn’t care if your dad wakes up, if your mom comes down the stairs, if the whole world finds him here in his socks and suit pants, kissing you like a man starved. The hallway could collapse around him and he’d still find your lips in the rubble.
Your laugh bubbles up again, giddy and breathless, and it tips something inside him dangerously close to joy. He kisses the corner of your mouth, your cheek, the curve of your jaw; he’s mapping a country he’s only ever seen on postcards. “You’re ridiculous,” you say softly, but your hand curls into his shirt like you’d rather die than let him go.
Ridiculous, sure. But finally, gloriously yours.
Oscar doesn’t so much lead you into the living room as stumble you both there, mouths still fused. He’s not watching where he’s going, too busy pressing into you. Which is why your back bumps squarely into the television console. The sharp clatter that follows is less romantic than he’d prefer.
You break the kiss with a laugh that sounds like an apology and a scolding rolled into one. “Watch it, loverboy.”
“Sorry, sorry,” he mutters, already trying to find your mouth again. Priorities.
But you’re ducking out of reach, bending down with a groan. “I have to pick this up before my mom sees.”
On the floor: your mother’s purse, which, apparently, had been balancing on the edge of the console. Now it’s gutted all over the carpet. Keys, receipts, lipstick, a crumpled tissue that has definitely seen better days. Oscar crouches beside you halfheartedly, though his eyes keep darting to your mouth. If you’d just stay still for two seconds—
You freeze. Your hand is hovering over something. Not lipstick, not keys. A simple rectangle of thick cardstock. His card.
You pick it up slowly, confusion creasing your brow. “Oscar,” you whisper, too soft and too sharp all at once, “why is your calling card in my mom’s purse?”
For a split second, he thinks about lying. It would be easy. Say he left it there years ago, some business pretense, some polite exchange. But the words don’t come. They stick in his throat, immovable, like the lie itself refuses to be born. He’s never been able to lie to you.
He swallows. You’ve already noticed. The way his mouth opens, closes. The way his gaze falters, his shoulders stiffen. He’s physically incapable of bluffing his way out of this one.
How cruel. Oscar’s had you for all of five minutes, and he’s already lost you.
Morning smacks Oscar in the face with fluorescent train lights and the smell of too many bodies packed into too small a car. He hasn’t slept much. Lando’s couch is about as forgiving as a park bench, and Lando himself is an early riser who treats the morning like a competition. Oscar, meanwhile, feels like he’s been KO’d several rounds already.
He grips the overhead rail, lets the train sway him, tries not to think too hard. You hadn’t given him the chance to explain last night. No surprise there, really. Once your temper hit full throttle, he knew better than to argue. You’d all but shoved him out the door, your voice sharp enough to cut, and he hadn’t blamed you. Not then. Not now. Still. He’d wanted to say something, anything, before the door shut behind him. Instead, he got a midnight exile and a guilt hangover to carry onto public transport.
Oscar leans back against the rattling train wall, the city sliding past the windows in quick blurs of gray and neon. He tries to tell himself this is temporary. That once you’ve cooled off, once you’re back in your own apartment, once the everyday routine pulls you out of last night’s orbit, you’ll let him get a word in. A single word. Maybe two, if he’s lucky. He clings to that possibility, because the alternative is not something he’s ready to look in the eye.
His phone buzzes in his pocket. Lando, probably, asking if he left his charger. He ignores it, eyes slipping shut for just a moment, swaying with the rhythm of the tracks. He’s tired, sure, but more than that, he’s emptied out. All the sharp edges of last night hollowed him clean. Still, there’s the faintest thread of hope wound through the exhaustion. Thin, stubborn, irritatingly resilient. Hope that when the city resets the board, when you’re standing across the hall from him again instead of kicking him out of your parents’ house, maybe—just maybe—you’ll let him explain. And maybe—just maybe—you’ll still want to kiss him after.
Except Oscar doesn’t hear from you. Not a knock, not a muffled laugh through the thin wall, not even the telltale click of your front door shutting in the evening. Nothing. The silence has weight, and it presses on him harder than any courtroom opponent ever has. He tries to tell himself you’re just busy. People are busy, people have lives.
He checks his phone again and sees the three unread messages he sent, floating there like desperate balloons. He thumbs out another one, then deletes it. Tries again. Deletes that too. There’s a limit to how pathetic he’s willing to look in writing, even for you. The thought of using his spare key crosses his mind more than once, and every time he pictures it—him fumbling with your lock, you catching him in the act, your fury doubling—he swears under his breath and shoves the key deeper into his drawer. No. That’s a line even he knows not to cross.
He’s going insane. Objectively, medically insane. Which is probably why Frederik notices first. Frederik, whose head is usually so far in case law he wouldn’t notice if the office caught fire, raises an eyebrow over the rim of his glasses when Oscar misses a joke. “You’re distracted,” he says, crisp as a verdict.
“I’m fine,” Oscar replies, which is lawyer code for I’m not fine, but I’ll bury it under paperwork until it suffocates.
Mick joins in later, plopping down on the edge of Oscar’s desk with all the grace of a Labrador. “Mate, you look like you’ve been ghosted. Or worse. Like, haunted.”
“I’m not haunted,” Oscar says, flipping through a stack of briefs. “I’m working.”
“Sure,” Mick says, leaning back. “By which you mean obsessively rereading the same contract clause and pretending it says something different.”
Oscar doesn’t rise to it. He just keeps highlighting, keeps annotating, keeps pretending the silence next door isn’t the loudest thing in his life right now. Later, he returns from work with a headache blooming behind his eyes and a shirt clinging to his back. An unholy combination of stress and the city’s humidity. All he wants is a shower, a nap, maybe something fried and terrible for dinner. Instead, he sees the moving truck parked out front of the building.
He freezes at the bottom of the stoop, pulse doing something it really shouldn’t. The side of the truck is stamped with a cheerful slogan about new beginnings. He hates it instantly.
Monica, his landlord, stands near the door, clipboard in hand. “Evening, Oscar,” she says like it’s any other day, like the universe isn’t rearranging itself in front of him. “Hot one today.”
He forces his jaw to work. “Yeah. Hot.” His eyes flick up toward your windows, where curtains flutter as a box is carried out. He’s stuck somewhere between disbelief and nausea. “What’s going on?”
“Oh, didn’t she tell you?” Monica’s tone is casual, bordering on amused, which makes him want to laugh in a way that isn’t funny at all. “She decided yesterday. Very quick decision. Signed the paperwork online. I guess she wanted to move fast.”
Yesterday. As if one day of silence hadn’t been enough, now you’ve escalated to disappearing acts. He’s not sure if it’s impressive or cruel. Possibly both. He manages a stiff nod, tries not to let the panic show. “Right. Sure. New beginnings.” He even hears himself chuckle, though it sounds deranged.
Monica just smiles, unaware she’s chatting with a man whose internal organs have just staged a walkout. As soon as she’s distracted, he bolts upstairs, phone in hand. He dials again. And again. Straight to voicemail. Your voice, prerecorded and maddeningly calm, greets him like it hasn’t already greeted him twenty times this week. He paces the hallway, the movers clattering past, his chest tight enough to crack ribs.
By the fifth attempt, his thumb hovers over the call button, and he thinks, so this is what going crazy feels like. Not the big cinematic breakdowns, but the humiliating repetitions. The endless, one-sided conversations with a voicemail box that never talks back.
Oscar decides he’s had enough of chasing ghosts. Enough of the unanswered calls, the locked door, the movers packing your life into cardboard while he stands useless in the hallway. Enough. He isn’t a man prone to grand gestures—he hates the very idea of them—but tonight, it’s either that or let the silence swallow him whole.
He starts knocking on doors. Not literal ones at first: your parents’, who give him puzzled looks and say they haven’t seen you since the wedding. Mutual friends, who shuffle and hedge, clearly uncomfortable. He feels like a cop working a missing-persons case, only he’s the suspect too. It’s not a great look. By the time he reaches Hattie’s building in the East Village, he’s half-ready to abandon the whole thing. It’s ridiculous. It’s invasive. It’s—
Hattie opens the door. And freezes. Which is not promising.
Oscar narrows his eyes. “Evening.”
“Uh,” she says, drawing herself up. “Now’s not… the best time.”
He tilts his head. “Not the best time, or not the best lie?”
Hattie flounders, which is confirmation enough. She tries blocking the doorway with her very average wingspan, and for a moment it’s almost funny. Almost funny. Except Oscar’s not in a laughing mood. “Hattie,” he says, tone flat enough to iron shirts on. “Move.”
She sighs, glances back inside, then mumbles something that sounds like, “You owe me,” before stepping aside. There you are. Not a mirage, not a voicemail greeting, but you. Sitting on her couch like you’ve been waiting for this inevitable ambush.
Hattie claps her hands together, way too brightly. “Well! Groceries don’t buy themselves. You two—have fun.” She’s gone before either of you can object, leaving behind a slam of the door and an air thick with unsaid things.
Oscar stands there, still at the threshold, heart doing its best impression of a bass drum. He’s not sure whether to laugh, curse, or just admit he’s terrified. But at least now, finally, there’s no more hiding.
He doesn’t even get a chance to sit down before it begins. You’re already tense in the armchair, arms folded like shields, eyes sharp enough to cut through drywall. He knows that look. He’s been on the receiving end since high school debates and who gets the last slice of pizza. Only this time, it feels nuclear. “You’re fucking crazy,” Oscar blurts before he can stop himself. Smooth start. “Who just… impulsively moves out like that?”
Your scoff is immediate, vicious. “Says the man who can’t tell the truth to save his life.”
Oscar’s stomach lurches. “That’s not—” He stops, rubs a hand over his face. “Okay, fine, I should’ve explained. But you didn’t even give me the chance.”
“Oh, please.” Your voice wavers, but your glare doesn’t. “What exactly were you going to explain, Oscar? That my mother just happened to have your card in her bag for no reason? That it just fell in there, like magic?”
“You don’t understand,” he tries again, softer this time.
“No, you don’t!” The words hit sharp, but your voice cracks, and that’s what undoes him. Your arms drop, your face crumples, and suddenly you’re not furious—you’re devastated. “I trusted you, Oscar. And to find that card—of all things—in their house—” Your throat catches. “Do you have any idea what that felt like?”
He does. He knows, because it’s written all over your face now, wet and trembling. And Oscar has always been weak to this. He could win arguments, out-stubborn you until the end of time, but the second tears arrive? Game over.
“Hey,” he says, stepping forward, almost tripping over Hattie’s rug in his rush. “Don’t—don’t do that.” His hands hover for half a second before instinct wins and he cups your face, thumbs brushing at skin that’s already too damp. “Don’t cry. Not because of me.”
You close your eyes against his touch, shoulders still shaking. He swallows hard. All his practiced sarcasm, all the barbs he hides behind, dissolve like sugar in water. Right now, all he can do is hold you steady and hope you let him.
You keep going, even through your tears. Oscar doesn’t think he’s ever been called this many names in such a short span of time. Impressive, really. You’re snapping at him like it’s an Olympic event, and he’s barely keeping up. Liar, coward, snake—he’ll admit some of those fit on bad days, but not tonight. Not with this hanging over both of you.
He’s cornered, and lying suddenly feels impossible. He waits for you to take a breath, for the betrayal to temper just enough, so he can get out, “It wasn’t for them.”
You freeze, tears clinging to your lashes. “What?”
“It wasn’t for your parents,” Oscar says again, slower this time. Delicate in a way he never is. “It was for your aunt Robin. She’s the one going through the divorce. Not them.”
The words hang in the room. For a second, he can almost see the gears turning in your head. Then it hits, and you fold, shoulders shaking as the fight drains out of you all at once.
“Aunt Robin?” Your voice cracks in a way that guts him. “She’s—no, she can’t—”
Oscar pulls you against him, arms awkward at first until they’re not, until he’s just holding you as tightly as he knows how. “I know,” he murmurs into your hair. “I know. I didn’t want to be the one to tell you. They didn’t want me to tell you.”
You sob, raw and messy, and it makes his chest ache in ways he doesn’t have names for. “Why wouldn’t they tell me? She’s—she’s family. She’s—”
“They thought you’d take it hard. Which, for the record, you are.” He tries for levity, for that thin thread of dry humor, but his voice wavers under the weight of your crying. “See, they weren’t wrong.”
You shove weakly at his chest, tears wetting his shirt. “Not funny.”
“At least it’s not your parents. That has to count for something, right?”
You sag against him, still crying, but your fists unclench in his shirt. Relief slips through your sobs, uneven and fragile, and Oscar holds on, helpless but steady. He doesn’t know what else to give you except this. His arms around you, his voice low in your ear, and the unshakable truth that he’d rather be here, in this mess with you, than anywhere else.
Oscar is not a natural caretaker. He’s many things—competitive, argumentative, occasionally insufferable—but nurturing isn’t usually in his wheelhouse. Yet here he is, tripping over Hattie’s scatter of throw pillows, digging through cupboards like a raccoon in search of comfort items. Blankets? Snacks? Possibly both at once? Why not. He shoves a bag of pretzels and a blanket into your lap like he’s supplying a survivor of some great tragedy, which, to be fair, is more or less how the evening feels.
You’re quiet now, no longer snapping, no longer crying quite as hard. Just curled on the couch, eyes red and cheeks blotchy. Still beautiful, because of course you’d manage that. Oscar spreads the blanket over you with the finesse of someone trying to fold a fitted sheet. Badly, unevenly, one corner hanging off. Still, it earns him the tiniest sound from you. Almost a laugh. Almost.
“Don’t say anything,” he warns, settling beside you.
“I wasn’t going to,” you murmur, which is a lie. The smile tugging at your mouth gives you away.
He sighs, lets himself lean back, and then he tentatively slides an arm around you. For one terrifying second, he expects you to shove him off. Instead, you sink into his side with a long, shaky exhale. Relief shoots through him so fast it’s dizzying. Maybe he can breathe again.
“I may have overreacted,” you say after a pause, voice small, almost hidden in the fabric of his shirt.
“Oh, you definitely did,” Oscar replies before his brain can catch up with his mouth.
Your head tips up, glare sharp even through swollen eyes. He deserves it. He really does. Still, the corner of his mouth betrays him with a smile he doesn’t bother fighting. Absentmindedly, almost without thought, he presses a kiss to your forehead. You freeze for half a beat, then relax, settling more firmly against him. Oscar doesn’t move, doesn’t risk ruining it. He just holds on, staring at the muted flicker of Hattie’s TV screen like it might explain how he got here.
“We’ll figure it out,” he mumbles, already running in his mind what contracts will be needed to get your apartment back.
“Promise?” you say in a small voice.
Oscar doesn’t make promises. Regardless, he says, “Promise.”
“Already? You rented it already?”
Monica, unbothered as ever, flips through a clipboard as if she’s grading papers. You and Oscar are seated across from her, twinning in the way your jaws are unhinged. You were her tenant for three years; did loyalty count for nothing in this damn city? “The waitlist for a one-bedroom in this neighborhood is longer than my patience for tenants who don’t read their lease agreements,” says Monica. “The minute she canceled, it was gone.”
You’re frozen, eyes wide and breath hitching, and Oscar can see it. The start of a full-blown panic winding its way up your spine. He recognizes the signs; he’s catalogued them like constellations. Because he has absolutely no filter left, because watching you unravel is unbearable, he blurts, “You should just move in with me.”
Silence follows. Even Monica looks up from her clipboard, eyebrows creeping toward her hairline.
You glance at him, stunned. Panic attack forgotten. “What?”
“You—uh—” He clears his throat, already regretting every life choice that’s led him here. “You should move in. With me. Temporarily.”
Your mouth opens, then closes again. Oscar swears he can hear the static of your brain short-circuiting. “That’s… we can’t do that.”
“Is it?” he shoots back, half defensive, half desperate. “You need somewhere to live. I have space. You like mocking my furniture choices anyway, so—perfect opportunity to do it daily.”
Monica makes a low sound, something suspiciously like a laugh, before retreating into her office. Great. Now it’s just the two of you, stranded in the echo of his impulsive offer. You stare at him, clearly weighing whether to strangle him on the spot or admit he has a point. Oscar holds his breath, heart thudding so hard it feels like it’s trying to make a break for it.
Finally, you manage, “It’s not a bad idea.”
“It isn’t,” he says, relief slipping in, “it’s just until you work things out.”
See, Oscar has always been good at compartmentalizing. Work here, groceries there, feelings in one box, whatever-this-is with you shoved into another. But apparently boxes don’t mean much when you’re dragging a suitcase through his apartment door.
You barely look around because this isn’t new to you. Your shoes already know where to live in his hallway, your hoodie has been camped out on the back of his chair for months, and the couch still carries the faint indentation from all the times you’ve claimed it as yours. In a way, you’ve been living here without ever officially moving in. Now it’s just… official.
Oscar tries not to look too obvious about wrestling your suitcase from you. “I’ll take that,” he says.
“You don’t have to,” you protest, but let him anyway, because some things are inevitable: death, taxes, and Oscar carrying your things.
By the time evening swallows the apartment, you’re cocooned in his bed. Oscar insists on the sofa bed, which is heroic in theory, masochistic in practice. He pretends it doesn’t squeak every time he breathes too deeply. He also pretends not to notice the way your snores drift out from the bedroom and makes the place feel smaller and bigger all at once.
The adjustments sneak up on him in tiny, ridiculous ways. The extra toothbrush next to his—pink, leaning precariously close like it’s trying to flirt. The rotation of extra dishes in the sink, which he swears multiply when he isn’t looking. The hair tie he finds on the coffee table, which somehow feels more intimate than the kisses you still haven’t talked about.
Ah, yes. The kisses. The ones at your parents’ house. The ones that exist in his head like a neon sign he refuses to read. Every time he catches himself staring at you—when you’re rifling through the fridge, or humming along to some awful ad jingle—you glance back, and for half a second, it feels like you’re remembering too. Then you blink, and it’s gone, like neither of you is brave enough to say the word ‘kiss’ out loud.
He doesn’t bring it up. You don’t bring it up. Instead, he tells himself to get used to the toothbrush, the dishes, the hair ties, and the silence around the thing that’s not silence at all. He lies there on the too-short sofa bed, staring at the ceiling, and thinks that if this is what going crazy looks like, he can probably live with it. Day in, day out. Being good to you, being your best friend. He can take it. He can do normal. He’s a grown man. Sort of.
Except tonight, the sound Oscar comes home to isn’t the rustle of snack wrappers or your voice humming badly over some show. It’s the faint metallic clink of jewelry. By the time he finds you in the bathroom mirror, his lungs have stopped doing their usual job.
You’re wearing his favorite dress. The one that makes him stupid, though technically most dresses you wear qualify. Earrings catching the light, lips glossed. The whole nine yards. “Wow,” he says before his brain can veto it. It comes out rougher than intended. “Big night?”
You glance at him through the mirror, casual as you please. “Yeah. Bumble date.”
Oscar short-circuits. Bumble. Of all the cursed apps. He manages to school his face, though his insides are throwing chairs. “Bumble,” he repeats, nodding slowly like this is all perfectly fine, nothing to see here. “Nice. Sounds efficient.”
You arch a brow at his reflection. “You’re not allowed to make fun.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, doing his best impression of unbothered when he’s two seconds from combusting. “So what’s this guy’s deal? Wall Street? Tech startup?”
You roll your eyes, brushing past him toward the door, perfume trailing behind. “Don’t wait up.”
That’s when Oscar cracks. He doesn’t mean to. Blocking the door isn’t in the plan. Hell, he didn’t even have a plan. His arm just shoots out, palm flat against the frame, keeping you in. Muscle memory from every bad romcom he’s pretended not to watch.
You look up at him, visibly surprised. “Oscar?”
He swallows. His heart’s going way too fast for a conversation that hasn’t technically started. “You’re not… really gonna go, are you?”
A beat. Thick, tense. He can feel the edge of it pressing into his skin.
“I mean,” he fumbles, trying to backpedal without moving his arm, “you don’t even like dating apps. Remember? You said they feel like job interviews but worse.”
“Why do you care?”
“Because—” He stops, because the truth is sharp and messy and clawing its way up his throat, and once it’s out, nothing’s going back to normal. Maybe that’s the point.
Oscar doesn’t mean to start yelling. Technically not yelling, but the Oscar version of yelling, which is a slightly louder monotone with too much hand motion. It bursts out anyway, like pressure behind a dam finally giving way.
“You’re kidding me, right?” he says, and the frustration leaks into every syllable. “You’re dressed up, in my bathroom, using my mirror, my hairspray, by the way, to go out with some stranger from Bumble? After—after what happened?”
Your brow furrows. “What happened?”
“Oh, come on.” His laugh is hollow, sharp. “We kissed at your parents’ house. Or did I hallucinate that? Should I get my eyes checked out?”
You cross your arms, steady in a way that makes him insane. “That was—”
“That was what?” He cuts in, voice cracking just enough to betray the panic beneath. “A glitch in the matrix? A fun party trick? Because if so, you’re doing a great job pretending it never happened.” He drags a hand through his hair, exasperated. “Do you know what it’s like, sharing an apartment with you while we both pretend like we didn’t nearly set the living room on fire kissing against your parents’ console?”
Your mouth opens, then shuts again. For once, blessedly, you don’t have a comeback.
He pushes on, reckless now. “I walk in here every day, and it’s—you’re here. You’re brushing your teeth next to me, stealing my socks, eating cereal out of my favorite bowl, and instead of—of this,” he gestures wildly between you, “you’re getting dressed up to go on a date with someone else? Are you insane? Because it feels like I’m the insane one!”
Instead of answering, you grab him by the shirt and kiss him. Hard.
Everything folds in on itself and then sparks, like someone hit the emergency power switch. He stumbles a step back but doesn’t let go, doesn’t even think to. His hand finds your waist, another cradles your jaw, and then he’s kissing you back like it’s the only thing he’s ever been any good at. Fuck law school, fuck law practice. This is what he’s made for.
The taste of your lip gloss, the stutter of your breath. It all hits at once, dizzying, disarming. He had a whole speech queued up, righteous fury and all. Gone now. Vaporized. Turns out there’s no rebuttal to being kissed senseless.
Oscar doesn’t even realize he’s moving until the back of his knees hit the couch and he drops, gracelessly, into the cushions. Then you’re on him—literally on him—straddling his lap with a mouth that leaves him gasping. His brain, poor thing, has the nerve to short-circuit at the exact moment he’d like to be saying something smart, something definitive. Instead, he clutches at your waist.
You pull back just long enough to get words out, breathless and sharp-edged with adrenaline. “I didn’t have a date.”
Oscar is dazed, lips still tingling. “What?”
“There was no Bumble guy. I just wanted you to finally snap.”
He stares at you, stunned into silence. Then a laugh—half disbelief, half affection—escapes him. “You’re actually insane.”
He doesn’t give you room to argue it. Hands on your hips, he flips the script in one swift, unceremonious motion. Suddenly, you’re flat on your back against the couch, his weight braced over you, his mouth finding yours again as if gravity’s a law he finally understands. There’s nothing tentative in it now. No sidelong glances or unsaid caveat. It’s all the frustration and wanting, poured into the press of his lips.
You break away for air, just barely, eyes searching his. “Oscar, what is this?” you manage to ask, urgent in that way you get when something outside of your plans happens.
What is this? What is this? It’s holy ground. It’s his undoing. It’s him being proven wrong, and gladly taking that loss. It’s vindication for his high school self who pined over you; it’s a promise fulfilled. It’s his past, his future, and everything in between.
“Everything,” is all Oscar manages to say in the breath between your mouths. This is everything, he means, everything to me.
It’s not a speech, not a plan, not a neat label that explains the last however-many-years of complicated nonsense. But, for now, it’s the only answer he has, and apparently it’s enough. You smile, deem it sufficient, and pull him back down to kiss you again.
Oscar should know better than to let you out of his sight for thirty seconds.
Thirty. That’s all it takes for him to get tangled in your ridiculous coffee order at the Arrow Central counter (“oat milk, not almond, but steamed halfway, and no foam unless it’s exactly two fingers thick”) and for you to waltz your way into trouble. He turns, receipt in hand, already braced for whatever chaos you’ve conjured.
There you are, all easy smiles and animated gestures. His prospective clients—middle-aged couple, big account, the kind of people he’s been carefully courting for weeks—are nodding along, visibly charmed. His heart sinks, because of course they are. You’re charming when you want to be, and dangerous when you are.
Oscar narrows his eyes, closing the distance in quick strides. He catches the tail end of your sentence: “... and honestly, if you haven’t tried marriage counseling yet, I have a wonderful contact I could pass along.”
Perfect. Just perfect.
“Are you serious?” Oscar cuts in, sliding himself between you and the couple with a smile that looks far more polite than he feels. “Sorry, folks. She gets… enthusiastic.”
You blink innocently up at him. “What? I was just trying to help.”
“By implying my clients need therapy?” His voice is low, the kind reserved for hissing through gritted teeth in public.
“They mentioned arguing a lot,” you counter, batting your lashes as if you haven’t just torpedoed weeks of his work. “I thought I’d save them some time.”
Oscar pinches the bridge of his nose, because honestly, what’s the point of lecturing you? You’ll only twist it into something he can’t refute. Still, he tries. “They’re here to talk about life insurance beneficiaries, not—” He waves a vague hand. “—their communication issues.”
The husband, bless him, chuckles nervously. “She’s not wrong, though.”
Oscar stares at the man, briefly contemplating the possibility of evaporating on the spot. “Please ignore her,” he manages, tone bordering on pleading.
You grin, triumphant. “See? They like me.”
“Everybody does,” he mutters, ushering you gently but firmly away from the table. Affection slips through his exasperation—because he can’t help it, he never can—but still, he leans down to whisper against your ear, voice threaded with that dangerous combination of fondness and threat. “If you ever, ever crash one of my meetings again, I swear, I’m swapping your oat milk with regular.”
Your scandalized gasp almost makes him laugh. Almost. Oscar shoos you back with a look that could double as a cease-and-desist order. One hand makes a subtle little off you go motion while the other slides into his pocket like he has infinite patience. He doesn’t, but for you, he might as well be a damn saint.
“Apologies,” he tells his couple, voice smooth enough to hide the fact that he’s ready to throttle you. “That was my girlfriend.”
And there it is. The word drops from his mouth with all the casual ease in the world. Inside? He’s practically strutting. Girlfriend. Yours truly. Filed, notarized, and legally binding, as far as he’s concerned.
The clients exchange a look, then laugh. “That’s funny,” the wife says. “A divorce attorney dating a wedding planner.”
Oscar smiles thinly. He’s heard every joke in the book: irony, opposites attract, doom-and-gloom meets happily-ever-after. He just nods and says, “We make it work.” Short, clipped, but it’s the truth. Somehow, you and him fit.
Out of the corner of his eye, he catches you leaning against the counter, watching him. His glare finds you instantly, sharp as a spotlight. You, of course, don’t wilt under it. No, you grin, cock your head, and send him a dramatic flying kiss.
Oscar sighs internally, but his hand twitches up before he can stop it.
He catches the damn thing midair and begrudgingly presses it to his chest. ⛐
Pairing: Dr. Frank Langdon x resident!reader (ft. Dr. Jack Abbot and Nurse Dana Evans)
Warnings: secret relationship, making out, kissing, fluff & humor.
Summary: an exhausting shift leads to a desperate make out session in the breakroom, unaware that the entire ER staff has a betting pool going on about this.
Disclaimer: This story is pure fiction and written solely for entertainment purposes.
🎀 based on this request 🎀
The bet (Abbot's version)
ER was supposed to be a place of medicine and high stakes trauma care.
Supposed to be.
In reality, it was full of exhausted healthcare workers with way too much coffee in their systems and a desperate need for entertainment.
Which brought the entire department to hidden dry erase board, one strategically hidden behind a stack of boxes.
Written in bold marker at the top was a clear header:
THE LANGDON'S SITUATIONSHIP POOL
Below it was a neatly organized grid:
Option A: They’re already secretly dating and hiding it terribly. ($20)
Option B: Frank is in terminal denial and needs another 6 months. ($10)
Option C: Resident breaks first and corners him in Trauma 2. ($15)
Option D: Frank asks resident out on shift before the end of the month. ($25)
Dr. Jack Abbot, who was doing double shift, was currently adding an entry under Option A.
"I'm telling you, it's Option A," Jack said. "Did you see them earlier? Frank didn't just hand her the chart. He handed her the chart, touched her shoulder, and his voice dropped softer. A man doesn't use that voice unless he’s hypnotized or in love."
"Or severely dehydrated," Dana countered, leaning against the counter. "Put me down for Option D. Frank’s an old school romantic buried under thirty layers of cynicism. He’s going to do it after a hard shift."
"You're throwing money away, sweetheart," Jack chuckled.
-
You were currently standing at the central nurses' station reviewing a set of lab results. Frank walked up beside you, leaning one forearm against the desk as he peered over your shoulder.
To anyone else, it was a standard attending-and-resident consultation.
To the six pairs of eyes watching from various corners of the ER, it was prime evidence.
"Potassium's still low," Frank muttered, his face close enough to yours that you could catch the faint smell of his coffee. "Run another panel in two hours, then discharge if it stabilizes."
"On it," you replied, leaning into his space before stepping back to grab a pen. You glanced past him and caught Jack, Dana, and two nurses staring dead at the two of you.
As soon as you made eye contact, all four of them abruptly scattered, Jack suddenly becoming intensely interested in an empty IV bag, and Dana furiously wiping down a clean desk.
You bit back a smirk.
You weren't oblivious.
You’d heard the whispers in the breakroom. And the eyes daily following the two of you when Frank and you were close.
Two hours later, you were in the breakroom pouring yourself a cup of coffee when Frank walked in, rolling his shoulders to work out a knot in his neck.
He shut the door behind him, a subtle movement that didn’t go unnoticed by Jack, who was conveniently passing by.
"Are you in pain?" you asked softly.
"The usual," Frank sighed, stepping closer. He reached out, his hand gently settling on your waist, pulling you in just enough to erase the space between you. "How are your feet holding up?"
"I can't feel them, but I'll live," you laughed quietly, resting a hand against his chest.
Frank smiled and leaned down and kissed you. You kissed him back, letting the mug down beside you and fingers tangling briefly in the neck of his scrub.
The kiss was anything but gentle, it was deep and fueled by hours of pent up adrenaline and stress.
You let out a soft gasp against his mouth, your hands instantly tangling into his hair, gripping tight as you pulled him closer. Frank groaned, backing you a serp until your back hit the edge of the break room counter. His hands moved up to frame your jaw, fingers pressing firmly as his mouth worked against yours with a needy friction.
Frank's hands tightened on your waist, lifting you up slightly so you were sitting on the counter, his thighs crowding between yours as the kiss deepened, heavy and intense.
What neither of you realized, or cared about in the moment, was that the door latch hadn't fully caught.
Jack reached out to push the breakroom door open with his elbow and froze completely dead in his tracks.
He caught a full view of Langdon practically devouring you.
Jack’s jaw dropped, he blinked three times to make sure he wasn't hallucinating and shoved the door wide open.
"HOLY SHIT" Jack yelled.
Frank broke the kiss so fast he practically threw himself backward. You slipped off, flushed, breathless and hurriedly trying to smooth down your rumpled scrubs.
He glared at Jack with murder eyes. "The fuck is wrong with you, Abbot?"
"Me?! What's wrong with me?!" Jack practically shrieked, pointing an accusing finger at the two of you. He turned toward the hallway and screamed, "OPTION A! PAY UP, YOU FREAKS! OPTION A WINS!"
Within five seconds, footsteps echoed down the corridor, and Dana sprinted into the breakroom, followed closely by two charge nurses.
"No way," Dana gasped, looking at Frank's wildly disheveled hair and your swollen lips. She threw her head back and groaned in defeat. "I really thought you had more class than making out on the breakroom like a teenager!"
"Class?! The man was starving!" Jack cackled. "Secretly together and losing their minds, I told you!"
Frank stood frozen, looking back and forth between Jack triumphantly counting money, Dana grumbling about her lost money, and the nurses handing over their dollar bill.
His head swiveled back to you, his eyes wide in absolute bewilderment. You just smiled at him biting your lip, because you inda suspected the staff were into something.
"You..." Frank said in disbelief. "You guys were betting on us?"
"Langdon, buddy, there's been a bet for three weeks," Jack grinned, stuffing the cash into his scrub top. "We had categories, odds, timeframes..."
Frank opened his mouth to say something, but he just dragged both hands down his face with a groan.
"I hope y'all get fired," Frank muttered into his palms, though the red flush creeping up his neck betrayed his irritation.
"Congrats on the passion, Dr. Langdon. Next time, devour her on private." Jack smirked, slapping Frank on the shoulder and then he walked toward the door.
summary; after spotting jack shirtless in a room with a female co-worker, you head out to town with trinity to cool off.
contents; fem!senior resident!reader, reader n jack are dating, alcohol consumption, bad karaoke, misunderstanding/miscommunication trope, kinda follows the same events that s2 had, just in diff timestamps
a/n; based on this request <3
wc; 1.7k
The soles of your feet ached, and your neck felt about as tight as a knot at the moment. It had truly been the shift from hell. Not only is it the fourth of July, but the computer systems were down for half the day, and everything turned to pure chaos.
Your shift was over an hour ago, and yet you were still here. You were trying to find Jack, Shen, or literally anyone who you could hand-off your remaining patients to. It had taken easily an hour to digitize all the patients who'd come in during the computer blackout.
All you wanted to do was maybe get a tight hug from Jack, and then head off home to sleep for the next 12 hours.
"Our little secret.."
Your brow quirked up at the distant comment, the nosiness of your nature unable to hide as you walked towards where you heard it from. So what, maybe you like a little drama? Who cares?
However, the sight upon your eyes was the last thing you expected. Your boyfriend, Jack, shirtless in a room with Samira. Samira, who just murmured about secrets. Samira, who is drop dead gorgeous, and has more empathy than anyone.
It felt like your heart dropped down to your stomach. You'd never worried with Jack, you always thought you two were a solid deal. I mean, between being a SWAT medic and an attending in the ER, you figured he would be too tired to ever even consider being disloyal. But there he was. In the hospital, too. He was barely trying to hide it.
Tears pricked at your eyes, the skin of your knuckles turning white against your grip on the tablet. How dare he?
After walking to a quiet corridor, you take a few deep breaths, and blink away the tears. Because no, he doesn't deserve your tears. He wants to be a cheating jerk? You won't cry about it. Not yet, at least.
Once you've composed yourself, you waste no time in finding Shen, filling him in on the patients you had left, and practically shoved the tablet in his hands. He barely had time to comment back, before you were walking away, straight to your locker. Maybe you'd go home, and drown yourself into a pint of ice cream.
"Today sucked." You heard Trinity's voice from your left, as she fought with the lock on her locker. "Y'wanna go out? I really need to get drunk right now."
Your brows furrowed. It wasn't common for Trinity to go out like that. She liked keeping to her tight group of a few people, and you two didn't hang out that much. Mulling over the offer for a moment, you shrugged.
"Sure. Why the hell not?" You shrugged, grabbing your backpack from your locker. "I'm gonna change, I'll meet you out front. I could really use a drink too."
You heard her let out a scoff-like laugh, before you disappeared into one of the changing rooms. Maybe this is exactly what you need to get Jack off your mind for a moment.
It was...lively. The karaoke bar was fairly full, but not to the point where it felt suffocating. You and Trinity had been sat at a table, downing shot after shot, a few drinks thrown in too. After the initial tenseness from the shift started fading, both of you started letting loose.
Laughs spilled from your lips, as you watched drunk duos hop up on stage and sing horribly into the mic. But hell, everyone in here is drunk, no one is gonna remember this.
Trinity turns to you with a sly grin, and you can instantly tell what she wants. "No." You laughed, putting a hand out, "I am not getting up there to sing with you, Trin. That is not happening."
Not even a minute later, you were stood on stage. Trinity had chosen a song, and the lyrics started displaying on the two little screens propped up. The first few lines were quiet, awkward.
I want you to know that I'm happy for youI wish nothing but the best for you both
Trinity was singing her heart out, and you were slowly gaining confidence. With your free hand, you pulled your hair tie out, letting your hair flow down freely.
An older version of me, is she perverted like me?
Would she go down on you in a theatre?
Your hand was gripped around the microphone a little tighter now, voice smoothing into a more singing tone, as you and Trinity danced on stage. Some others from the hospital had arrived too, laughing at you two with drinks in hand.
Mel was cheering, giving you two a grin and a thumbs-up, while Dennis had his phone out, clearly filming you two. You'd so regret this tomorrow.
Does she speak eloquently? And would she have your baby?
I'm sure she'd make a really excellent mother
At his locker, Jack let out a soft groan, wincing as he shifted the wrong way, and a stabbing pain throbbed in his shoulder. He knew when he got over to your place, and you saw the wound in his shoulder, you'd kill him. Every time he gets hurt on duty, you lose it. He kind of likes it though. Shows you care.
His phone pinged, and he fished it out of his pocket instantly with a small smile. You were basically the only person who actively texted him, so he knew it was you.
His smile then dropped immediately.
Why is Dennis Whitaker texting him?
Dennis: uhhh you might want to get over here
Dennis: [location]
Dennis: [video]
Dennis: what did you do, man
Jack's eyes widened as he clicked on the video. You, on a stage. Singing.
'Cause the joke that you laid in the bed that was me
And I'm not gonna fade as soon as you close your eyes
And you know it
And every time I scratch my nails
Down someone else's back, I hope you feel it
Well, can you feel it?
Jesus. Considering the lyrics, he doesn't see how it could be about him. But then again, if you were singing about another man, he'd hurt even worse.
Without hesitation, Jack grabbed his gear bag, and practically bolted it out of the ER. Whatever was going on with you, he knew it needed to be figured out now. You aren't big on confrontation, so he knew he'd have to squeeze it all out of you. Which he'll do.
It doesn't take long for Jack to get there. He's stepping into the open bar, immediately looking toward the stage, but you weren't there anymore. His head swiveled around, finally spotting you at a table, chatting drunkenly to Trinity and Dennis.
"Sweetheart." Jack hummed, stopping by your side of the table, tilting his head a little to catch your gaze, spotting the unmistakable anger in your eyes. So, he had done something.
You narrowed your eyes, hand coming to shove at his shoulder, only to miss. "No- nope!" Hiccup. "You go away, mister dirtbag. I don't wanna see you!"
Half the bar was looking your way now, and Jack let out a soft sigh, grabbing your purse from the table, "Come on. Let's go outside and talk. You can yell at me all you want over there."
Oh, and you did. Calling him every name in the book, smacking your hand on his broad chest, which only felt like a tap to him. He had no clue what he had done, until you started calling him a cheater, muttering about him and Samira.
"Oh, sweetheart, no..." He chuckled, looking down at you with a small smile, "I wasn't cheating on you with Samira, god no. She was patching up a wound on my shoulder. It was a secret, because I didn't want to fill out a chart, and a police report."
You immediately stopped your rant, face falling. God. He was just getting patched up. And you'd just cussed him out for about 10 minutes straight.
But then it clicked in your brain.
"Why would you need a police report?" You swayed on your feet a little, hand reaching out to grab his arm, efficiently holding yourself up. Jack let one of his hands rest on your waist, keeping you stable.
He had a guilty, sheepish look on his face. You might actually kill him now.
"I uhh..." He cleared his throat, "Just remember that I'm okay now, and love you very very much, okay?"
Seeing the glare on your face, he winced a little. I think his way of convincing you that he's fine wasn't working out how he hoped to. "Uh...well I technically got shot-"
"YOU GOT SHOT?"
"Shh- shit, shh, baby..." He laughed, palm cupping over your mouth, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he smiled. You were unbelievable. "The bullet grazed my shoulder. It was just a little flesh wound. I just couldn't reach it myself, and didn't want to worry you at the end of an already hell-ish shift."
Your eyes softened at that, and he took that as his sign to let his palm slip from your mouth, moving to cup your cheek now. "I really am sorry, sweetheart. I didn't even realize how bad it would look. And I should've told you I was hurt. I'd hate it if you hid an injury from me, and it was unfair of me to hide one from you."
The crease between your brows slowly disappeared, and a tiny, miniscule smile crawled up the corners of your lips, as you nodded. "Yes, you should've told me. It was a horrible thing to witness, Jack. But I am sorry for jumping to conclusions."
"Nonsense." He kissed your nose, giving you a smile. "I would've probably jumped to the exact same conclusions, if I saw you shirtless in a room with a man." A soft laugh left his lips, as he pulled you closer, "Maybe we can learn something from this. Better communication."
You nodded, leaning your head on his chest. "I'm still a little mad, though. You have a lot to make up for."
Jack grinned, cupping your jaw to press a kiss to your lips. "I know, honey." He murmurs, lips grazing yours, "Promise I'll make up for it when we get home."
summary: after seven years of dating it’s time to get married, don’t you think?
fc: selina dreijer
a/n: for the sake of the story, r is from tokyo, I know selina is not from there, but she just fits the aesthetic so well, so please bear with me
yourusername
yourusername down under🐨💐
posted in februrary 2026
view all comments…
user she’s to die for
user atp I don’t think oscar will propose so YN do smth!!
-> user exactly!! #girlboss
user I strive to be as aesthetic as yn
user the little figurines are SO adorable
nicolepiastri you beauty❤️
-> yourusername nicoleeeee🩷🩷
user the way there are no rings on the ring fingers this HAS to be deliberate
hattiepiastri I wonder who took the stunning picture of you in sunnies??
-> yourusername oh, who could it be🤔🤔
user YN really is the piastri princess
-> user yeah, with all the piastri women hyping her up in the comments🥹
user ARE YOU COMING TO THE GP???
-> user lmao imagine she’s in aus but won’t go to the gp
-> user she went every year since oscar is in f1, so, yeah, it’s likely
user oscar is such a cutie
oscarpiastri
oscarpiastri feels good to be home🇦🇺☀️
posted in february 2026
view all comments…
user our hometown hero🧡
user I’m absolutely SEETHING with jealousy
user photographing flowers is a likely place for YN to be lmao
user 🕯️🕯️oscar will be on the podium in albert park this weekend🕯️🕯️
user just marry her oscar ffs
user oh to go on vacation with both of them
user I don’t know who I would rather be😭😭
user OP1 IN 2026
waggossip
waggossip fashion icon and Oscar Piastri’s partner YN YLN seen entering the paddock of Albert Park for media day
posted in march 2026
view all comments…
user SHES HERE
user the myth, the legend, the paragon
user why is she here on media day?
-> user idk maybe she’s styling someone in attendance today??
-> user OMG PLEASE let it be that
user love that they put fashion icon first hehe
user the girl with the purple phone in the back is real
-> user right who cares abt the drivers YN IS THERE
user so cute that she always comes to the aus gp
user was she driven with a ferrari🫢🫢
-> user she arrived with alex
-> user why not with oscar and his family? are they having trouble
-> user jesus, why does there always have to be a problem? I’m sure yn just wanted to have a girls day with the other wags
user she’s like a fairy
user OMG I’m there for the race I hope I get to meet her
hattiepiastri
hattiepiastri we put the glam in grand prix
posted in march 2026
view all comments…
yourusername absolutely we do ♥️ by author
user I NEED THEIR CLOSETS‼️‼️
user I would kill to know how the day went when oscar introduced them
-> user I’m sure they looked at each other once, squealed and disappeared into another room for the rest of the day
-> hattiepiastri pretty much, yeah
-> user OMG HI QUEEN
user yn and hattie gotta be the best combo ever
-> user i just know they’re menaces together
user oh to be in a friend group with YN and Hattie😔😔
user them comparing nails is peak girlhood
user they are so fashionable
user I love that hattie and YN are so close
user just imagine how INSUFFERABLE they’d be LMAO
TWITTER / X
👤 user @.user 1h
YN taking a OP cap from a fan to probably get it signed for her🥹
—
The video starts shaky and low quality, as a fan has taken it from far away and had to zoom in quite a bit to focus on you.
You were walking along the paddock towards the hospitality building when a man approached you. Stopping in your tracks, you are seen looking a little startled at first, but the longer the man talked, the softer your features got. You nodded, smiling, and the man called out to someone off camera.
Not even a few seconds later, a little girl decked in Oscar Piastri merchandise ran into frame. She was practically glowing with excitement, nodding enthusiastically as you talked to her. You reach your hand out and she took off her cap to hand it to you.
The three of you stood there a little longer and talked, until you crouched down to hug the little girl. As you straightened up again, you waved with a big smile and she hugged your legs as you laughed and placed a careful hand on her head.
The girl looked up at you with a big grin plastered on her face as you said something to her that made her let go and nod so strongly that it almost looked like her head was gonna fall off.
The video ends with you parting your ways, while waving to each other for a little longer as the girl jumped up and down in excitement.
—
👤 the way she didn’t even hesitate once she found out it was for a little girl🥹 she’s too pure for this world
👤 YN’s so good with kids🫶
👤 better not show this to Oscar the baby fever is REAL
👤 the little girl is so excited AW
👤 I need to know where her outfit is from it’s so gorgeous
👤 she’s so lucky omg I wish I met YN as well
👤 lmao that girl is DECKED in oscar merch
👤 I would give EVERYTHING to be a fly on the wall when YN recalls the story to Oscar
👤 she’s is the luckiest girl on earth
👤 I need to know what YN said for the girl to nod like that lol
ynstyle
ynstyle everything YN wore to the australian grand prix!! you can find the link to the individual pieces in my bio:)
posted in march 2026
view all comments…
user how is Oscar Jack Piastri of all people dating the most fashionable person on the grid🧍♀️
user ughhhh to be this COOL
user that woman loves her tabbies and I respect her for that
user the orchard sweater OMG
user THATS IT i am breaking into her house
TWITTER / X
👤 user @.user 6m
YN comforting oscar after his dnf🙁🙁
—
Following is a ten second clip that starts with oscar walking with James Lloyd, head hanging low as if his helmet was pulling him down. James turned to signal the people behind the cameras to back off, but they did the opposite and followed them along the tarp-covered barricades.
Just as Oscar is about to disappear around the corner, the cameras catch a glimpse of you, standing on the tarmac with a soft smile on your lips.
You don’t move towards him, but instead waited patiently for him to come to you. And when he did, you just walked with him, one arm slung around his back.
Oscar is seen leaning into you slightly and you rub his back gently as you continue back, probably towards the medical center.
The video ends with James telling the reporters to stop recording.
—
👤 i hope he’s okay that looked nasty
👤 they’re so soft with each other🥹🫶
👤 I hate the fucking australian curse man
👤 YN knowing exactly how osc needs to be comforted is so dear to me
👤 you’d hope so after seven years of dating
👤 I’m glad oscar has YN after this stinker
👤 it’ll be like last year and he will win from now on I feel it in the air
👤 I can’t imagine what he must be feeling rn
👤 it’s so cute that oscar is still in contact with james
yourusername
yourusername the season of flowers is finally here 💐✨
posted in march 2026
view all comments…
user they’re my parents you guys
user her wearing a no war shirt after the "spring break" was announced is iconic af
-> user performative🥱
hattiepiastri the necklaces are so pretty!! ♥️ by author
user whimsy personified
user did she make oscar wear a f1 themed shirt?? that’s so funny😭😭
-> user I don’t think she MADE him do anything
user she’s a angel
user oscar you aren’t special, I’m also in love with YN LN and would let her dress me
opinterviews
opinterviews oscar at the japan grand prix about his girlfriend YN YLN
posted in late march 2026
view all comments...
user him acting calm as if this isn’t her home race and her parents are watching as well
user he just wants to give her a good race😭😭
user the light twinkling in his eyes every time he speaks about YN
user YES GET HIM TO TALK ABOUT HER MORE PLEASE
user in an earlier interview in like 2022 I think he said it gives him energy to know YN is watching🥹🥹🥹
driver_radio
driver_radio some fun oscar piastri radio clips from the japanese grand prix
view all comments...
user CHAMPIONSHIP BACK ON
user not so calm as he pretended to be in that interview then, hey? LMAO
user 75% podium rate at her homerace🙌
user the “ah.” I’M CRYING tom is so tired of them
user HES SO FUNNY 😆
user I need Oscar to suffer more if he only brings these bangers after bad performances
user WE GOT A YN SHOUT OUT
user Tom is so tired of their shit
user and the camera going directly to YN showing her giggling OH HOW I LOVE THEM
user PODIUM FOR HER HOME RACE
oscarpiastri
oscarpiastri sightseeing in Tokyo with a special tour guide
view all comments…
posted in late march 2026
user oscar if your next post isn’t a proposal announcement then I will personally fly to monaco and propose to YN
user is he carrying her bag?? that's peak bf behavior
user he was like I’m not dnsing at my gfs home gp and almost won the race
user why‘d you cut the best part off😩😩
user as if he hasn’t been to tokyo before LMAO you’ve been dating for 7 years
-> user that’s his second home atp
user soulmated so hard their home grands prix are almost next to each other on the calendar
oscaryn81
oscaryn81 Oscar and YN at the Rolex Monte Carlo Masters
posted in april 2026
view all comments…
user I want what they have😭😭
user oscar heart eyes piastri is back
-> user was he ever gone?
user they are my otp
user the way he looks at her🥹
user guys he’s always looked at her like that, I made a thread on twt if you want receipts
👤 user @.user 49m
YN talking about her past/future with oscar and her stylist career in an exclusive interview with vogue
—
Q: what made you want to become a stylist?
Y: I’ve just always loved the science of how textures, silhouettes and patterns in different combinations could change the entire appearance of a person. My mom told me that I always insisted on wearing my princess dress with my light-up sneakers because the light matched the purple trim. So I guess you could say I always had it in me.
Q: do you think Formula One is an important place for fashion?
Y: it depends on how you define important. With the growing interest in the WAGs, there is definitely money to be made by luxury brands like Vuitton or Maison Alaïa. So for those brands, f1 is absolutely an important investment. I’ve also talked to Lily Muni He and she said that going to races gives her a reason to get out of her golfing clothes… So, yeah, do with that what you will.
Q: were you a Formula One fan before you met Oscar?
Y: yes and no. It’s tricky to explain. Our mothers actually went to school together, but we didn’t officially meet until they had a high school reunion in 2017. I did always like sports cars though, my dad would point them out to me when we were walking through different cities. He was also a huge Michael Schumacher fan as well, so I’ve always kind of been in the sports orbit. But I do think I’ve become a bigger fan since I met Oscar.
Q: what are your expectations/wishes for this year?
Y: that’s a great question, um… I don’t know if I have any. I really want to keep doing what I love, which is styling people and travelling around the world to watch Formula One. It would be nice to settle down a little, you know… uh, get married, maybe move into a house.
—
👤 wake up, more oscaryn lore dropped!!
👤 her saying she wants to get married!! OSCAR WAKE TF UP
👤 the pause before she said get married lmao
👤 she is such a soft spoken person 😍
👤 I hope she styles oscar one day
👤 if this isn’t a direct demand to oscar then idk what it is
👤 I hope they get married and run off into the sunset together
👤 the soft smile into the camera as she says it???? oh she’s so in love with him
👤 OH SHE IS NOT SUBTLE SHE WANTS THAT MANS CHILDREN
mclarenf1
mclarenf1 our new mclaren merch drop is online on our now. visit store.mclaren.com for details
posted in early april 2026
view all comments...
yourusername 💗💗
-> user uhhhh what’re you doing here?🤨 she never comments on any mclaren posts
user he looks so boyfriend in this WOW
user who let him serve this hard??
user OMG I NEED THAT
-> user the merch or oscar?
-> user BOTH BOTH
user I AM OVULATING OSCAR I DIDNT NEED THIS TODAY
user foaming at the mouth thx mclaren!!!😛
yourusername
yourusername a day at the mclaren office🧡 so happy to finally be able to share this with you!! In February of this year I had the honour of styling @.oscarpiastri for the new mclaren merchandise drop:) all the merch can be bought on the official mclaren store or through the link in my bio💕
view all comments...
oscarpiastri 🧡🧡
user look at her being all locked in and him being absolutely mesmerised by her🙂↔️🙂↔️
user YOU DID THAT???
user ofc YN's magic hands were at play, have you seen how domesticated he looked?
user LOCKED INNNN
user women in STEM!!!
user she makes me want to become a stylist as well
user I can't belive we finally got YN to style oscar
user no wonder he looked extra good in the pictures
user she is so inspiring 💕💕
yourusername
yourusername I fell in love with you even more in italy💞
posted in april 2026
view all comments...
user oh to have her skirt collection
user they really found out about the five-week break and ran off to vacation LMAO
user oop if that doesn’t look like a proposal vacay to me🤭
user MAMA Y PAPA
lando shouldnt you be working oscar🤨🤨
-> yourusername what zack doesn’t know 🤷♀️
yourusername and oscarpiastri
oscarpiastri forever with you❤️
posted in april 2026
view all comments...
lando didn’t know he had it in him👏 congratulations you two
-> user don’t be rude lando LMAO
user WHOA I SAID PROPOSAL VACATION AS A JOKE BUT APPARENTLY I’M A PSYCHIC
user their vows are gonna be 'in whimsy and in solemnity' or smth like that LOL
user the scream I let out when I saw this
hattiepiastri WE’RE OFFICIALLY SISTERS
user oscaryn engagement hallelujah
user I can’t imagine oscar getting onto one knee😭😭
-> user yeah and he must’ve been like will you 😐marry me?😐
-> yourusername this joke died years ago, come on guys
-> user OOP clock them queen
-> user id be so embarrassed jesus
user @.georgerussell63 are you seeing this? step up your game ml
-> user LMAO tagging him is diabolical
rebeccasonaldson congratulations lovely💗 ♥️ by author
alex_albon lily hasn’t stopped talking about a triple wedding
-> yourusername OMG she’s a genius
-> oscarpiastri I feel like that would end up with our girlfriends married to each other
-> charlesleclerc that doesn’t sound so unlikely
user I’m actually shaking bro I HAVE BEEN WAITING FOR THIS MY WHOLE LIFE
oscarynlvr
oscarynlvr in honour of oscar and YN getting engaged, here are some of my favourite oscaryn moments😌💗
the grid kid oscar is talking to here is YN's nephew and they were YAPPIN the entire time they were waiting for the national anthem to start
the first hug we got from them after his first podium at her home race
after hungary, YN was in his drivers room when he did his post-race review for mclaren and oscar couldn't stop grinning at her while he was talking
our first time properly seeing YN, australia 2023
the one time YN was behind the camera for a prema interview and oscar was BLUSHING the entire way through the interview and logan and fred were absolute menaces, teasing them SO MUCH
there is this one clip of YN, as alexandra was taking pictures of her and YN was posing, like she is doing in the one pictured above and in the clip, the camera goes to oscar and he was MESMERIZED and an absolute blushing mess when she looked at him like this
yourusername
yourusername magic city ⭐️🌴🌆
view all comments…
user I love the miami gp so much, all of the wags are always there and we just get the coolest outfits/moments ever
lilymhe magical girl in the magic city💗
-> yourusername stop🥹 you cutie
user she’s got that newly-wed glow🤩
rebeccadonaldson oh my goodness that skirt looks amazing on you
-> yourusername 💗💗💗
alexandramalenaleclerc so excited to finally see you again!
user her outfits are to die for
williamsf1team is the blue for us?🤭
-> yourusername ofc admin💕
user he gets a podium every time she comes to a race🥺
user she is only after oscar’s fame and money🙄🙄 at some point he’ll realise that and she will be nothing bc she went to every race instead of making something of her life
-> user okay first of all, it okay to just admit that you’re jealous of her, second, YN and oscar have been together since they were 17 and oscar had literally nothing to his name and third she studied fashion design and fashion merchandising and is now a globally successful stylist
TWITTER/X
👤 user @.user 30m
YN, lily and alex showing off their rings😭😭
—
A video follows the tweet, in which Carmen, Lily and you were standing in a tight circle.
You were talking to Lily when suddenly Alexandra joined the circle. You beamed at her and hugged her tightly, rubbing your hand up and down her back. Carmen, who stood behind Alexandra, pointed at something on Alex's back and you laughed, pulling back and holding out your hand for everyone to see.
Everyone gathered around you, looking in awe, and you grinned, a little flustered. Quickly, you pointed to Alex and Lily, who held out their hands as well.
It was clear then that you were all showing off your engagement rings.
—
👤 lmao and carmen standing there like: when is it going to be my turn??
👤 that’s so cute OMG
👤 all the girlies in long term relationships getting married and carmen is like 🧍🏻♀️
👤 has anyone seen the outfit check interview with YN where she was asked how much her outfit costs and she grinned and said in the upper thousands and wiggled her fingers to show the ring?????
👤 oh oscar doesn’t save money on her iktr
loveliketheirs
loveliketheirs feels like the appropriate time to bring back this interview from pre 2025!! congratulations YN and Oscar💞
description: jacaerys was ecstatic when his mother proposed that he invite his girlfriend along on their annual summer holiday in dorne. two weeks in paradise, endless luxury, the love of his life, and…his entire extended family–what could go wrong?
warnings: UNEDITED dear god dont hold me accountable for typos or bad grammar i had a bad week guys, SMUT mdni (p in v, oral, mention of masturbation), substance use (alcohol and marijuana), swearing, reader is described as feminine presenting (mentioned to be wearing bikinis and skirts/dresses), a disgustingly large wealth gap (middle class!reader), very toxic family dynamics, no targcest featured in this one (jace, luke, and joffrey are still velaryons but lets not dwell on that), aegon and aemond are the weird uncles but at least they share their weed
words: 7.7K
date posted: 26/07/26
previous | next
Jacaerys had laughed aloud at the look on his girlfriend’s face as their driver pulled onto the tarmac. She’d expressed her nerves about flying, having only been on two different planes in her life, which had consisted of her being squished between two strangers and shaking from the turbulence. It had, of course, been on a standard economy flight, which she had not been expecting from the billionaire family, but she also had not been expecting a glittering red and black and gold private jet waiting for them at the airport.
This flight had been nothing like she’d ever experienced before, just another jarring reminder of the unimaginable wealth sitting beneath the Targaryen family. Jace had packed her softest pyjamas in his own carry-on for the flight, reminding her that she would be more comfortable once she changed out of her linen shorts and shirt set. She took them begrudgingly, making a stern remark about how she wholeheartedly resented such an unethical use of fossil fuels while slipping into the generously sized bathroom. She even rolled her eyes when she returned from changing to find that breakfast had been spread across one of the tables for them, but had no reservations about having seconds as she sipped on a perfectly ratioed iced latte.
The stewardess on board seemed to preen under her praise, keeping just enough distance to offer privacy, but always watching for signs that they may need her assistance. Jace seemed quite amused at the woman’s eagerness to please his girlfriend, and even more so at his girlfriend’s many failed attempts to keep pretending that she didn’t like it.
She dragged her heels as she stepped down onto the tarmac, thanking the staff politely before allowing Jace to guide her to the deep scarlet convertible that awaited them. With the luggage packed into the boot, they set off down the road onto the coastal highway. She was glad that Jace seemed to know where he was going, because as marvelled as she was by the natural landscape, she would have somehow wandered into the desert without him.
It was late in the afternoon when they finally arrived at the villa–or rather, villas. The property was guarded by a large iron gate, followed by a long, palm covered driveway before finally leading into a cul-de-sac surrounded by three monumental houses, all built with traditional Dornish architecture, but each retaining their own Targaryen features to them; dragon statues, an excessive use of black and red, royal symbolism all over.
Jace opened the door for her, offering her a hand to guide her out into the driveway.
“I know it doesn’t look like much, but–” he teased with a wicked grin on his pink lips.
“Don’t even finish that sentence,” she hissed, pinching his arm playfully, “I used to spend my summers in a camper van.”
“Alright,” he admitted, hands finding her waist as he stepped nearer to her, “it’s nice, I know,”
Two young men appeared from one of the villas, rushing toward the parked car and hurriedly unpacking the trunk of their luggage. She glanced over her shoulder at them, offering a grateful smile as Jace guided her up towards the second largest of the three villas, his hands never leaving her waist as they stepped inside.
A breath escaped her lungs as she took in the grand entryway; marble and precious metals and glass all over, physical evidence of the Targaryen legacy before her eyes. She glanced over her shoulder at him, her cheeks growing hot as she found him already looking, watching her take it all in, watching her in yet another one of his spaces.
He wanted her there, he wanted her everywhere. If there was anything that he could call his own, he wanted her to take it, to make it her own. He wanted her in every part of his life; he’d let her live inside his own skin if he could. It all made sense when she explained how his wealth could make her feel when he just threw it around, and as much as he wanted to bury her with gifts and material affection, he respected that she wanted to maintain some of her own financial independence–but if she ever let him, she would wear only the finest silks and jewels, eating and drinking however she pleased, and on as many vacations she would allow him to organize. They’d only been together for nine months, but he wanted only her to be part of that future, and now that he was getting a glimpse of what it would look like, he couldn’t get it out of his head.
“What?” She asked defensively, turning toward him curiously, “what’s that look for?”
He stepped closer, hands pulling her closer by the hips and lowering his lips to hover just over her own.
“I was just imagining bringing you here on our honeymoon.”
She pushed at his chest with a laugh, “oh shut up!”
“I’m not joking,” he laughed, stepping back from the force of her shove, “and then we’ll go to YiTi for our first anniversary, skiing in Winterfell for New Year’s.”
“You’re skipping over a few steps, I think,” she giggled, “first, we’ll graduate, move in together, you’ll propose…”
“Don’t give me any ideas,” he said, “you’d have a ring tomorrow if I thought you would say yes.”
“I would say yes,” she reminded him, “just not right now.”
Jace leaned closer with a cheesy grin, his eyes dropping to focus on her lips. He shifted to press closer, lips about to brush against hers when his brothers appeared in the doorway.
“Ugh!” Joffrey huffed in disgust, “Mo-ther! Jace is mauling his girlfriend again!”
The hurried click of Rhaenyra’s shoes against the marble flooring echoed through the bottom floor of the villa, her sunkissed figure appearing behind the younger two of her sons. Her hair was loose around her shoulders, silky silver locks glistening in the sunlight like polished glass as she pushed through the two younger boys, her arms extending with glee as she rushed towards the young couple.
“You’re here!” she cheered, “I’m so glad you could make it!”
Jacaerys stepped forward to meet his mother, only to let out a sharp grunt of surprise as she pushed past him, her arms curling snugly around the figure of his girlfriend, who seemed equally surprised by Rhaenyra’s affection while also not-so-subtly cosying into the embrace.
She pulled away, keeping her hands steady on the younger woman’s shoulders as she took in her appearance, “oh, you look so beautiful, but I just see how much you need this vacation.”
Jace cleared his throat impatiently. He was her firstborn son, her, her favourite–though she would never admit it. Never before had Jacaerys felt dismissed by his own mother, let alone for someone who wasn’t even her own blood.
“Should we give you two a moment to catch up?” He scoffed, “perhaps you may give me a ride back to the airport when you’re finished?”
Rhaenyra smirked at her son’s pout. He was not truly angry with them, but there was little he could do to stop the slight whine to his tone at the implication of his mother’s rejection.
“And you, my boy,” she hardly stifled her laugh as she moved to cup his cheeks, “how glad I am to see you, too. How was the flight?”
Jace, practically purring under his mother’s touch, turned his content gaze to his girlfriend teasingly.
“I practically had to force this one off the jet. I think I’m beginning to spoil her.”
His girlfriend scoffed at him, “the beginning was a long time ago.”
Rhaenyra barked a laugh as she shifted back to glance between her son and his girlfriend.
“Clearly, even more spoiling is in order if you think this too much already.”
“Funny,” Jace grinned at her, “I’ve been saying the same thing.”
She shook her head in embarrassment, “I don’t–I’m not–”
“We’re only teasing, my girl,” Rhaenyra laughed, “now come in, you must be exhausted. We’ll be having dinner in a few hours, so try not to pick too much and ruin your appetites.”
After exchanging pleasantries with Luke and Joffrey and offering them their own–much shorter–hugs, Jace led her up the stairs and through the long corridors to their bedroom. It was the same one he’d kept since he was a child, decorated finely as any other room with a few touches of his personality throughout the years. Photos and trinkets decorated the space; family portraits, football posters, collages of he and his brothers during their vacations. It was a strange sort of intimacy to see evidence of the boy Jacaerys had once been.
Their luggage awaited them in the room. Or rather, simply their belongings that were already tucked away in the large armoire in the corner, their toiletries arranged neatly on the ensuite counter, and two stiffly pressed bathrobes folded on the foot of the bed.
She let out a soft breath as he closed the door behind them, her shoulders slouching as she felt the exhaustion seep into her bones. Suddenly, the weight of it all slipped away, and it was just the two of them again. She felt her lips curl into a lazy smile as she felt his chest press up against her back, his arms curling around her waist possessively.
He hummed against her neck as he pressed lazy kisses against the soft flesh, his teeth catching on the dainty gold chain that helped balance a small J pendant between her collar bones. She hummed at the graze of his teeth against the sensitive flesh.
“Jace,” she whispered weakly, “I know what you’re doing–stop that! I’ve gotta get ready! Don’t start anything you cannot finish.”
“It’s a casual dinner, love, no need to get all dressed up,” his lips curled into a smile against her neck, “and who said anything about not finishing?”
She laughed then, fighting against his hold but only becoming more restrained as he tightened his grip around her waist.
“Gods forbid I show my girlfriend some love and affection,” he whined, burying his nose deeper into her flesh.
“Love and affection? Is that what you call what’s poking into my back right now?”
One of his hands slid down, gently pinching at the fat of her bum, “it certainly could be.”
She finally broke free of his grasp, putting a few paces between them before turning to face him.
“I am tired, I am anxious, and worst of all, I am sweating from this gods’ forsaken heat. I am not having sex with you right before a dinner with your entire extended family–who, mind you, could have me quietly disposed of if they do not like me and see no consequences for it. It truly irks me how easily you forget what privilege you come from.”
Jace, whose attention had fallen to her lips as she scolded him, glanced back up to meet her gaze.
“So…after, then?”
His girlfriend huffed, turning on her heel, snatching her monogrammed robe from the bed and heading for the shower, where all of her products already awaited her in a neat little row.
“Take care of it while I shower,” she ordered, “I’m also not going to dinner with that sitting next to me all night.”
He let out a dramatic sigh before throwing himself onto the bed dramatically.
“Can’t I join you? It would be quick.”
“It never is,” she barked, “take care of it.”
“Can you at least leave the door open?” He asked weakly.
The door shut firmly behind her.
***
When Jacaerys said that it was a casual dinner, she should have known better than to believe him.
To be fair, it likely was actually casual by billionaire royal standards, but even her nicest dress was far too understated, she suddenly realized, for the grandeur of the king’s own villa. It was decorated with glittering rubies, rich linens and satins, sleek leather, and glistening marble columns. Rhaenyra led the charge, accepting a glass of Dornish red from a hired server as she led the path through the sprawling house like it was her own. Her own tailored suit likely cost more than a month’s rent, her shoes double that.
Jace and his brothers were all dressed in varying colours and materials, but all seemed to compliment one another perfectly; Rhaenyra never gave up the opportunity to flaunt her picture perfect family before her stepmother Alicent, the crown princess’s former best friend turned enemy after discovering that Alicent had been sleeping with the king. Somehow, she had even found a way to match Jace’s outfit to his girlfriend’s, ensuring that each of them were so subtly correlated that Rhaenyra knew only Alicent would pick up on it.
Jace guided her along from a step behind, his warm palm pressing into her lower back comfortingly. She reached back, fingers ghosting across his forearm until she caught his hand with her own and fell into step with him. He squeezed her hand, offering her a supportive smile as they stepped into the parlour.
“Stop that,” he whispered after catching her shifting at her dress, “you are breathtaking.”
“You call that casual?” She hissed as she glanced towards the queen, who stood next to her husband’s chair in a floor length emerald gown made of the softest silk in the realm.
“Trust me,” he murmured back, “for her, it is. You should see her during Yuletide.”
Beside Alicent, the king sat in a soft leather chair, a glass of vintage scotch trembling slightly in his hand. He was well dressed, though in attire far more comfortable than formal, and despite the toll of age and illness, he carried himself with an easy warmth, his cheerful demeanor refusing to yield to his frailty. Jace had often told her that his grandfather was deeply devoted to keeping the family together, even as the fractures between them had become impossible to ignore.
“My boy,” Viserys beamed as Jacaerys stepped before him, “it’s good of you to finally show up, only two days late.”
“You know my Jacaerys,” Rhaenyra hummed, “always fashionably late.”
Jace rolled his eyes at the pair, “I’m beginning to think you only wanted me here to be the butt of your jokes.”
“I only jest, my boy,” Viserys chuckled at his grandson, “fear not, your brothers have been dealt their fair share of my terrible humour. Now, pray tell, who is your lovely companion?”
She instinctively pressed closer to Jace, retreating half a step behind him as every gaze in the room settled upon her. Across from them, Viserys leaned forward with undisguised curiosity, eager to finally meet the young woman who had so thoroughly captivated his grandson.
Jace beamed as he spoke her name into the room, “my girlfriend.”
Jace gently guided her from behind his shoulder, coaxing her into view before the king while keeping his hand firmly entwined with hers. Viserys noticed it at once—a quiet but unmistakable breach of royal protocol. Yet in the intimacy of the moment, the gesture seemed less an act of defiance than one of reassurance, Jace offering the comfort she so clearly sought in the steady warmth of his touch.
“I have heard very much about you, my dear.”
She glanced at Jace over her own shoulder, raising a brow at him.
“My grandson has always had a terrible poker face, even now, and has never been one to keep a secret for long,” Viserys chuckled, “but I do not expect many could with a woman like you at their side. Law school, is it?”
She felt warmth bloom across her cheeks beneath the king's unwavering attention.
"I hope so, Your Grace," she said with a small, self-conscious smile. "I've still got my undergraduate degree to finish, so I have a little ways to go."
Jace gave an amused shake of his head. "Don't let her fool you. She'll be admitted—I'd bet the Crown on it. She's already landed an internship with Stark & Co. in King's Landing, and they don't take just anyone."
Viserys raised his brow in surprise, “they certainly do not, I know Rickard quite well, and Cregan has always been a good friend to Jacaerys. Do not diminish your achievements, my dear.”
Jace squeezed her hand.
This time, the motion caught the attention of the queen, who did not seem nearly as amused by the affection as her husband had been.
“Yes,” she drawled, “this family is certainly in need of more ambitious women.”
The remark was a double-edged sword—a compliment to the young woman's academic accomplishments, yet a subtle barb aimed at Rhaenyra, whom Alicent had long regarded as a persistent thorn in her side, forever frustrating her designs with schemes of her own.
Rhaenyra bristled from beside me, “yes, it certainly does.”
The tension was suffocating, the animosity between the two women spreading through the room until it seemed to tighten around her throat. Instinctively, she edged closer to Jace, who looked no more at ease than she felt. His shoulders stiffened as he glanced toward his younger brothers before returning his attention to their grandfather.
He suggested a walk through the gardens that bordered the estate and wound along the cliffs overlooking the beach. It was a transparent excuse to usher his girlfriend and brothers away from the gathering before the familiar family conflict could erupt. He had warned her before that when Rhaenyra and Alicent clashed, tempers escalated with alarming speed. Once, he had told her, it had become so vicious that he made it a habit to get his brothers out of the room before the worst of it began.
“They don't quite compare to the gardens at Maegor's Holdfast," Joffrey admitted as they wandered beneath the archway and into the grounds. "Those are grander, and Dragonstone's are larger still, but these have their own charm."
He spoke easily as they walked, his steps matching hers while Jace and Luke followed a short distance behind. After weeks apart, the brothers had plenty to catch up on, their conversation filling the space between them as they slowly drifted out of earshot.
She let out a soft laugh as Joffrey guided her toward the garden doors.
"It must be strange, going from Dragonstone to this. Doesn't it feel a little... cramped?"
“It does,” he nodded mindlessly, “but it’s only for a few weeks.”
Once again, she was baffled by the blissful ignorance of the wealthy. She almost laughed at the boy’s nonchalance, but withheld as he led her further into the finely landscaped hedge maze, following behind as he broke into a run.
"Follow me!" Joffrey called over his shoulder before darting behind a towering wall of hedges.
She laughed and hurried after him, only to round the corner and find the path empty.
"Joff?" she called, peering down one corridor, then another. Nothing.
A beat of silence.
"Joffrey?"
"Don't worry," a voice drawled behind her. "He has a habit of wandering."
She startled, spinning on her heel.
Another silver-haired Targaryen lounged on a weathered stone bench tucked into the crook of the hedge maze. He reclined against one arm as though he'd been there for hours, one boot lazily crossed over the other. Between his fingers burned the end of a half-smoked joint, a thin ribbon of smoke curling into the afternoon air.
His pale violet eyes swept over her with shameless curiosity, lingering just long enough to make her skin prickle.
"You're the nanny, then?" he asked. "My sister doesn't usually bring the help along on holiday."
She let out a short, incredulous laugh and glanced around the maze once more. Still no sign of Joffrey. Jace and Luke must have fallen farther behind than she'd realized.
"No," she replied coolly, folding her arms across her chest. She silently thanked herself for choosing the modest midi dress over the sundress she'd briefly considered. Even so, she could feel his gaze tracing the bare skin of her shoulders.
"I'm Jacaerys's girlfriend."
For the first time, his expression shifted.
His brows climbed toward his hairline before a loud, disbelieving laugh escaped him.
"Jace?" he repeated, an amused grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You're serious? The realm's golden prince actually managed to get himself a girlfriend?"
He gave her another once-over, this one slower, more assessing.
"I'll admit," he said with a crooked smile, "I didn't think he'd be anyone's type."
He took another drag before flicking the ash onto the gravel path.
"Gods..." he muttered, amusement still dancing in his voice. "This family really has been full of surprises lately."
“You almost sound jealous,” she said, watching curiously as he took a long drag from the joint, “I’m sure there are women lining down the block for a chance with Aegon Targaryen.”
Aegon smirked at her as he let out a smoky breath.
“They are, and I’m very happy to entertain them for a night or two.”
“Sounds lonely.”
“You get used to it,” he muttered bitterly, then shifted his eyes back to her face, “so, you apparently know my name, it’s only fair if I know yours.”
She hesitated. He was a stranger, lounging in the middle of the gardens while getting stoned—the sort of situation her mother had spent years warning her about. Granted, those lectures usually involved dark alleys, suspicious vans, and somehow ended with her living under a bridge, but the underlying message had been the same: don't trust strange men.
Still, it seemed pointless to keep the truth from him. If he really was Jace's uncle, he was bound to learn who she was sooner or later. They would all be under the same roof for the next week, and family gossip traveled faster than wildfire.
A knowing smirk spread across his face when she finally answered. Without another word, he held the joint out to her in offering.
She glanced at it before shaking her head. "No, thank you."
He huffed a laugh and nudged it a little closer.
"Go on."
"I'm sure."
"Trust me," he said, settling back against the bench, "you'll want something to dull the edges before dinner."
The butterflies already fluttering in her stomach seemed to plummet.
"...Why?"
His expression remained maddeningly relaxed.
"Has something happened?"
Aegon lifted one shoulder in a careless shrug.
"Depends what you call 'happened.' My mother and my sister have been at each other's throats since before I can remember."
"Even at a family dinner?"
He laughed outright.
"Especially at family dinners. Half the entertainment is waiting to see who throws the first jab."
She frowned.
"I thought maybe they'd... try to keep the peace."
"They do." He took another slow drag. "For about five minutes."
Despite herself, she smiled.
"Maybe you'll be the miracle we've all been waiting for," he added. "A fresh face. Neutral territory."
She raised an eyebrow.
"That almost sounded sincere."
"It wasn't."
She laughed, earning a satisfied grin from him.
"No offense," he said.
"None taken." She nodded toward the joint. "But I'll pass. I'd rather be fully present for my first dinner with my boyfriend's family."
"Brave woman."
He reclaimed the joint, exhaling a thin stream of smoke toward the hedges.
"Don't say I didn't try to save you."
A familiar voice cut through the maze before she could answer.
"There you are."
She turned to find Jacaerys rounding the corner, an easy smile spreading across his face the moment he saw her.
"I should've warned you," he said with a sheepish laugh. "Joff has a habit of abandoning people the second something else catches his attention."
His gaze shifted to the silver-haired man lounging on the bench.
"...Ah."
A crooked grin tugged at Aegon's lips.
"And here is your prince charming."
Jace sighed through a smile.
"I see you've met my uncle."
"So I have."
Before she could say another word, Jace stepped in beside her. She instinctively leaned back against his chest as his arm slipped around her waist, his hand settling there with an ease that immediately put her at ease.
Aegon's eyes lingered on the gesture before a smirk tugged at his lips.
"So it's serious."
Jace didn't hesitate.
"It is."
Aegon let out a quiet hum, taking one last drag from the joint.
"Huh. Good for you, nephew."
He pushed himself off the bench, brushing off his trousers.
"I'll see you both at dinner. Try not to take whatever my mother says to heart."
With a lazy salute, he disappeared down another path, leaving the pair alone once more.
A quiet laugh escaped her once Aegon was out of earshot.
"He's... not what I expected."
Jace sighed, shaking his head as he threaded his fingers through hers.
"That's Aegon."
"Does he always greet strangers by offering them a joint?"
A reluctant smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.
"Only the ones he likes."
She nudged his shoulder. "I'll take that as a compliment."
"I think it was." He glanced toward the opening of the maze. "Come on. If we don't head back now, Baela will come looking for us, and she'll never let Joff forget he lost you."
They found Joffrey waiting sheepishly by the garden entrance, Luke beside him with his hands tucked into his pockets.
"There you are!" Joffrey exclaimed. "I only turned around for a second."
"You disappeared," she laughed.
"I was exploring."
"You got distracted," Luke corrected, making himself known behind them.
"...I got distracted."
Jace chuckled, slipping an arm around her shoulders as the four of them started back toward the house. The warm glow of the dining room spilled through the tall windows ahead, the sounds of conversation already drifting onto the terrace.
She drew a slow breath.
"Dinner?"
Jace gave her hand a reassuring squeeze.
"Dinner."
Together, they climbed the stone steps toward the house, leaving the peace of the gardens behind as they stepped into whatever awaited them inside.
***
Dinner was quieter than she had expected.
King Viserys began the evening with a speech, beaming beneath the candlelight as he spoke about how happy he was to see his family gathered together again. His voice carried a warmth that seemed almost out of place given the tension lingering around the table, but he appeared determined to savor the moment.
After that, conversation came in brief, strained attempts. Questions were asked out of courtesy rather than genuine interest, and most were answered with little more than a few clipped words before the silence returned.
Aemond and Helaena had since joined them, seated across the table from where she and Jace sat. Helaena seemed almost entirely detached from the evening, drifting in and out of conversation as though her thoughts were somewhere far away. She offered no judgment, no curiosity, barely even acknowledging her presence.
Aemond, however, had noticed her.
He had made no effort to hide it.
His attention lingered from across the table, his expression carefully composed, as if he was trying to decide what exactly he thought of her. There was no warmth in his gaze—not yet—but neither was there the outright disdain she had expected.
It was curiosity. And something else she couldn't quite place.
She caught him looking more than once, only for him to calmly return his attention to his plate as though he hadn't been watching her at all.
Jace noticed.
Of course he noticed.
His hand found hers beneath the table, his thumb brushing lightly over her knuckles in quiet reassurance.
"Don't mind him," he murmured.
She glanced toward Aemond again. "I wasn't sure if I should."
A faint smile tugged at Jace's mouth.
"That means he's interested."
She raised an eyebrow. "Interested?"
"In his own way."
The silence lingered until Viserys, ever eager to keep his family engaged, turned his attention back toward her.
"And tell me," he said warmly, "how are you finding King's Landing? It must be quite the change from what you are accustomed to."
She smiled politely. "It has been an adjustment, Your Grace. But I enjoy it. There is always something new to learn."
"A good answer from someone in your position," Viserys said with a pleased smile. "Jace tells me you are doing remarkably well with your studies."
Viserys looked delighted by the exchange. "And Stark & Co. is a fine place to gain experience. A demanding one, I imagine."
"It is," she admitted. "But I've learned more there than I could have imagined. The people I work with are brilliant, and they expect a great deal from me."
"As they should," Viserys replied. "Ambition is a wonderful quality when paired with dedication."
Across the table, Alicent lifted her glass.
"Indeed," she said smoothly. "Stark & Co. is an impressive placement. I imagine it helps to have the support of influential people when beginning one's career."
The words were gentle, but the meaning beneath them was not.
Jace's expression shifted immediately.
She kept her composure, setting her fork down carefully.
"I've worked very hard for them, Your Grace," she replied, her tone calm. "But I am grateful for the opportunities I've been given."
Alicent's smile remained perfectly pleasant.
"Of course. I meant no offense."
Which, somehow, made the comment feel more deliberate.
Viserys, either unaware or unwilling to acknowledge the tension, continued with a fond smile.
"I think it is admirable. Too many young people are content to inherit what has been given to them. It is refreshing to see someone build something of their own."
Jace's hand found hers beneath the table, a quiet reminder that she wasn't facing the room alone.
"She earned it herself," Jace said firmly.
His voice remained calm, but there was no mistaking the conviction behind it.
"She was accepted in the autumn, when we had only just begun seeing each other. I had no influence over the decision—and even if I had, I would never have used it on her behalf."
His hand tightened around hers beneath the table.
"She is brilliant. Her work speaks for itself, and her accomplishments are hers alone."
Alicent offered a smile that did little to disguise her skepticism. She lifted her fork, taking her time as she brought it to her mouth, chewing thoughtfully before swallowing.
"Of course," she said at last, her tone perfectly pleasant. "I would never suggest otherwise. It is simply fortunate that such doors are available to those with the right circumstances."
Her gaze briefly flickered toward Jace before returning to her plate.
"But I am pleased to hear she has earned the respect of her colleagues. I'm sure Stark & Co. would not keep someone on their team who was not capable."
The compliment was carefully placed—just enough praise to make the insult impossible to challenge.
Then she returned to her meal, signaling that the matter was closed.
She glanced at Jace from the corner of her eye, letting out a quiet breath as he caught her gaze. His hand tightened gently around hers beneath the table, a silent reassurance that she wasn't facing the tension alone.
Maybe Aegon had been right.
Maybe she would need something to get her through the rest of the evening.
With a small exhale, her free hand reached for her wineglass.
***
When Jacaerys returned to their room that night, she was already settled in for the evening. Wrapped in a plush white robe, her hair fell freely over her shoulders, her makeup washed away as she lay sprawled across the bed, absently scrolling through her phone.
He lingered in the doorway for a moment, the lock clicking softly behind him as he took her in.
She was beautiful like this.
Not because she'd spent hours getting ready, or because she wore expensive dresses fit for palace dinners. There was something about seeing her at ease—comfortable enough to let the day fall away—that captivated him more than anything else.
She looked over her shoulder, catching him staring. A slow, knowing smile spread across her face.
"What?" she teased. "Why are you just standing there?"
"Just admiring the view," he replied, a grin tugging at his lips as he crossed the room.
She set her phone aside and shifted onto her knees, slipping her arms loosely around his neck as he stopped in front of her.
"You know," she murmured, "you're always looking at me like that."
"Can you blame me?"
She laughed, shaking her head.
"I swear, you're always trying to charm me."
He smiled, his hands settling gently at her waist.
"If only you didn't make it so easy."
She leaned forward until the bridge of her nose brushed gently against his, a long, weary sigh escaping her lips before she even realized she'd been holding it.
The knot that had settled in her chest throughout dinner began to loosen.
This was what she had needed all evening.
Him.
Jace smiled, his forehead coming to rest against hers.
"Tough night?"
She let out a quiet laugh.
"I think your uncle owes me an apology."
He chuckled softly. "For what?"
"For making me think he was exaggerating."
"...He wasn't?"
She shook her head.
"He somehow undersold it."
That earned a genuine laugh from him, warm and unguarded.
"I told you my family could be... complicated."
"'Complicated' feels like a generous word."
"It does, doesn't it?"
She smiled despite herself, her hands still loosely clasped behind his neck.
"I kept waiting for someone to flip the table."
"Give it until dessert tomorrow."
She groaned, hiding her face against his shoulder for a moment.
"You're joking."
"I wish I was."
She pulled back just enough to search his face, only to find the corners of his mouth twitching.
"You are joking."
"...Mostly."
She narrowed her eyes at him before laughing again, the last of the evening's tension finally dissolving.
"I'm sorry," he said more quietly, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. "I know today wasn't exactly the warm welcome you deserved."
"It wasn't all bad."
"No?"
She shook her head.
"Your grandfather was lovely. Your brothers are sweet. Even Aegon was..." She paused, searching for the right word.
"Unexpected."
Jace laughed.
"That's probably the nicest thing anyone's ever called him."
She smiled, squeezing his hand.
"And I got to come back here with you."
For the first time that day, neither of them was thinking about the family waiting downstairs or the dinners still to come. The room was quiet, and that was more than enough.
She closed the small distance between them, tilting her face up as her eyes met his. She didn't need to say a word; the hopeful smile tugging at her lips was invitation enough.
Jace smiled back immediately, understanding her without explanation.
"What?" he murmured, his voice warm with amusement.
"Nothing."
"Nothing?"
She shook her head, still smiling.
"I just wanted you a little closer."
His expression softened.
"I think I can manage that."
He cupped her cheek, his thumb brushing gently over her skin before leaning down to meet her halfway. Their lips met in a slow, lingering kiss, unhurried and familiar, carrying none of the uncertainty that had followed her throughout the evening.
When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers, a quiet smile still lingering on his face.
"Better?" he asked.
"So much better," she whispered.
She smiled as she drew him closer, her fingertips brushing lightly along the back of his neck. He let out a quiet laugh, resting his forehead against hers for the briefest moment.
"Careful," he murmured, a teasing smile tugging at his lips. "Don't start something you can't finish."
She arched an eyebrow.
"Who said anything about not finishing?"
A grin spread across his face.
"I was hoping you'd say that."
He closed the distance between them, capturing her lips in another lingering kiss. She smiled into it, her hands settling comfortably around his shoulders as the last remnants of the day's tension finally slipped away.
When they parted, neither of them moved very far.
"I needed this," she admitted quietly.
"I know."
He brushed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, his thumb lingering against her cheek.
"We survived the first family dinner."
"Barely."
He laughed.
"Barely counts. The first of many."
She smiled, leaning into him once more.
"Promise me tomorrow won't be worse."
"I can't promise that," he said with an apologetic grin. "But I can promise you won't have to face it alone."
She looked at him for a long moment before pressing another gentle kiss to his lips.
"I think I can live with that. Now take me to bed.”
Jace smirked at her, his hands sliding around, shifting from her waist to her hips and around to grip her ass firmly in his palms.
“Don’t mind if I do.”
Her own fingers reached down, untying the belt of her robe until it fell open, her bare chest now flush against him. He smiled against her lips, helping her slide the material away from her shoulders until it landed on the bed behind her.
Jace wasted little time before scooping her up and laying her across the bed. He took a moment then, standing over her and admiring the softness of her skin under the warm, low lighting emitting from the bedside lamp. She was bare, skin glistening and warm from the lotion she had just massaged into her flesh, hair fanned around her head like a halo.
“Are you just going to stare, or are you going to do something?” She asked impatiently, stretching herself out further under his gaze.
“Impatient, are we?” He responded with a chuckle, his hand reaching out to take hold of one of her ankles.
He raised it up, pressing her foot firmly to his chest as his eyes fell lower with a small, content smirk.
“Funny, isn’t it?” He said, “when you want me, I give you everything you need and more. When I want you, I’m left with my own two hands for relief.”
She pursed her lips, thighs drawing closer together.
“Well, if it’s that much of a bother–”
His fingers tightened around her ankle, pulling it further up onto his shoulder while his other hand pressed the other thigh open wider. He said nothing, eyes trained on her own as his lips turned to press a warm kiss to her inner ankle, just over that dragon tattoo.
He pressed slow, open mouthed kisses along the length of her leg, allowing it to slide further over his shoulder until his lips reached her inner thigh. She let out a soft gasp as he suckled at the flesh there, his tongue smoothing over the sensitive flesh and growing dangerously closer to where she began to glisten with desire.
“Is this what you want?” He asked huskily, his breath sweeping across her lips in soft, warm pants, “you want me?”
She nodded weakly.
“Yes, yes,” she whined, “I want you, Jacaerys.”
He grinned up at her, pressing one more kiss to her thigh before shifting his attention to where she wanted him most.
Jace began with soft kisses up her slit, dragging his nose against her wetness and letting out a low groan at her scent. He glanced up at her through hooded eyes, lips curling into a wicked grin before he lowered his kiss to her clit.
She released a quiet sound, lip tugged between her teeth to muffle her sounds–it may have been a large house, but she was not about to let her boyfriend’s entire family hear as he went down on her.
Then came his tongue, gently sweeping through her folds to collect her wetness. Jace’s moan vibrated against her as he buried himself deeper into her. His teasing was short lived, his face pressing closer and closer as he became more relentless in his motions.
“Jace,” she whispered, fingers tangling in his dark curls to anchor herself, “oh–Jace, please.”
His lips curled against her, tongue sliding lower to circle her entrance before pressing against it, the movements of his head forcing the bridge of his nose to rub firmly against her bundle of nerves.
She was already close when he pressed his index finger inside, lips returning to suck and kiss as her clit while his finger curled inside of her and prodded at that spongy spot that made her toes curl every time.
“Jace–I’m going to–fuck.”
“Do it,” he murmured against her, “please, do it.”
His pleading brought it on, the warmth of her orgasm washing over her like a wave of relief. She released a series of soft whines and mewls, containing her pleasure for the sake of her own embarrassment the next day.
Her fingers pulled him away from her, a moan falling from her lips as the pressure released.
“I’m not done,” he huffed, frowning at her.
“Yes you are,” she said, “I need you. Now.”
“Impatient, are we?” He chuckled as he allowed her to pull him up her body, caging her in against the mattress.
“I’m impatient,” she agreed, fingers tugging at the fabric of his shirt, “and you’re overdressed.”
Her fingers eagerly worked on the buttons of his shirt until it hung loose around him. He pushed himself up to kneel on the mattress between her thighs, tugging the shirt down his arms and tossing it aside. Next, he unbuckled his belt and slid it free of his belt loops before it met the very same fate as his shirt–thrown across the room and landing unceremoniously in a heap in the corner.
She reached out, raking her nails gently over the curve of his waist, the smooth muscular abdomen, and finally hooking into the button of his slacks.
“I wanna taste you,” she hummed, eyelashes fluttering up at him flirtily.
His hands met her own, stopping her in her tracks.
“Next time,” he dismissed her, replacing her own hands in unfastening his pants and pushing them down his thighs, “I need to be inside you.”
She grinned up at him, laying back against the pillows in a silent excitement as she watched her boyfriend strip down, eyes soaking in every last inch of naked flesh until there was nothing left uncovered.
After kicking away his boxers, he crawled back onto the bed, hands easily finding the backs of her thighs and raising them up to rest around his waist. Her core was ready–oozing and throbbing already as his tip slid through her folds with a gentle familiarity. They each released a soft sound as his tip rubbed against her clit, then slid back down to notch at her entrance.
A whine pulled from the back of her throat as the tip pressed just inside, her legs locking firmly around his waist and forcing his weight down on top of herself. Her lips traced open mouthed patterns along his neck as he slowly pushed further inside, a low rumble emitting from his chest when his hips suddenly pressed firmly to hers.
“Fuck,” she moaned, fingernails pressing into his shoulder blades as he paused to allow her to adjust.
“Yeah?” He asked breathlessly, a cocky grin appearing on his face as he took in her tight expression, “Like that?”
“Shut up,” she mumbled through a moan as he shifted his weight slightly, causing the slightest movement of pressure through her.
His hips pulled back a touch, drawing himself free from her heat before plunging back inside. His tip punched into that spongy spot immediately, so deep inside of her that she almost felt him in her belly.
It was his turn to curse aloud at the sensation of her tight walls squeezing around him, holding his member so firmly that he wasn’t sure that he could leave even if he wanted not–not that he wanted to anyway.
“Faster.”
He obliged her, finding a quick, deep rhythm as one of his hands found her own, lacing their fingers together and pressing their conjoined hands to the pillow next to her head. His other hand worked to support his weight, laying flat against the sheets, while hers fisted his dark curls as she forced his lips back to her own, muffling their shared sounds of pleasure.
Where she was often known by every relationship she’d ever had and some of her closest friends for her inability to keep quiet during sex, she’d never felt more indulged than with Jace, who was oftentimes just as loud as she was. She knew she would need to keep both of their mouths occupied if she wanted to save herself the humiliation of his mother and brothers overhearing from down the hall.
The mattress creaked quietly with every other thrust, jerking each time Jace’s hips stuttered, an uneven and uncertain motion that signalled exactly how much longer he would last. His fingers rubbing at her clit in tight, quick circles to bring her there just in time for his own climax.
He came inside of her with a soft groan into her mouth, hips stuttering and slackening as the pleasure rolled through him. His orgasm was the trigger for her own, drawing a rush of heat and slick out from between her thighs with every one of those final sloppy movements as they each came down.
He laid on top of her for a few moments as they caught their breaths.
“Was that alright?” He asked, brushing the hair away from her face.
“Good?” She asked with a small giggle, “I can hardly feel my legs.”
He chuckled, finally rolling off of her to collapse in a heap next to her.
“Next time,” he huffed, “we’re coming here alone, and I am going to make you scream and wail as much as you desire.”
She grinned at him, shifting to curl into his sweaty chest and draw soft patterns along his pec.
“Next time,” she paused to let out a few uneven breaths before she continued.
Jacaerys Velaryon x wife!reader - House of the Dragon
Summary: It starts as something almost laughable: a dragon who prefers his rider’s wife to his rider. But when a dragon decides something is his to guard, the world learns to step carefully around what he has chosen.
Warnings: 16+ morning after, brief nudity, possessive/protective Jace, pregnancy, control/protection, scary dragon and his rider who are both secretly softies, innuendo, non-graphic childbirth, huge time jumps
A/N: This got a lil out of hand, I admit. It was meant to be a short blurb, and yet here we are. Ik people wanted smut, so I added some morning after here, and I plan to write another smut-heavy fic next so dw.
MASTERLIST - REQUESTS (open) - WC: 4.7k
The storm had burned itself out sometime before dawn.
Now all that remained was the steady drip of rain from Dragonstone's black stone walls and the distant crash of waves below the cliffs. Pale morning light slipped through the narrow windows in soft ribbons, washing the chamber in silver.
You wake slowly.
Not necessarily because you're rested, but because you're warm. Far warmer than you ought to be beneath a blanket that had long since been kicked to the foot of the bed.
Jace is wrapped around you as though sometime during the night he'd decided that simply sleeping beside you wasn't close enough. One arm is draped securely across your waist, his face buried against the back of your shoulder, his breathing slow and even. His dark curls are a complete mess, and one bare leg has somehow become tangled with yours beneath the sheets.
You smile to yourself.
"You'll complain about your shoulder later," you murmur.
A sleepy sound, somewhere between a hum and a groan, vibrates against your skin.
"I'll survive." His voice is thick with sleep and his grip tightens just enough to pull you impossibly closer. There's something almost boyish about the way he says it, as though it's a victory in itself.
You turn carefully within the circle of his arms until you're facing him. The movement earns another sleepy complaint, though he makes no effort to let go.
Up close, you can still see the faint flush lingering across his cheeks from the warmth of the room. A thin scratch is visible beneath his collarbone, your own fault no doubt.
You remeber is so clearly, how the rain had battered against the windows, how the candles had guttered low, how his forehead was resting against yours while the storm rolled over Dragonstone. But inside your bed chamber, you'd barely noticed.
"You look terribly pleased with yourself," you say.
One eye opens. "Well, I married you, didn't I?"
"Your point being?"
"It happens to be something I am very pleased about." He studies you for a long moment. "I was thinking..." He continues, thumb brushing lazily over your bare waist. "That I should arrange for more storms."
"Oh?"
"They appear to encourage you to stay in bed."
Outside, somewhere beyond the window, comes the deep, familiar rumble of a dragon.
Jace sighs dramatically without lifting his head. "He's awake."
He presses a kiss to your forehead before finally, reluctantly, releasing you. "If Vermax has flown all the way here simply to interrupt my morning," he declares, "I shall have to remind him who hatched him."
You grin as you reach for the discarded shift lying somewhere beside the bed.
By the time you're both dressed the castle has begun to wake around you.
You trail a step behind Jace, fingers loosely hooked around his sleeve more out of habit than necessity. To be honest, it is a habit you've only recently allowed yourself.
When you first arrived as his wife, you had been painfully conscious of every eye that followed you through the castle.
The princess, the prince's bride. Too young, some had whispered when they thought you were out of earshot. Too sheltered or too soft for Dragonstone.
You had smiled through every greeting, learned every name you could remember, and prayed no one noticed how often you got lost in the twisting corridors of black stone.
Jace had noticed.
Three days after your wedding, he'd quietly taken your hand before supper and walked every hallway, pointing out hidden staircases, quicker routes, which doors stuck in damp weather and which windows gave the best view of Blackwater Bay.
"I cannot believe you've spent an entire afternoon making sure I know my way around the castle." You'd said that evening in your chambers.
"Why can't you believe it?"
"You drew me a map."
"It was an excellent map."
"It had little dragons."
"So you wouldn't get bored."
You laugh. "You named one after Lord Celtigar."
"That one looked particularly grumpy." He grins, a quick flash of satisfaction that softens his usually princely composure, and reaches for your hand.
In your mind, the heir to the Iron Throne ought to be careful, composed, forever aware of watching eyes. But Jace rarely seems to remember, or perhaps he simply doesn't care.
A pair of servants step into the corridor ahead.
The moment they see the two of you, they bow hurriedly. "My prince. Princess."
You smile in greeting, Jace nods once, polite but distracted.
Only after they've passed do you realize he never let go of your hand.
Not even for a moment.
"You know," you tease quietly, "there are people who might think you're terribly devoted."
"They'd be right." He looks at you then with a familiar softness, so unguarded it almost steals your breath.
His thumb brushes absentmindedly across your knuckles. "And I'm not inclined to stop simply because people are looking."
Before you can answer, a deep, resonant rumble rolls across the courtyard outside.
Jace exhales through his nose.
"There he is."
You cross toward one of the narrow windows overlooking the inner yard. Far below, Vermax has landed.
The young dragon stands with his wings half-folded, emerald scales still glistening from the night's rain. A pair of dragonkeepers are speaking to him from what they clearly believe is a safe distance.
Vermax is paying them absolutely no attention. Instead, his great head is tilted upward.
Toward this very window.
You laugh. "I think he's looking for you Jace."
Jace joins you at the window. "No."
He follows the dragon's gaze for a moment before the corners of his mouth twitch. "I think," he says with theatrical resignation, "he's looking for you."
As though to prove his point, Vermax lets out another low, expectant chirr, quieter than his earlier call.
You blink. "Surely not."
Down in the courtyard, Vermax chirrs again.
It becomes impossible to deny by the end of the week. Vermax has decided you belong to him.
"No," Jace says flatly one afternoon, watching the dragon nudge your shoulder with surprising delicacy. "Absolutely not."
You laugh, scratching beneath the smooth ridge of emerald scales where you've discovered he likes it best. "What has he done now?"
"He is stealing my wife."
As if personally offended by the accusation, Vermax lowers his head another inch until the broad curve of his snout is pressed insistently against your side.
Jace stares. "You see?"
"He wants attention."
"I gave him an entire sheep this morning."
You can't help the laugh that escapes you, and it echoes across the training yard, bright enough that even a pair of dragonkeepers glance over with amused smiles.
You and Jace turn to go back inside, but only make it perhaps ten paces before heavy footsteps thud softly behind you.
The dragon has stood and started following.
"Vermax."
He stops, tilting his head.
"You can't come into the castle."
It doesn't stop there.
If you choose to read beneath the old weirwood overlooking the sea, Vermax appears within the hour.
If you wander the beach collecting shells after supper, a shadow passes lazily overhead before circling back toward shore. When you look up, the dragon is gliding against the afternoon sky.
The dragon dips lower, just enough that the rush of displaced air sends your skirts fluttering.
You laugh and wave. High above, Vermax answers with a delighted trill.
One morning you step into the gardens alone, intending only to cut fresh lavender for your chambers. You have barely even filled half the basket when a familiar shadow rolls across the flowers.
Then comes the gentle, unmistakable whuff of warm dragon breath.
You don't even look up.
"Good morning, Vermax." The dragon answers with a contented rumble.
He settles himself just beyond the garden wall, folding his forelegs neatly beneath him.
And there he remains.
When Jace finds you nearly an hour later, basket overflowing with lavender, he stops dead.
"You've got to be joking."
"What?"
He points.
Vermax, his great head rests on crossed forelegs, one eye lazily cracked open just enough to keep you in sight.
You walk over, unable to resist stroking the smooth scales along Vermax's jaw.
Jace follows, and you shake your head, laughing, and slip your free hand into his. Immediately, Vermax opens both eyes.
He watches the joined hands for a long, silent moment. Then, with another deep, satisfied rumble, he closes them again.
A couple weeks later, Dragonstone is hosting a small gathering of sworn lords from the Crownlands. Nothing particularly grand, just an awful lot of petitions, trade disputes, and endless discussions that leave Jace rubbing his temples by supper.
You escape the hall as politely as you can.
"I shall only be a moment," you promise him.
His hand lingers around yours before he lets go. "I know."
"You'll survive without me, Jace, I promise."
The sea air is cooler outside. Rain still clings to the black stone, leaving everything smelling of salt and earth. You breathe deeply, grateful for the quiet after hours of smiling at strangers.
You don't notice the shadow until it passes overhead.
A heartbeat later, Vermax lands beyond the outer wall with enough force to make loose gravel dance across the ground.
"You again?" you laugh.
His answer is a soft chirr as he lowers his head, inviting the familiar scratch beneath his jaw.
You indulge him. "You know," you murmur, "your rider insists you're abandoning him."
You continue scratching him anyway.
The interruption comes quietly. "My princess."
You turn. One of the visiting lords, a pleasant enough man whose name escapes you, has stepped into the courtyard. He offers a courteous bow.
"I hoped I might thank you for your kindness at supper."
"You are very kind, my lord."
He smiles. "I confess Dragonstone is rather less… welcoming than I imagined."
You glance at the dragon. "I imagine it has nothing to do with the fire-breathing beats circling at all times."
The lord laughs and takes a step closer.
Vermax's head lifts. The movement is slow enough that, for a moment, no one notices. Until the rumbling begins. It vibrates through the stone beneath your feet and the lord stops mid-sentence.
His smile falters.
Vermax does not bare his teeth, he does not spread his wings, he simply fixes the man with one unblinking emerald eye.
The rumble deepens.
"My lady," the lord corrects takes an instinctive step backward.
The sound stops.
You blink.
"…That was odd."
The lord laughs a little too loudly. "I believe… I shall return inside."
You think little of it.
Until it happens again, and again, and again. Not only with strangers, but with servants and guards. Even dragonkeepers he has known since hatching.
If someone approaches you too quickly, Vermax appears.
If voices grow heated nearby, he materialises as though summoned by instinct alone. He has become a living wall of green scales between you and the rest of the world.
A fortnight passes.
The castle settles into its familiar rhythm, though Vermax never quite returns to his old habits.
If anything, he grows bolder.
By now, even the servants have stopped remarking upon it.
"Your shadow awaits you, Princess," one maid says one morning with a knowing smile.
You peer from the window. Sure enough, a pair of emerald eyes are already fixed expectantly on the tower.
You laugh. "I do believe I've been adopted."
That afternoon, the weather is fair.
Jace has escaped the council chambers looking thoroughly exhausted, finding you exactly where he expected, beneath the old windswept tree overlooking the cliffs, a book forgotten in your lap while Vermax dozes nearby.
Or appears to.
His eyes are closed.
One wing lies stretched lazily across the grass, shimmering green beneath the sun.
Jace watches while walking towards you, finally bending to kiss the top of your head. Then, without thinking, he reaches a hand toward you.
Vermax's eyes snap open.
The dragon rises in one smooth motion, slipping between you and Jace with astonishing precision. His great neck curves across the narrow space, not striking, not threatening, but blocking.
Jace freezes.
For one suspended heartbeat, neither moves.
The dragon's head turns slightly, one brilliant green eye fixed on his rider, Jace stares back.
"...Vermax."
The dragon lets out a low sound, as though asking something only he understands. Then, just as suddenly, he steps aside.
You blink. "What on earth was that?"
Jace doesn't answer, he is still looking at Vermax.
"I've never..." he murmurs.
"What?"
"He has never stood between us."
By evening, Jace has sought out the dragonkeepers; he wants an explanation.
The oldest among them is already waiting when Jace reaches the caverns.
He bows deeply.
"My prince."
"You've noticed." It is not a question.
The old man is silent for a long moment. "...Yes."
"Then tell me."
Another pause.
"There are tales." The dragonkeeper folds weathered hands before him. "And the tales are all I have."
Jace says nothing, but his jaw tightens.
The old man continues carefully. "Dragons know certain things before men do, sometimes."
"What things?"
"Danger." Jace nods once. "Weather." Another nod. "And..." The man hesitates. "Life."
Jace blinks. "...What do you mean?"
"There are old records. Rare ones. A dragon becoming unusually protective of a rider's wife. Of a queen. Of a princess."
"Protective?"
"They guard." The dragonkeeper's gaze drifts toward the mouth of the cavern, where Vermax sleeps beyond the fading light.
Jace remembers every strange moment of the past weeks and his heartbeat quickens.
"No."
"It is only a possibility."
"No."
"Has the princess been unwell?"
"...No."
"Has she been unusually tired?"
Jace opens his mouth. Closes it again.
"And..." the dragonkeeper says gently, "when did the dragon's behavior begin?"
Jace's mind races backwards until he finally remembers the storm. How Vermax had refused to leave the castle, had hovered outside their chambers, nudging him toward the tower when he'd intended to return to his studies.
He'd laughed. "Apparently, he has plans for us."
Three months, almost exactly.
The dragonkeeper watches the realisation settle over his prince's face. Quietly, he says, "I believe... it may be time to send for the maester."
Jace finds you in your solar not five minutes later. You look up from the embroidery in your lap, smiling the moment he steps through the door, but the smile falters almost immediately.
"Jace?"
His hair is windblown from crossing the castle at nearly a run, his expression unreadable in a way you've never quite seen before. He closes the door behind him without a word and simply looks at you, searching your face as though expecting to find something different.
"What is it?"
He crosses the room in three long strides and kneels before your chair, taking both your hands in his. "Have you felt unwell?"
You blink. "...No."
"Not at all?"
"A little tired, perhaps, but you've been working me through every feast and council dinner on Dragonstone." You smile faintly. "I assumed being a princess was simply quite exhausting."
His thumb traces absent circles across your knuckles. "And nothing else?"
"I've slept later than usual."
"You've always liked sleeping late."
You grin, leaning forward to whisper, "I do when my husband keeps me awake half the night."
The corner of his mouth twitches despite himself, though the smile never quite reaches his eyes. "When was your last moon's blood?"
You stare at him. "What?"
He doesn't repeat himself, and slowly, your own amusement fades. You set the embroidery aside. "I..." You pause, thinking. "I don't know."
"You don't know?"
"I've never had reason to count the days so carefully, Jace."
Silence settles between you. You begin counting backwards in your head, tracing feasts, journeys, the passing weeks. Your brows knit together. "A couple of weeks, maybe," you murmur. "I'm not sure."
His expression answers before he speaks. "The dragonkeepers believe Vermax sensed it."
You let out a disbelieving laugh. "Jace."
"They've seen it before."
"Surely they haven't."
"They swear they have."
You shake your head, trying to make sense of it. "So... because Vermax has decided to follow me everywhere..."
"And because he stood between us."
"...he thinks I'm carrying a child?"
"Yes."
You both fall quiet.
"Oh."
It is the only word you can manage, and Jace squeezes your hands.
"I've sent for the maester."
"You've... already?"
"He'll be here shortly."
The maester, when he finally arrives, is kind and discreet, far too accustomed to royal nerves to comment on the tension hanging in the room. He asks a handful of careful questions, his expression growing steadily more thoughtful with each answer.
When he rises from his examination, he folds his hands inside his sleeves and smiles.
"My prince."
Jace has been standing by the window the entire time.
"So?"
The old man inclines his head. "My congratulations."
The room falls completely still. You look at Jace. He looks at you. Neither of you speaks.
The maester continues, almost gently. "If my calculations are correct, Her Grace is nearing the end of her third month."
He leaves you with instructions about rest, diet, and avoiding undue strain, but you hear almost none of it, too focused on the way the room seems to have shrunk around you.
The door clicks shut.
Then Jace crosses the room so quickly that you barely have time to stand before his arms are around you. He buries his face against your hair, holding you so tightly it almost hurts.
You laugh through the tears threatening your eyes.
"I think..." Your voice catches. "I think we're going to have a baby."
He nods once against your shoulder, voice barely a whisper. "I know."
Jace's spiral into overprotectiveness begins with the reasonable things.
"No more riding."
You open your mouth to argue, but are stopped before any sound escapes by a single raised eyebrow.
The maester, entirely unhelpfully, agrees with him.
Then come the stairs.
"If no one is with you."
"Jace."
"They're uneven."
"They have been uneven for a hundred years."
He insists on taking your arm every time you descend them after that.
By the time your gowns no longer sit quite as they used to, he has become impossible.
Servants carry anything heavier than a book. Meals appear in your chambers if the Great Hall is too crowded. Councils are moved rather than asking you to cross the castle, and if you so much as mention feeling tired, Jace is already leading you back toward your rooms before you've finished the sentence.
"You know women have been having children since the beginning of time?"
"I am aware, yes."
"They don't all require an escort to the library."
"I don't care, because you will have one.
Once, you disappear for nearly an hour.
Jace finds you asleep in the late afternoon sun, curled against the warm curve of Vermax's foreleg with a book lying open across your lap.
The dragon is awake. His head rests protectively around you, just close enough to shelter you from the wind without touching.
At Jace's approach, one emerald eye opens. For a long moment, dragon and rider simply look at one another. Then Vermax lowers his head again.
You stir at the sound of footsteps, blinking sleepily up at your husband.
"There you are."
"I've been looking everywhere."
"I was comfortable."
"I can see that."
By the eighth month, you start to begrudingly appreciate Jace's over-the-top efforts.
"I cannot reach my boots."
Jace looks up from the letter he'd been pretending to read. "You reached them yesterday."
"I was smaller yesterday."
He watches you glare down at the impossible curve of your stomach as though sheer determination might convince it to move. After another unsuccessful attempt, you huff dramatically and fold your arms.
"This child is already causing problems."
"Our child," Jace corrects.
"Our child," you sigh, "has stolen my feet."
A smile threatens at the corners of his mouth. With the patience of a man who has accepted this as his fate, he sets the letter aside and kneels in front of you.
"Oh, don't you dare."
"You said you couldn't reach."
"I did not ask you to-"
"You were about to."
He lifts one foot gently onto his knee and makes quick work of the laces.
"Jace, you don't have to do everything you know."
"I know."
"So why do you?"
He finishes tying the second boot before looking up at you. "Because I like taking care of my wife."
A number of weeks later the castle wakes before dawn to the sound of a dragon.
Not roaring; pacing.
The heavy scrape of claws against stone echoes through the courtyard, followed by a low, restless rumble that seems to vibrate through the walls of Dragonstone itself.
You stir beneath the blankets, still half asleep. "...He's at it again."
Beside you, Jace groans into his pillow. "If he has frightened another stableboy, I swear on all that is holy-"
Another rumble.
Closer this time. Longer, almost a whine in nature.
Jace sits up. "...That's odd."
For the past several months Vermax has scarcely left the courtyard beneath your chambers, but he has always been quiet. Content simply to stand and watch.
The windows rattle faintly as his tail sweeps across the stone.
Jace is already pulling on a tunic. "I'll see what's wrong."
You nod, pushing yourself upright with considerably more effort than dignity. He smiles over his shoulder as he ducks out of the room, but it doesn't quite reach his eyes.
The courtyard is in chaos.
Dragonkeepers stand well back from Vermax, speaking to him in soothing High Valyrian that goes utterly ignored. The dragon paces in tight circles, wings half-spread, head swinging constantly toward the tower above.
One keeper catches sight of Jace.
"My prince."
"What happened?"
"We don't know."
Vermax notices his rider. Instead of calming, the dragon lets out another deep, agitated rumble and immediately turns toward the tower again, toward your chambers. Then, he stamps a forefoot. Hard enough that dust shakes from the walls.
Up in the tower, you're sitting and waiting for Jace when pain tightens unexpectedly across your abdomen.
You stop halfway across the chamber, one hand finding the edge of the table. "...Hm."
The feeling passes as quickly as it came.
Outside, Vermax lets out the loudest cry you've ever heard him make. It rolls across the cliffs and back again.
You freeze before calling out. "...Jace?"
He is already taking the stairs two at a time. He bursts through the chamber doors moments later, slightly out of breath.
Before he can speak, another wave rolls through you. Your hand flies instinctively to your stomach.
Jace's face drains of colour. "What is it?"
"I..." You breathe carefully. "I think..."
Another pause. Then, despite yourself, you laugh. "I think Vermax has solved another mystery."
For one heartbeat Jace simply stares.
Then his eyes widen.
"No."
"I think so."
As if the universe itself objects to his denial, another wave steals your breath. You grip the bedpost but Jace is at your side before you can blink, one arm already around your waist.
"The maester."
His voice comes out far calmer than his expression.
"Someone fetch the maester!"
Outside, Vermax finally stops pacing.
He lowers himself heavily onto the black stone directly beneath your windows, refusing every attempt by the dragonkeepers to coax him away.
His head remains lifted toward the tower.
After hours of pain and effort the world slowly comes back into focus in pieces.
Sound first; soft voices, the distant rush of the sea, the occasional crackle of the hearth. Then warmth pressed against your side. You blink against the haze of exhaustion and find yourself surrounded by dim candlelight and movement that feels almost too gentle for how loud everything had just been.
Jace is here.
He’s sitting half on the edge of the bed, hair dishevelled, sleeves rolled up wrong, a smear of something dark on his cuff that you vaguely decide not to think about too hard. His eyes are fixed on you with a kind of stunned intensity, as if he’s afraid that if he looks away for even a second, this will all vanish.
“You’re shaking,” you murmur, though your own voice barely holds together.
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
A beat of silence passes between you before he exhales and finally lets himself lean forward, pressing a careful kiss against your forehead.
“And him?” he asks, like he’s been holding the question in his teeth for hours.
You don’t even need to answer. The little bundle in your arms shifts slightly, a tiny sound breaking through the quiet and Jace goes utterly still. His gaze drops to the child as though he’s afraid it might disappear if he stares too hard.
“He's beautiful,” he says finally.
You adjust the blanket slightly, and the baby nestles closer, face scrunching briefly before settling again. Jace makes a sound that is halfway between a laugh and something dangerously close to breaking.
“I don’t-” he starts, then stops, swallowing. “I didn’t think it would feel like this.”
“You thought it would feel like what?”
He doesn’t answer immediately. His hand hovers near the bundle, stops short, then retreats again like he’s not sure he’s allowed.
“Louder,” he admits.
You huff a weak laugh. “I'm not sure it'll stay this quiet, so we should probably try to enjoy it while it lasts.”
He finally looks at you again, and there’s something undone in his expression that you’ve never seen before. “I need to see him,” he says.
You tilt your head slightly. “You’ve been staring at him for an hour.”
“Alright, I need to hold him.”
You carefully shift the baby into his arms. It’s awkward at first, Jace holding himself too rigid, like he’s afraid of doing it wrong, like one wrong breath might undo everything, but then the child settles against him and something in his shoulders breaks open.
He exhales, slow and unsteady. There’s a long silence where he doesn’t say anything at all.
Jace looks down again, thumb brushing so lightly over the baby’s cheek it’s almost not there. “He looks…” He pauses, helpless. “He looks like he knows things already.”
“That’s probably just you projecting.”
Outside the window, a deep sound rolls through the cliffs. Jace’s head lifts instantly.
“Oh.”
Jace carefully adjusts his grip on the baby, like he’s handling something far more fragile than steel and fire could ever be.
“I should-” he starts.
You raise an eyebrow. “You should what?”
He’s already standing. “I should show him.”
You blink at him. “Jace.”
But he’s not really listening anymore. Not in the way he used to, at least. This is something else, instinctive and almost urgent.
“Jace, it’s freezing outside.”
“I’ll be quick.”
So you watch him wrap a cloak around himself and the baby like it’s the most natural thing in the world, then walk out of the room.
By the time he reaches the courtyard, Vermax is already there.
The dragon is enormous against the grey morning sky, wings folded, tail curled tightly around the stone like he’s been rooted there for hours. When he sees Jace, he doesn’t move at first.
Then Jace steps into the open.
Vermax’s head lowers immediately.
Jace stops a few paces away, breathing uneven, then lifts the bundle higher against his chest.
“This is my son.”
Vermax steps forward, so carefully. The ground still trembles slightly beneath the weight of him, but he is impossibly gentle as he lowers his head until he’s level with Jace’s arms. One massive eye focuses on the tiny face within the blanket.
For a long moment, he does nothing.
Then he exhales. Warm air, slow and careful, brushes over the child like a blessing.
The baby stirs, and Vermax freezes instantly.
Jace laughs under his breath, disbelieving and wrecked all at once. “It’s alright,” he murmurs. “He’s yours too, apparently.”
The dragon makes a soft, almost questioning sound, then lowers himself further until his forehead rests against the stone directly in front of them, as if offering something wordless and absolute.
Jace finally looks up at him properly, smiling.
“Say hello,” he whispers.
Vermax answers with a quiet, reverent rumble that rolls out across Dragonstone.
this was too cute, idk where the idea came from but i needed some vermax jace fluff
Synopsis: The third arrow strikes, sealing the fate of Jacaerys Velaryon… except he wakes up in a world without dragons, convinced it was only a dream. Or was it? Because there is one promise his soul never forgot, and somehow… yours remembers it too.
↳ Sequel ‘YOUR TOUCH’
Pairing: Jacaerys Velaryon x fem!Reader
Genre: reincarnation au, modern!jacaerys, established relationship
Warning: None tbh its just fluff (coping mechanism🥹), there is no specific description of reader so enjoy, no aegon or viserys, Rhaenyra is married to Laenor but its platonic, inaccurate description of battle of the gullet? (I tried-).
A/N: I recently got into HOTD and then I lost my favourite character aka Jace. I made this blog so I can be delulu about him 😭. Also half of this is me word vomiting🥴.
Word Count: 10.1k
- English is not my first language so / apologise in advance for any mistakes or typos!
The sea did not merely roll that day, it burned.
Fire danced with a horrific, erratic grace across the blackened waters of the Gullet, transforming the vital shipping lane into a sprawling, floating graveyard. Flames leapt from ship to ship in hungry arcs, feeding on timber and pitch and the desperate prayers of drowning men. Beneath the merciless onslaught of Team Black’s dragons, mighty Triarchy war-galleys splintered like kindling, their hulls cracking open to swallow their crews whole. Great masts toppled into the waves with the slow, theatrical finality of falling monuments. And yet, this was no easy victory. No clean triumph etched into the history books with golden ink. Below, Lord Corlys Velaryon’s fleet fought with everything it had, attempting to trap the armada in the narrow, choking passage, buying time in blood and smoke and screaming iron.
The atmosphere was a living thing, a suffocating shroud woven from the sharp salt tang of brine, the acrid bite of billowing smoke, the unmistakable iron-sweetness of fresh blood, and the sickening, almost honeyed stench of burning pitch. It coated the throat and burned the eyes.
High above the carnage, roaring through the roiling tempest of fire and ash, rode Prince Jacaerys Velaryon.
He sat astride Vermax like a man born to the sky because he was. The great emerald dragon cut through the smoke-choked air like a gleaming blade, his scales catching the hellish firelight below, wings spread wide. Jace’s riding leathers were already dark with spray and soot. His dark curls whipped against his face. He did not notice. His eyes were fixed on the battle, calculating and measuring, feeling the terrible weight of command settle across his shoulders with the intimacy of something he had worn all his life.
He had locked his mother in her chambers at Dragonstone before leaving. Had stood outside the door and listened to her pound against it, her voice cracking on his name. The sound had nearly unmade him entirely. But she was the queen. She was the cause. She could not be lost, and Jacaerys Velaryon had long since made peace with the arithmetic of that.
She lives. Therefore, I go.
Beside him, Baela streaked across the smoke on Moondancer fierce and brilliant, her silver hair streaming behind her like a war banner. And then, piercing through the mist like something half-imagined, a new silhouette emerged. Jace’s eyes snapped to it. His stomach lurched with shock before his heart swelled with a pride so fierce it nearly hurt.
Rhaena. Flying the wild dragon Sheepstealer.
Of course she was.
Together they were three dragons raining hell from the heavens, and for one blazing, exhilarating moment, Jace believed they might actually win this despite Sheepstealer almost knocking him out. He watched their collective fire devastate Admiral Lohar’s vanguard below, great tongues of flame consuming the armada’s leading ships, sending men screaming into the sea. He felt the savage triumph of it. The rightness.
Then the heavy, rhythmic thrum of scorpions began.
Massive iron bolts tore through the clouds around them. The Triarchy fleet was enormous, he had known this, had known it academically the way one knows a thing from maps and reports but knowing it and watching it materialize below him in all its terrible scale were entirely different experiences.
He pressed Vermax into a steep, dangerously low dive.
Below, through the roiling chaos, Jace had spotted Lord Corlys’s flagship being violently rammed by Lohar’s vessel. The silver-haired sea snake, his grandfather by every measure that mattered, surrounded and struggling. Jace made his decision in the space of half a breath. He would break the enemy lines. He would fly low. He would end this.
He flew too close to the water.
His focus had narrowed to a single burning point, the ships, the threat, the duty and so he did not hear the volley until it was already too late.
A heavy iron shaft sliced violently through the membrane of Vermax’s right wing with a sound like tearing cloth and screaming metal fused together. Another slammed directly into the dragon’s chest with a concussive, world-shaking force that Jace felt through every bone in his body.
Vermax screamed.
The sound ripped through Jace like a physical blade. Not a roar, not the magnificent, terrible declaration of a dragon in battle. A scream. Raw and agonizing and so deeply personal that Jace felt his own lungs seize in sympathy, as though the bolt had pierced him too. The great emerald body shuddered beneath him. The massive wings faltered, losing the steady rhythm that held them aloft. The world tilted.
They were falling.
“No-”
Jace yanked desperately on the reins, his boots straining hard against the stirrups, body thrown forward as the sea rushed upward to meet them with terrifying speed. Wind screamed past his ears. The fire and the smoke and the battle became a chaotic blur of sensation.
“Vermax, fly!”
The dragon fought. Even now, even broken and burning, Vermax fought. A beast born of fire, refusing absolutely to yield to the water. One wing beat heavily, then another. The torn membrane fluttered uselessly, a tattered rag of what it had been, but still Vermax tried, and something in Jace’s chest shattered at the sight of it.
“Soves!” His voice broke on the word, all royal dignity stripped away, reduced to something raw and helpless and very young. “Soves, Vermax! Please-”
One final, agonizing beat of the wings.
It was not enough.
Freezing, brine-heavy water swallowed Jacaerys Velaryon whole. It was not like diving, it was like being struck by the earth itself, like the sea had become solid in the last instant before collision, and he felt the shock travel up through his ankles, his knees, his spine, rattling his teeth in his skull. The sheer velocity of the crash tore his fingers from the saddle. The weight of his armor dragged at him immediately, a slow, patient, lethal pull downward into the dark.
Primal instinct flared.
He unhooked himself and practically clawed upward. His lungs burned. The cold was absolute, the kind that doesn’t feel cold at all but rather feels like being unmade, like the sea was simply erasing him a layer at a time. He could see nothing, only dark water and distant fire and the enormous bulk of Vermax somewhere below him, a shadow become a nightmare.
He burst through the surface with a gasp so violent it tore his throat.
“Vermax!”
He spun in the churning water, hair plastered to his face, salt burning his eyes. The battle raged on around him, ships groaning and splitting, men screaming, iron raining from all directions. The world had not paused for him.
“Vermax!”
Through the haze of cresting waves, he found him. His dragon, his Vermax, who had carried him since boyhood, who had grown as he had grown, who had been as much a part of him as his own heartbeat was desperately trying to swim. The damaged wings beat uselessly to try to swim up. His great neck was straining upward. His eyes, when they met Jace’s from below the water, held something that a person with less grief in them might have dismissed as imagination.
They did not look like the eyes of an animal.
They looked like the eyes of someone saying goodbye.
A massive anchor, or debris, Jace could not tell which, tangled around Vermax’s exhausted body. The sea accepted its offering. With a final, sorrowful look that Jacaerys Velaryon would carry with him for the rest of his life.
He never resurfaced.
Something inside Jace broke. Not cracked. Not bent. Broke, the way an old bone breaks, the kind that doesn’t ever quite knit back the same way. He hauled his upper body onto a large piece of floating wreckage with the determination of a body that had not yet received the message from his mind that none of this mattered anymore. His chest heaved in ragged, desperate gasps. He was shaking. He was exhausted in a way that reached all the way down into whatever part of him had believed, until this moment, that he might survive this.
He had not brought enough of that belief. He saw that now.
He thought of his mother.
The image of her face, proud and terrified and trying not to show either rose unbidden. He had done this for her. Had done all of it for her. He hoped she would understand, someday, that locking her in her chambers had been the most love he had ever offered anyone.
He thought of Baela. Of Rhaena.
He thought of-
A sharp, dull impact struck his upper back.
Jace lurched forward with a sound that was almost nothing, barely a breath. Confused, of all things, not yet understanding, he glanced over his shoulder. A heavy crossbow bolt protruded from his shoulder blade at an angle that his mind catalogued with strange, distant calm, the way one notices a detail in a painting.
Slowly, numbly, he turned his head toward the source.
A Triarchy war-galley drifted just yards away. Lined along the wooden railing stood a row of Admiral Lohar’s soldiers, unhurried, methodical, their crossbows leveled at the figure in the water.
They knew exactly who he was. There was no urgency in their posture, no battlefield fever. This was an execution.
The heir to the Iron Throne, stranded and defenseless.
A second bolt flew. It slammed into his chest. He heard it before he felt it.
Then a third...straight to the neck.
A strange, sudden calm washed over him.
The deafening roar of the battle receded, becoming muffled, distant, the way sounds narrow when one goes underwater. The sea rocked him gently now, almost tenderly, as if it had been waiting all along to offer this small mercy at the end. He had not expected kindness. He was grateful for it.
He thought of his mother, safe on Dragonstone.
He thought of Baela’s laughter.
He thought of his brothers.
And he thought with a softness that surprised him, with something that might have been the very last warmth his body could generate, of you. Of a future that would not be built. Of a promise he was not sure, now, that he had ever been given the chance to make.
The last image to imprint itself on the fading mind of Jacaerys Velaryon was that reflection.
A burning sky, mirrored in the water.
Beautiful.
Tragic.
Then everything went black.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
BEEP. BEEP. BEEP.
Jacaerys bolted upright with a gasp that felt like surfacing.
His eyes flew open. His hand flew to his chest and then to his neck, pressing hard against his sternum, feeling for something, a wound, an absence, a bolt buried in bone and found nothing but the soft cotton of his t-shirt and the solid, living rhythm of his own heart.
He sat there for a long moment, chest heaving, and simply stared at the ceiling.
White plaster. Crown moulding. A small water stain shaped vaguely like a continent.
No smoke.
No dragon.
No sea.
No battle.
Just a bedroom. His bedroom.
Morning sunlight filtered through floor-to-ceiling windows in long, clean shafts, illuminating the warm disorder of his life: the desk buried under business textbooks and notebooks with pages dog-eared and margins crowded with his handwriting, his laptop open from the night before with a lecture slide still visible on the screen, a hoodie slung over the back of his desk chair. Outside the windows, King’s Landing stretched endlessly in the early light, the city already stirring, glass towers catching the sun.
His alarm clock flashed 7:00 AM.
No swords or the banners of House Targaryen.
Jace pressed the heels of both palms against his eyes and breathed.
The memories were still there. That was the wrong word for them, memories. They did not feel like the soft, dissolving stuff of ordinary dreams that faded on the edges as soon as you tried to examine them. They felt like the other kind of remembering, the kind that lives in the body rather than the mind. He could still feel the cold of the Gullet in his fingers. He could still smell the smoke. He could still feel the weight of dragon-riding leathers across his shoulders, the particular pull of Vermax’s movement through the air, the way the saddle had sat against the backs of his thighs.
He could still feel the bolts.
Just a dream, he told himself. The words felt inadequate in his own mouth, like trying to describe a storm with the word weather. He muttered them anyway, pressing his face harder into his palms.
“Just a dream.”
A dream where he had been a prince.
A prince who had died.
His stomach dropped with a physical lurch. The alarm was still beeping. He silenced it with a slap and sat on the edge of the bed for one more moment, just one, breathing in the ordinary scent of his ordinary room..
Then his brain supplied the information he had been avoiding.
Classes.
Shit.
He was already late.
He moved through his morning routine with the efficiency of someone running on instinct rather than thought, shower, clothes, a cursory battle with his curls that ended, as it always did, in a draw. He emerged from the bathroom in jeans and sneakers and his favorite dark hoodie, his hair doing exactly what it wanted. There wasn’t time to argue with it. There was rarely ever time.
The smell of coffee reached him in the hallway. It pulled at something in his chest and he followed it through the penthouse to the kitchen.
His steps halted in the doorway.
Rhaenyra stood at the island counter, reading something on her tablet with the focused, slightly stern expression she wore when she was processing information she found annoying. A coffee mug steamed beside her elbow, forgotten. She was already dressed soft grey, elegant, effortlessly so in the way that had always seemed to come naturally to her and she looked exactly as she always looked in the morning, tired by all the corporate bullshit.
CEO of Targaryen Corporation. One of the most influential women in King’s Landing. The most formidable person he had ever known.
His mother.
The word hit him somewhere unsteady. Something twisted painfully in his chest, relief so acute it nearly hurt, threaded through with the dreaming grief of a boy who had watched her face in his mind as the water closed over him, who had spent his last conscious moment believing she was safe, needing her to be safe, and had been right without ever knowing he was right.
He crossed the room before he had consciously decided to.
He wrapped his arms around her.
Rhaenyra nearly dropped her coffee.
“Jacaerys-”
She caught herself, setting the mug down with a firm clink on the marble countertop, and then without hesitation, because she had always been this, whatever else she was, she wrapped her arms around him and held him back.
“Sweet boy.” Her voice was softer now. Her fingers found their way into his curls the way they had when he was very small. “What’s the matter?”
Jace swallowed against the tightness in his throat.
The dream came rushing back through him like a tide, the war, the weight of a crown his mother should have inherited without blood, the desperate, bone-deep need to protect her. The image of her face as he had walked away from Dragonstone, toward the dragon, toward the battle, toward the Gullet. The way he had looked back.
He shook his head against her shoulder.
“I’m fine.”
“You are clearly not fine.”
Her hand moved in slow, soothing circles against his back. Despite himself, despite everything, Jace felt something in him begin to loosen.
He laughed. A weak, slightly broken sound, but genuine. “I just…” His voice cracked on the nothing he was trying to say.
Rhaenyra pulled back slightly to look at him. Not the way she looked at her board of directors, or at rivals across conference tables, or at the city from thirty floors up. The other way. The private way, that only he and his brothers ever saw.
“What happened?”
He wiped his eyes quickly, hoping she wouldn’t comment on it and took a breath.
“I had the most vivid dream.”
“What kind of dream?”
He hesitated. There was something strange about saying it. As though speaking about it aloud would make it either more real or less, and he wasn’t sure which outcome he wanted.
“I was a prince,” he said.
Rhaenyra blinked. Whatever she had been expecting, it was not that.
“A prince?”
“Yeah.” A small smile found its way onto his face, unwilling, almost involuntary. “You were a queen.”
Something passed across her expression something soft, something she would never have allowed in a meeting room. “Oh?”
“I died fighting a battle for you.”
Silence.
She looked at him for a long moment. Then she reached up and brushed a curl from his forehead with the gentleness that had no performance in it, something she reserved for the three of them and no one else.
“Well,” she said finally, her smile warming to something that was almost, almost teasing. “That sounds exhausting.”
Jace stared. “That’s all you’ve got?”
“You are standing in my kitchen wearing yesterday’s hoodie and telling me about dragon wars, Jacaerys.”
He opened his mouth to protest then closed it. “Fair.”
She squeezed his shoulder. “It was only a dream.”
“You know,” said a new voice from the doorway, “some families start their mornings with good morning.”
Luke wandered in carrying a cereal box like a trophy, nineteen years old and permanently, professionally smug. He surveyed the scene with the cheerful heartlessness of a younger brother who had found ammunition and intended to use it.
“Did Jace finally lose his mind?”
Behind him, Joffrey, fourteen and grinning with the particular delight of someone who had been waiting for this squeezed past into the kitchen. “About time.”
Jace rolled his eyes so hard it was almost an athletic achievement. “There he is.”
“Dreaming about being a prince?” Luke plucked a bowl from the cupboard with casual ease. “That’s because you’re already treated like one.”
The napkin Jace threw hit him square in the face. Luke threw it back. Rhaenyra sighed with the air of a woman who had calculated exactly how many more years of this lay before her and found the number disheartening.
“My sons,” she said, picking up her coffee. “Truly intellectual giants.”
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
Breakfast passed with the comfortable velocity of mornings that had been rehearsed through repetition until they ran themselves. Luke complaining about something, Joffrey eating cereal in quantities that defied his size, Rhaenyra reading from her tablet while simultaneously tracking all three of them with the peripheral attention of someone who had never once been entirely off duty.
Jace was reaching for his coffee when Rhaenyra glanced up.
“Are you still picking up your girlfriend?”
He froze.
The coffee cup remained halfway to his face, arrested in mid-air.
“…My what?”
Luke’s head snapped up. The expression that crossed his face was one of pure, unalloyed joy. He looked like he had been handed a gift.
Rhaenyra stared at her eldest with the patient, faintly incredulous expression of a woman who had not expected to be performing this particular reality check on a Tuesday morning.
“Your girlfriend.”
“Oh.” Jace set the cup down carefully. “Right.”
You.
He had a girlfriend.
A beautiful girlfriend, and she was his girlfriend, and she had been his girlfriend for- he was briefly lost in the arithmetic of it, which was itself a kind of answer and she was wonderful, she was brilliant, she made him laugh, and somehow in the space between waking up with the sea in his lungs and standing in his mother’s kitchen in yesterday’s hoodie, he had momentarily forgotten she existed.
And then, because his brain was apparently in full catastrophic mode this morning: betrothed.
Not yet. Not technically. But the word had been sitting in the back of his mind ever since he woke up from his dream.
Heat flooded his face with spectacular completeness.
Luke nearly choked on his cereal.
“Oh my God.”
“Shut up.”
“You forgot your girlfriend.”
“Only briefly.”
“Only” Luke dissolved entirely, shoulders shaking. Across the table, Joffrey watched with the dignified appreciation of a connoisseur.
Rhaenyra shook her head slowly. “Honestly, Jace.”
“It was a very intense dream,” he said, with as much dignity as one can muster while slowly turning the color of a sunset.
“You forgot your girlfriend.”
“The dream had dragons, Mum.”
She gave him the look. The specific look, the one that had been making him feel twelve years old since he was actually twelve years old. “She’s a lovely girl. I wish you’d bring her home more often.”
Jace stood from the table with the decisive energy of a man drawing a conversation to a close.
“I was planning to.”
“When?”
“Soon.”
“Today?”
“…Possibly.”
“Good.” Rhaenyra returned to her tablet, the slight smile at the corner of her mouth saying everything she was too dignified to say aloud.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
The underground parking garage was cool and dim, smelling of concrete and oil and the expensive quiet of a building where people took the lift rather than the stairs. Jace’s Porsche sat in its usual spot, Oak Green Metallic, catching the fluorescent light.
Vermax.
He had named the car Vermax which now sounded so ironic to him.
He stood beside the driver’s door for a moment, hand on the handle, the thought arriving fully formed and then sitting there in his chest with an odd weight. He had named his car Vermax years ago. He had thought it was because he liked the sound of it, or because it was the name of a character in a book he’d read, or because of some half-remembered reason that had never quite solidified into anything coherent.
He looked at the car. The deep green of it. The long, low lines of it, built for speed, built for the sky-
Built for the sky.
A strange feeling settled over him, the kind of not-quite-vertigo that comes with recognizing something without being able to name what it is you’re recognizing. Like seeing an old friend across a crowd before you’ve registered their face.
He shook it off. Got in and drove.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
The street outside your house was quiet in the way that Tuesday mornings in King’s Landing occasionally managed to be, with the morning light that made ordinary things seem briefly considered. Jace pulled to the curb and sat for a moment with the engine idling, window down.
Then the front door opened and you stepped out.
He got out of the car.
The morning light caught your hair the way it always did, making you look almost angelic in Jace’s eyes in that moment. You were still in the act of adjusting the strap of your bag when you spotted him, and the smile that crossed your face. Happy just to see him.
And for one strange, suspended moment, another image overlapped the morning like a transparency laid over a photograph. A figure standing on the cliffs of Dragonstone. The sea grey below and the wind pulling at dark fabric. Watching him leave. The expression on her face, your face, heartbroken and resolute and trying to be neither.
Waiting for him to come back.
The image dissolved as quickly as it had arrived. The morning reasserted itself. You were walking toward the car, your bag settled on your shoulder now, your smile still in place, and Jace found himself already stepping forward already moving toward with certainty that was less decision than gravity.
Before you could say a word, he took your hand and raised it, and pressed a kiss against your knuckles.
Deliberatea and unhurried. Like he’d done it a thousand times before, in other rooms, in other centuries.
“How are you, my beloved?”
You stopped.
Looked at the hand.
Looked at him.
And then, because you were you, you laughed, the bright, surprised sound of someone caught genuinely off guard. “What has gotten into you this morning?” you questioned him.
Jace grinned, and the grin felt more like him than anything else had all morning. “I genuinely have no idea.”
“You’re being sooo weird.” You studied him with the narrowed eyes trying to grasp his words and actions. “How weird is this going to get?”
“I had the wildest dream.”
“Oh?” Already your expression was shifting into the one you wore when you were preparing to be entertained.
He leaned forward and kissed you softly quick, warm and certain.
“In it,” he said against your smile, “you were my princess too.”
Your cheeks went pink with entirely gratifying speed.
“Oh my God.”
“You asked.”
“I asked what was wrong with you, not-”
“Details.”
“Jacaerys Velaryon, I am going to need you to be normal for the next five minutes-”
“I make no promises.”
He opened the passenger door for you, still grinning, and the morning felt lighter than it had when he’d left the penthouse.
The dream wasn’t entirely terrible, he thought, settling behind the wheel. If nothing else, it had done this, sharpened his vision, made ordinary things brilliant again. Made you more vivid than you’d already been, which was saying something considerable.
He found himself smiling the entire drive to university.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
University should have felt normal.
Instead, Jace spent the entire morning convinced he was losing his mind by degrees as new details of his dream would hit him.
The dream lingered with a persistence that ordinary dreams did not have, the kind he usually forgot by the time he reached the kitchen. This one clung. Every corridor he walked reminded him of castle hallways, the echo of footsteps on stone, and the smell of torch smoke. Every crowded lecture hall conjured the geometry of noble courts; the subtle theatre of power performed through proximity. His Strategic Management lecture had an entire section on resource allocation that kept pulling his thoughts sideways, toward councils and war rooms and Dragonstone.
He stared at his notebook.
He had written, in the margin: Corlys was right about the Gullet.
He had no idea when.
“You’re disassociating again.”
Jace blinked.
Across the seminar table sat Cregan Stark, regarding him with the expression he used on everything: tall, dark-haired, slow-blinking, fundamentally and constitutionally unimpressed by the world and all its events. He was from Winterfell like genuinely, actually from Winterfell, which Jace had always found slightly funny without ever quite being able to explain why.
They’d been best friends since secondary school, the friendship that had calcified into something so much more. They were like brothers in every sense.
Also, he looked almost exactly like the Cregan from the dream.
Same jaw. Same eyes. Same expression, the one that said I am listening to you and I find you exhausting.
Same, in other words, as he always looked well except his had slightly shorter hair.
“What?” Jace managed.
Cregan raised one eyebrow. “You’ve been staring at me for ten seconds with an expressionless face.”
“Sorry.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “I had a strange dream. I feel like I keep repeating these words over and over again.”
“You texted me at four in the morning.”
Jace went very still.
“I did?”
Cregan reached for his phone with the patience of a man who had long since resigned himself to the chaos of being Jace Velaryon’s closest friend. He scrolled briefly, then began reading aloud in the flat, informational tone of a news anchor delivering a weather report.
“‘Brother, imagine if we were medieval nobles.’”
“Oh, God.”
“‘You would have loved Winterfell.’”
“Cregan-”
“‘You were Lord of the North.’” He glanced up briefly. “I’m from Winterfell, Jace. I grew up in Winterfell. I know what Winterfell is.”
“Please stop-”
‘I miss Vermax.’
Cregan lowered the phone.
“I don’t know what Vermax is, if its not talking about your car.” he said.
Jace buried his face in both hands and made a sound that was less a word than a comprehensive statement.
“You were never meant to read those.”
“You sent them to me.”
“I was apparently not fully conscious at four in the morning. I don’t remember doing this at all.”
“That’s concerning.”
“Yes.”
“Are you okay?”
The question arrived without ceremony, Cregan always asked things he actually wanted to know, dropped into a conversation like a stone dropped into water, watching to see what it displaced. Jace hesitated for long enough that the silence became its own answer.
“Yeah,” he said. Then, quietly: “Not entirely.”
Cregan nodded. He didn’t push. This was something Jace had always valued about him, the Stark capacity to hold space without filling it.
“Tell me later,” Cregan said, and turned back to his laptop.
Mostly, Jace thought. He was mostly okay.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
You found him outside the business building at noon, materializing from the flow of students and your smile arrived before you did.
Jace felt the thing in his chest that had been clenched since 7 AM ease, slowly, like a hand opening. There was something about you that operated on him this way, had always operated on him this way, since the beginning. A quality of presence that grounded him, that made the world’s coordinates make sense again. He’d never found quite the right words for it. He’d stopped trying.
You slipped your hand into his without ceremony.
“Better than this morning?”
“A little.”
“Still thinking about your prince dream?”
He laughed, the sound freer than he expected. “Unfortunately.”
“You are such a nerd.”
“I was literally fighting a war.”
“You were dreaming about fighting a war.”
“Details.”
“Jacaerys Velaryon, if this dream becomes your entire personality, I want it on the record that I tried to prevent it-”
“Noted and rejected.”
You rolled your eyes with magnificent feeling. “I make no promises about what I tell your mother.”
Together you walked toward the café nearby. A small, overcrowded place called something Jace could never quite remember but it had had excellent coffee and terrible lighting and was perpetually full of students and professors who had clearly rather be somewhere else. The place that existed to absorb the ambient anxiety of a university and convert it, through caffeine, into something marginally more functional.
You had barely settled into your seats when a familiar voice arrived from approximately two tables away, belonging to someone who had apparently been watching for them.
“Well, if it isn’t my favorite nephew.”
Aegon Targaryen dropped into the empty chair beside Jace with the comfortable confidence of a man who owned, and this was literally true, approximately half the building they were sitting in. Twenty-six, blond, expensive, reliably catastrophic. His jacket probably cost more than Jace’s car maintenance for the year, and he wore it with the carelessness never once considering the cost of anything.
He was nothing like the monster from the dream. The dream-Aegon had been something Jace couldn’t fully bring himself to examine yet. Jealous and bitter and capable of terrible things. This Aegon was mostly known for throwing parties that became local legend and mysteriously managing to avoid all professional consequences for anything he did, ever. Jacaerys supposed that has something to do with his mother and his uncle Aemond keeping these things contained.
“To what do we owe the honor?” Jace asked.
Aegon’s attention had already moved to you.
“And how are you?”
“Good,” you said politely.
“Still putting up with him?”
You smiled. “Barely.”
“Excellent answer.”
Jace groaned. Aegon looked absolutely delighted.
“You’re blushing,” Aegon observed, with the tone of someone reporting a natural phenomenon.
“I’m not.”
“You absolutely are.”
You leaned over the table, and Jace recognized the look on your face immediately. The collaborative look. The look that meant you had identified an ally.
“He was calling me his beloved this morning.”
Aegon’s chair nearly lost him. He grabbed the table.
“No.”
“Yes.”
“In what context?”
“He kissed my hand. In the street. Before nine in the morning.”
Aegon looked at Jace the way someone looks at an archaeological discovery with facination, slightly appalled, deeply pleased. “This is the greatest thing that has ever happened.”
Jace contemplated his options. Leaving. Changing his name and moving to Braavos. Committing entirely to the persona of someone who had never been caught calling his girlfriend my beloved at eight forty-five on a Tuesday.
None of these were practical.
He reached for his coffee and said nothing, which Aegon correctly interpreted as total defeat.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
After Aegon eventually wandered off, ostensibly to a meeting, credibly to cause chaos somewhere else and so the café settled back into its ordinary rhythms. Students came and went. Espresso machines hissed. The ambient noise absorbed itself.
You and Jace remained at your table, and the laughter faded naturally, the way good laughter does, not dying but simply becoming something quieter.
He was staring into his coffee again.
You watched him for a moment.
“You never told me the whole dream, since it has you in a weird mindset today.” you said quietly.
His fingers tightened almost imperceptibly around the cup. He was aware of you looking at him, with your full attention, which had always been more like listening than looking, patient and genuine and without agenda.
“To put it simply, there was a war,” he said.
You didn’t ask him to explain. You waited.
“A civil war.” He looked up briefly, then back at the table. “A war over who would rule over Westeros. My mother was supposed to inherit as was the rightful heir to the throne but there were those who didn’t accept it. Didn’t accept her.”
“And you fought for her.”
“Of course.”
The images came without invitation, Dragonstone’s grey halls, the council table, the maps spreading the whole kingdom out before them like a wound. The feeling of duty that had lived in his chest since childhood, not as a burden but as a definition. This is who you are. This is what you do.
You reached across the table and took his hand.
He continued.
“I flew a dragon. I know this sounds no so scary but-” Despite everything, he heard the ghost of wonder in his own voice. “Vermax. He was- he was mine. Since I was a boy. He knew me.” The wonder curdled, softened into something heavier. “He died with me.”
Your thumb moved in a slow arc across his knuckles.
“The last thing I remember,” he said quietly, “was dying. Floating in the sea, after everything.” He paused.
“It was strange. It wasn’t- it wasn’t the way I would have imagined. It wasn’t terrifying.”
“What was it?”
He thought about it honestly.
“It was sad,” he said. “But calm.”
You were quiet for a moment. Then you reached up, and the gesture was so unexpected that he went still, your hand cupping his cheek, steady and warm, thumb tracing a line beneath his eye.
He leaned into it without thinking.
“I’m glad it was only a dream,” you said softly trying to calm his anxieties that he didn’t want to confess out loud.
“I’m glad you’re here.”
The tightness in his chest released, not all at once but in stages, like a knot worked loose over time. He turned his head slightly, pressing his lips briefly to your palm, and you let him, and neither of you made anything of it.
She’s right, he thought. Whatever that was. Whatever it meant.
He was here. Alive. With his family, with his best friend, with his girl.
Maybe that was enough. Maybe that was, actually, everything.
The afternoon passed.
Classes ended. The university slowly emptied like it did every day at dusk, students and professors releasing themselves back into the city like a pressure valve opening. The parking lot filled briefly with the usual chaos and then thinned.
“My mother wants you over more often,” Jace mentioned, as they walked toward the Porsche.
“Apparently she likes you.”
You brightened immediately. “Really?”
“She said so unprompted. First thing this morning.”
“Good.” You smiled with satisfaction. “I’m charming.”
Jace looked at you sideways. “You are deeply smug about this.”
“I’m charming,” you repeated, pleasantly.
He laughed. “Come over tonight?”
You looked at him, with that look you had, the one he’d never found a word for, the one that made him feel simultaneously seen and unsteady in the best possible way. Made him feel a bit giddy.
“I’d love to,” you said.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
The penthouse was unusually quiet when they arrived.
Rhaenyra was visible through the glass of her home office, phone tucked between her ear and shoulder, reading from a document with the focused intensity and it was clear that the woman needed a break from everything. Luke had evaporated somewhere. Joffrey was reportedly studying, a claim no one in the household had ever been successfully able to verify.
You and Jace settled at the dining table with laptops and scattered notes and the collective fiction of productivity.
For forty minutes, it was remarkably functional.
Jace had his economics module open. You were working through something, he didn’t ask, didn’t need to and the sound of quiet typing and the occasional turn of a page created a kind of companionable silence that he had always thought of as the specific luxury of being comfortable with someone. presence. You could simply be in it.
He was reading about capital allocation.
“Jace.”
He looked up.
“You’re getting lost in your mind again.”
“I’m not what are you talking about?” he said automatically. Then, because honesty was something he’d apparently committed to today: “I was thinking about- uhhh. Economics?”
“That is not better.”
“You look pretty,” he said simply.
The silence that followed had a distinct texture.
You looked at him for a long moment. Then you slowly, deliberately, closed your laptop.
“No,” you said.
“What?”
“You don’t get to say things like that when I’m trying to study.”
“I was simply making an observation.”
“You are impossible.”
He was very pleased with himself. He did not bother hiding it.
An hour later, the economics module had not progressed. The textbooks had been consolidated into a single pile and pushed to the far end of the table, a gesture that meant these exist and will eventually be addressed, which was as much as either of you were willing to commit to. A film had been agreed upon via negotiation.
Blankets appeared.
The overhead lights went off.
And somehow, as these things always somehow managed, you ended up curled against his chest on the enormous sectional, his arm around your waist, the film playing distantly while neither of you particularly watched it. Your breathing slowed first. His heartbeat was steady and familiar beneath your ear.
The city moved quietly outside the windows.
You didn’t remember falling asleep.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
The prince stood before you.
The wind came off the sea like a cold hand, whipping through his dark, curling hair, pressing his black riding coat against his frame. Behind him, Dragonstone rose in its glory against a steel-grey sky, all sharp towers and dark stone, magnificent and terrible, built by people who had never believed in half measures. The sea crashed against the rocks far below. Dark clouds gathered on the horizon with the patient, deliberate advance of something inevitable.
“No.”
Your voice came out broken.
“No, please.”
He looked at you the way he always looked at you as if you were the clearest thing in a world that had lately become very unclear, like looking at you was the one thing he could do without effort in a life that had demanded extraordinary effort from him since the moment he was old enough to understand what he was.
“I have to go.”
“You don’t,” you said, even though you knew it wasn’t true. Even though somewhere beneath the desperate present tense of the argument, the truer, older part of you already knew exactly what was coming. Already knew the shape of this farewell.
His hands found yours.
They were warm. Strong and real, so real that makes their loss so much more brutal than the loss of things you never fully believed in.
“You can stay,” you said. Your voice was steadier than you felt. “You can let someone else-”
“I cannot.” His voice was gentle but stern. He was stubborn and so if he made peace with this decisions, he wouldn’t have it any other way.
Tears burned behind your eyes. The fear inside you was almost unbearable and burning, it was twisted and layered, because you knew. You already knew. This was not a premonition, not a vague presentiment. It was knowledge, carried somewhere beneath language, beneath memory, in whatever part of you had been this person before.
You knew what awaited him at the Gullet.
Fire.
Water.
“You promised.” The words escaped before you could decide to say them.
His expression shifted. Something moved across it, grief, tenderness, the ache of a man who loves something too well to pretend it isn’t breaking.
“And I will keep that promise but this is a battle I must fight for both myself and my mother.”
He stepped closer, and you let him, and he pressed a kiss to your forehead so gently it barely qualified as a touch at all.
Then he rested his brow against yours.
His eyes never left yours.
“If I do not return- which I intend to,”
The world seemed to hold its breath.
“I will find you.”
A tear escaped. Traced the line of your cheek. He watched it with eyes that were very dark and very steady.
“In every lifetime if not this one. I promise.”
The words landed somewhere deep in you, somewhere wordless, somewhere older than the language you used to think with. A promise that had the weight of truth rather than intention.
You memorized his face. The curls. The strong jaw. The eyes, brown and earnest and alive, so alive.
He smiled.
Then he stepped away.
He turned toward the waiting dragon.
Toward the dark water below.
Toward a destiny that was also a death.
And all you could do was watch him leave.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
You woke with a gasp that tore itself from somewhere past your chest.
For several seconds, you could not find the room. Could not find yourself in it. There was only the dream...the cliffs, the wind, his forehead against yours, the sound of his footsteps retreating and the grief of it, which was specific and devastating and nothing at all like the vague emotional residue of ordinary sleep.
Tears burned behind your eyes. Your heart was pounding.
You pushed yourself upright. A blanket tangled around your legs. The room was dim, the film long since ended, the television showing a menu screen. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows, King’s Landing glittered in the full dark of night, the city’s lights reflected upward in a warm wash against the low clouds. Jace must have moved you to his room when you fell asleep.
The bedroom door opened.
Jace stepped in carrying two mugs, steam rising from both. He had apparently, at some point during your sleep, been productive.
The moment he saw your face, he froze.
“Hey.”
The concern in his voice was immediate, the shift from normal to careful happening in the space of a single syllable.
“What’s wrong?”
You didn’t answer. The words were somewhere on the way, but in the meantime your body had already decided what it needed, and what it needed was to close the distance between you and him as quickly as possible.
You stood.
Crossed the room.
The mugs barely survived. He caught them against the edge of the side table with an impressive reflex, setting them down quickly before his arms came around your waist, and you buried your face against the side of his neck, and breathed him in.
“Sweetheart?” Low and careful. His chin came to rest on top of your head.
You stayed there for a moment just letting the reality of him replace the dream of him. The warmth of him. The solidness.
Then you pulled back. Not far. Your forehead came to rest against his, which put you close enough to feel his breath and see the small crease of worry between his brows.
“I had a dream,” you said. It seems it was your turn to utter those words.
Something moved across his face. He went very still in the way that meant he was paying every variety of attention he had.
“What kind of dream?”
“I saw a prince.”
His breath caught. You felt it.
“I saw him leaving for a battle. He was going to fight-”
Your voice faltered, then steadied. “He knew he might not come back. And he said-” You stopped.
Jace’s arms tightened around you, almost involuntarily.
“He said he would find me,” you continued. “That if he didn’t return-” Your eyes met his, and something in your chest recognized something in his. “He would find me in every lifetime.”
Silence.
Complete, absolute silence.
Jace stared at you.
Because those were the exact words. Not a version of them, not a paraphrase but the exact promise, the exact phrasing, the exact scene, the stone of Dragonstone under grey skies and wind coming off the sea. He had lived it from one side and you had lived it from the other, and here you both were, in a penthouse above a city that did not have dragons, with the memory of them living in your bones.
His throat moved.
You smiled softly with tears still bright at the corners of your eyes. Your hand lifted, your fingers moving gently through his curls, the same gesture that felt simultaneously new and ancient.
“I don’t know what any of that means,” you said.
“Neither do I.”
“But if it was real-”
His forehead pressed more firmly against yours.
“You kept your promise,” you whispered.
He felt his throat close.
And for the first time since he had woken to the sound of an alarm clock and a bedroom that wasn’t the sea, he stopped wondering whether the dream had been real. He stopped wondering whether he was grieving something imagined or something true. He stopped needing to know.
Because you knew.
You had been there.
You rose onto your toes.
Your lips met his.
It was slow and gentle. He kissed you back like someone returning to something, like a navigator finding a landmark in familiar water.
Like he had been waiting centuries and perhaps his soul had waited for this moment. The moment to return to her.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
The knock was soft.
They both startled apart with the excellent reflexes of guilty consciences, then immediately demonstrated the dignity of two people pretending they hadn’t.
Jace cleared his throat. Rested his forehead against yours for one final second. His breath was unsteady in the best way.
Another knock.
“Jacaerys?”
Rhaenyra’s voice, measured, carrying through the door with the easy authority of a woman who managed board rooms and board members and the shenanigans of three sons as a single uninterrupted professional skill.
“Dinner is ready.” They heard the muffled voice of his mother.
Jace answered at a volume calibrated for normalcy “We’ll be there in a minute!”
A pause that had weight.
“Five minutes,” his mother’s voice returned, drier than a desert, and entirely aware of everything and perhaps making a wrong assumption of you two being alone in his room.
You laughed, pressing your face briefly against his shoulder to muffle it. He was already smiling.
“Your mother doesn’t trust you.”
“She absolutely does not.”
“And honestly?” You poked his chest. “I don’t blame her.”
“You wound me.”
“Good.” You pulled your hand back, but he caught it, quick and easy, and pressed a kiss to your knuckles again. The same gesture as that morning. The echo of it traveled through both of you clearly.
Your cheeks went pink.
He watched it happen with a feeling in his chest that was too large and too simple to require any examination at all.
There she is, he thought. My girl.
My princess.
He took your hand properly, fingers laced and led you toward the dining room.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
They heard the argument before they reached the dinner table.
Luke and Joffrey, seated across from each other in the arrangement that the family had collectively accepted as a flaw, were conducting a debate with the commitment of two people who had come to win.
“No, because you’re objectively wrong-”
“I’m objectively right-”
“You don’t even know what objectively means.”
“I literally do.”
“You used it wrong.”
Joffrey groaned with his whole body. “I hate this family.”
“You are this family,” Luke pointed out.
Joffrey considered this. “Exactly.”
Rhaenyra, at the head of the table, was pinching the bridge of her nose with annoyance. This was her normal and yet it was tiring.
The moment she saw you, her face entirely changed.
“There she is.”
You smiled. “Hi.”
She stood and pulled you into a hug with a warmth that was, Jace thought privately, rather more enthusiastic than his own homecoming greeting most mornings. “I was beginning to think my son had invented you.”
“Mum.”
“What? He never brings you over.”
“That’s his fault,” you said.
“Traitor,” Jace said.
“You’re literally my boyfriend.”
“Exactly.”
You smiled sweetly. “I’m allowed.”
Rhaenyra looked delighted in the specific way she allowed herself to look delighted when she was genuinely pleased, a rarity outside this apartment. Luke immediately leaned toward you.
“See? This is why she’s my favorite.”
“I’m sitting right here.”
“Unfortunately.”
Jace threw a bread roll at him.
Luke threw one back.
The war began immediately, and lasted approximately five seconds before Rhaenyra’s single sharp look ended it. She had a look for this. It was very effective.
“Sometimes I wonder,” she said, settling back into her chair and accepting a bread roll from the basket with the serenity of someone who had already mentally exited the building, “if I raised wolves.”
“That’s insulting,” Joffrey said.
Everyone looked at him.
The fourteen-year-old shrugged with the composure of someone who had thought this through. “Wolves are smarter.”
The silence held for two seconds before Luke’s expression cracked. Jace looked at the ceiling. Rhaenyra’s attempt at severity collapsed at its foundations.
You sat beside Jace with your hand warm against his under the table, and you were already laughing, and the sound of it filled the room the way laughter does when a room is already full of people who are glad to be there.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
Dinner found its rhythm.
Conversation moved in the easy, overlapping way it does with people who have logged enough hours together that they no longer need to manage it consciously. Luke complained about a group project with the vivid resentment of having decided the problem was everyone else.
Joffrey explained something about a game or a film or a historical period but the audience could not quite keep up, but that seemed to be part of the experience. Rhaenyra complained, with great economy, about company politics, and then told a story about a colleague that had everyone at the table paying full attention (It was Aemond who everytone is afraid of in their company).
You listened to all of it.
Jace, mostly, watched.
He had not expected this. Had woken this morning in the sea, or the memory of it. Had spent the drive to university with the dream still active in his body, had sat through lectures half-present, had carried the weight of Vermax’s last look in his chest all day like a stone.
And now.
He watched his mother smile at something you said. He watched Luke do the thing he did when he was actually amused, which was different from when he is pretending. Watched Joffrey explain something to you directly, having apparently determined that you were worth the effort, and watched your face do the thing it did when you were genuinely interested in something, slightly forward, slightly bright, entirely present.
You fit here. Not as a guest, not as someone being accommodated. As someone who belonged.
He thought of the dream again.
Remembered standing at the dragonpit of Dragonstone with his armor on and the dragon saddled and the sea grey behind him, and looking back at everything he was leaving, his mother, his brothers, you, the stone halls and the cold salt wind and the ordinary miracle of a morning that didn’t require a king’s son to die for it.
He had wondered, in those last seconds at Dragonstone, if he would ever see any of them again.
He had his answer now.
The realization settled in his chest quietly, without drama. Not a revelation, something more like a confirmation. A peace he hadn’t known he was looking for, finding him here, at a dinner table with a bread roll dent in the tablecloth and Joffrey currently holding forth on something no one else understood.
No war. No dragons. No succession. No battles. Just family. Just love.
Just this.
Halfway through dessert, Joffrey’s phone lit up.
“Oh!” He reached for it with the speed of receiving news they’d been waiting for. “Dad’s calling.”
Jace felt himself smile before the screen even showed Laenor’s face.
It appeared a moment later, that face, familiar and warm and slightly tanned by whatever sun was currently shining on whatever harbor on whatever coast he was sailing toward. Behind him, a bright blue sky suggested somewhere in Essos, probably. The man was perpetually in motion, perpetually somewhere else and yet found time for them. He was not their real father, but he might as well have been. After Harwin passed away, Rhaenyra had remarried Laenor as more of a deal since Laenor wasn’t interested in anything but he cared for Rhaenyra platonically and it seemed to have worked out great and that’s all that mattered.
“There are my favorite children.”
Luke snorted. “We’re your only children.”
“And yet somehow still my favorites.” Laenor’s gaze found you across the table, and his face smiled “There she is.”
You laughed. “Hello.”
“Good. Finally, someone sensible has arrived.”
“Hey!” Three voices, simultaneous.
Laenor continued as though he hadn’t heard. “How are you, darling?”
“I’m well, thank you.”
Jace groaned. “Why does everyone in my family like her more than me?”
“Because,” Laenor said, and the timing was beautiful, “she has manners.”
The table erupted. Even Rhaenyra, which was a significant achievement.
Laenor spent twenty minutes on the call, chatting about his route, trading insults with. He heard both Luke and Joffery’s rambling. He asked Rhaenyra about the board meeting she’d complained about, and listened to her answer. He asked you about your studies, and remembered something you’d mentioned three calls ago, and asked a follow-up question about it.
The man had walked into their lives years ago and simply decided, without announcement or conditions, that these were his sons. No performance of it. No documentation. Just- love, extended to fill the available space.
Dream Laenor had disappeared. The thought arrived gently, without bitterness. The dream-Laenor, who had been present mostly in his absence, who Jace had barely known, who had been lost before Jace could understand what losing someone meant. This version was here. This version showed up.
And Jace was, quietly and completely, grateful for that.
The call ended. The dessert finished. The evening moved toward its natural conclusion with the comfortable inevitability of all good evenings. Luke vanished in the direction of his room. Joffrey disappeared with a quantity of snacks that could feed a whole army. Rhaenyra retreated to finish what she’d started, she always had something she was finishing, this was simply who she was and the penthouse settled into quiet
Which left you and Jace, alone on the balcony.
┈┈・ ✦ ・┈┈
King’s Landing stretched below them without end.
The city was all light from up here, not the individual lights, not streets and windows and the moving points of cars, but the collective glow of it, the warmth of a few million people living their lives in proximity, translated upward into something that looked, from this height, almost like its own kind of fire.
A cool breeze moved through the dark, carrying the city’s particular nighttime mixture of warm pavement and distant food and the faint, improbable ghost of something floral from a rooftop garden somewhere below. It found its way into Jace’s curls and did what it wanted with them.
You stood beside him. Close enough that your shoulders touched.
Neither of you spoke. Neither of you needed to. The city was enough, for a while.
Then you broke the silence the way you often did when a thought entered your head.
“Do you think it was real?”
He didn’t ask what you meant.
The dreams. The prince and the princess. The battle. The promise made at the edge of the world on the morning of an ending. The specific weight of standing on Dragonstone and knowing.
“I don’t know,” he said.
You slipped your hand into his. Your fingers were cool from the night air. He closed his hand around yours.
“But it felt real,” you said.
“It did.”
Another silence, this one richer. Weighted, but not heavily, weighted the way a good book is heavy, in a way you want.
“If it was real…”
Jace looked toward you. The city’s light caught you from below, softening the angles, turning you luminous in the warm way of a portrait painted with care. The same thing he’d thought this morning returned, effortlessly, as though it had simply been waiting for the right lighting.
Radiant.
The same as the princess from the dream. The same, and also entirely herself.
“If it was real,” you continued, a smile finding the corner of your mouth, “I think she’d be happy.”
“Who?”
“The princess.”
Your fingers squeezed his.
“Because she got her prince back.”
Something moved in his chest and he felt a giddy sensation.
“And he got his princess,” he said quietly.
The smile you gave him in return was the specific, undone kind that he privately thought was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. He doubted this would change.
“You know,” he said, after a moment, “I’ve spent all day thinking about the battle.”
“The Gullet?”
“Yeah.” He looked down at the city. “The part where I died.”
You were quiet beside him.
“And?” you said, finally.
He looked back through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse.
His mother, visible in her office, signing something. The small movement of her hand showing her actions.
Luke in the hallway beyond, typing away at his phone aggressively with determinations of someone looking to win an argument even if he may be wrong.
Joffrey somewhere in his room planning a prank on his mother.
And all of it, all of this life, this ordinary, extraordinary life, glowing warm behind glass thirty floors above a city that had never known a dragon. His family.
“I think that prince would’ve liked this,” he said.
You followed his gaze.
You understood immediately. He could see it in the way your face softened, not with sadness but with tenderness that recognizes grief and holds it carefully.
A life without war. Without the weight of a crown.
Without sacrifice, the kind that swaps one beloved thing for another in an endless, devastating ledger.
Just family.
Just love.
Just peace.
You rested your head on his shoulder.
He turned his head and pressed a kiss to your hair, slow and quiet.
Neither of you saw it.
But just for a moment, a breath, almost a blink, the glass of the balcony door held a reflection that was not quite yours.
Two figures. Side by side. Dressed in black and red, the colours of a house that had once held the world.
Standing exactly as you were standing. Looking out at exactly what you were looking at.
Smiling.
At each other, and at this, and at everything that had managed, against all odds, to survive.
Then the image dissolved.
The glass held only the room behind it, warm and lit and full of the sound of Luke losing the argument.
you'll like me eventually (oscar piastri x reader)
🏁 pairing: oscar piastri x f!reader.
🏁 word count: 11.3k
🏁 genres/warnings: alternative universe: university. frenemies (??) to lovers. oscar is the uk equivalent to a frat boy and reader thinks hes the most annoying person in the world. they're both down bad for each other. he fell first, she realised second type vibe. mild swearing and false rumours of a hookup. mentions of alcohol, being drunk and throwing up so warning. reader insert but no use of y/n.
🏁summary: you've spent two years calling it hatred. oscar has spent those same two years calling it flirting.
🏁 author notes: the idea of oscar in a backwards cap is the main reason for this fic so please excuse. super geeked to say this is in the same universe as my dearest @verstarris 's fic 'dirty little secret', please check it out bara is a phenomenal writer !!!!! hope you enjoy <3
“I mean, just look at him,” you muttered, your nose wrinkling as you looked across the makeshift dancefloor. “Who does he think he is?”
Your eyes found him with embarrassing ease, cutting through the blur of moving bodies, sticky floors and the cloud of cherry-scented vape smoke hanging over the living room.
Oscar Piastri. Of course it was Oscar Piastri.
He was leaning against the wall like he hadn't a care in the world, one hand wrapped loosely around a red cup filled with something that almost definitely tasted horrific. His other hand rested against his hip as he laughed at something the girl in front of him had said, his head tipping back ever so slightly.
God, he looked pleased with himself.
She was twirling a strand of hair around her finger, smiling up at him through fluttering eyelashes and leaning in far closer than was remotely necessary.
It wasn't even that loud in here.
“Yeah,” Alex replied dryly from beside you, following your line of sight before looking back at you. “Absolutely criminal. He's talking to a pretty girl who's giving him attention. Someone should call the police.”
You tore your eyes away from Oscar long enough to shoot her a glare.
“Stop trying to make it something it isn't,” you lifted your drink to your lips, taking another sip as the alcohol settled warmly in your chest. It softened the edges of the room, blurred the music into a pleasant hum.
Yet somehow Oscar remained in perfect focus. “I just mean,” you continued, waving your cup vaguely in his direction, “he walks around like he's God's gift to humanity,” Alex raised an eyebrow. “Which is annoying.”
“Mm,” she nodded thoughtfully, though the smile threatening at the corners of her mouth suggested she wasn't taking you remotely seriously.
You huffed. “He's just... so...” you searched for the right word before settling on the only one that really fit. “Oscar.”
Alex barked out a laugh. “You need another shot if you're going to spend the whole night giving us an Oscar report.”
Before you could argue, she'd caught hold of your wrist and started weaving the two of you through the crowd towards the kitchen. “Alex,” you complained, stumbling after her. “I'm not giving anyone an Oscar report.”
“No?” She glanced over her shoulder with a grin. “You've only been staring at him for the last ten minutes.”
“I have not.”
“You've looked at him more than you've looked at me.”
You scoffed, taking another sip of your drink. “I was people watching.”
“Interesting,” Alex hummed. “Considering the only person you've watched all evening has been him.”
Your mouth opened to argue, but the words dissolved the second the two of you passed him.
You felt it before you even looked. His attention shifting. Like he'd sensed you nearby.
Against your better judgement, your eyes flicked towards him. He wasn't looking at the girl anymore. Somewhere between one step and the next, she'd become background noise. His eyes had found yours instead.
His smile widened the second they did. Not smug. Not victorious. Just pleased. Like seeing you was somehow the best thing that had happened to him all evening.
You looked away first. Of course you did.
“See?” Alex murmured quietly as she nudged your shoulder. “He literally stops talking to anyone every time you walk into a room.”
You rolled your eyes so hard they almost hurt. “He's insufferable.”
Alex snorted. “Sure.”
The kitchen island was already crowded by the time Alex pulled you over, littered with abandoned cups, half-empty bottles of pop and enough questionable alcohol to make tomorrow morning thoroughly unpleasant.
The rest of your friends all stood around it in various stages of conversation, none of them paying much attention until Alex announced your arrival.
"Someone get her another shot," she sighed dramatically, dropping her head onto Lily's shoulder. "I'm so bored of hearing about Oscar."
You froze. "I do not talk about him that much."
Seven pairs of eyes landed on you. Then, almost in perfect sync, every single one of them rolled their eyes.
"See?" George said, gesturing lazily towards you. "That's exactly what someone who talks about Oscar too much would say."
"Honestly," Max muttered, taking another sip of his drink, "I don't even think he needs to be here anymore. You'd still find a way to mention him."
"That's not true."
"You mentioned him before you'd even said hello," Charles pointed out with a grin.
You opened your mouth, then closed it again.
Lando laughed under his breath as he reached for the bottle of tequila sitting on the counter. He held an empty cup up to the light, inspected it briefly before deciding it was clean enough, then filled it with a generous amount. "Here," he said, passing it over. "Drink this before you embarrass yourself any further."
You accepted it with a dramatic sigh. "I'm not obsessed with him."
"Didn't say you were," Lando replied innocently.
You narrowed your eyes. "You literally did last week."
He shrugged. "Yeah, maybe I was right."
George snorted into his drink. "The sooner you admit it, the sooner we can all move on with our lives."
"Move on?" you echoed. "You lot are the ones obsessed with this narrative."
"Narrative?" Lily laughed. "It's been two years."
Alex nodded solemnly. "We've accepted you're going to end up together. We're just getting bored waiting."
Laughter erupted around the kitchen. You tipped the tequila back in one go, grimacing as it burned all the way down. "You're all unbelievable."
Lando reached over immediately, replacing your empty shot cup with a fresh drink before you'd even asked.
"Shouldn't you be celebrating anyway?" George asked. "Didn't you absolutely smash your psychology exam?"
You wrapped your fingers around the new cup, grateful for the change in subject.
"Exactly," Alex agreed. "I thought tonight was supposed to be about you."
"It is."
"Yet somehow we've spent ten minutes discussing Oscar."
You looked around the circle in disbelief. "Because you lot keep bringing him up!"
Max blinked. "I literally opened the door to you moaning about him."
Silence. You pointed accusingly around the kitchen. "You're all incredibly annoying."
George grinned. "And yet somehow not as annoying as Oscar."
"Exactly," you exclaimed, grateful that someone had finally made sense.
George's grin widened. "Which is impressive, considering you've spent two years giving him your undivided attention."
You groaned loudly enough that a couple of people turned to look.
They had no idea what they were talking about. Oscar Piastri had simply mastered the art of being irritating.
You'd met him during your third week at university after Lando had dragged you along to one of the cricket team's sports socials, proudly insisting you "needed to meet the idiots I spent all my time with."
He hadn't been exaggerating.
Somewhere in amongst all of that chaos, Lando had introduced you to Oscar.
You'd expected someone easy-going. Humble, maybe. Instead, Oscar had smiled at you like he'd known you forever before announcing, with complete confidence, that you'd definitely like him eventually.
You'd decided almost instantly that he was insufferable.
Unfortunately, he'd never stopped proving you right.
Every conversation ended with him grinning while you rolled your eyes. Every party somehow ended with the two of you arguing about something completely pointless. He'd steal chips off your plate. Sit in your seat whenever you got up. Lean on your shoulder simply because he knew it annoyed you.
You'd even met his sister somewhere along the way, usually whenever she wandered onto campus looking for Oscar or Lando, somehow fitting into the group as naturally as everyone else. It wasn't unusual. Half the time it felt like Oscar and Lando shared a family anyway.
The worst part wasn't even that he was cocky.
It was that he somehow got away with it.
Everyone adored him. He was captain of the cricket team. Clever. Funny. Ridiculously handsome, which was deeply unfortunate.
You hated that you'd noticed the way he'd grown his hair out over the last year. Hated that you'd realised he smiled differently when he was genuinely laughing. Hated that you knew exactly what colour his eyes looked in the sun. Hated that, once, you'd caught yourself wondering what his hair might feel like threaded through your fingers.
You hated all of it.
Obviously.
You felt him before you saw him, as though he'd heard you thinking about him. A familiar warmth settled at your back. Broad shoulders. A chest brushing lightly against you. Then two arms draped comfortably over yours, his forearms resting across your collarbones like they belonged there.
Finally, a firm chin came to rest on the top of your head. "Talking about me again?" Oscar's voice rumbled beside your ear, amusement woven through every word.
A shiver darted down your spine before you could stop it. You blamed the tequila. "You're delirious," you muttered, driving your elbow backwards into his ribs.
It connected with solid muscle. Oscar barely reacted. If anything, he laughed. "That's not a no."
You wriggled free with an exaggerated sigh, smoothing your dress down as though he'd somehow managed to wrinkle your entire evening. "Do you ever get bored of winding me up?"
"Not once."
The answer came so quickly it almost caught you off guard.
You finally looked up at him. Big mistake. He was smiling. Not the cocky grin he flashed at everyone else. Something quieter. Warmer. Like he'd been waiting for you to notice him all evening.
It was deeply irritating.
"You need a new hobby."
Oscar shrugged, slipping one hand into the pocket of his jeans. "I've got one."
You frowned. "Annoying me isn't a hobby."
"Sure it is."
Lando wandered over, reaching straight past Oscar to steal the bottle he'd only just opened. "We've been trying to tell her that for two years," he said before taking a sip.
Oscar frowned. "You know that's mine."
"Our drink," Lando corrected without missing a beat.
"You bought one crate."
"We,” Lando grinned. “Bought one crate."
Oscar barked out a laugh. "That was because you forgot your wallet."
Lando shoved Oscar's shoulder as the two of them laughed, the exchange so practised it felt less like an argument and more like muscle memory.
George watched them with a sigh. "You two are actually exhausting."
"We've heard that before," Lando replied cheerfully.
Oscar finally looked back at you. "It's still my favourite hobby."
Heat climbed stubbornly into your cheeks. "You're unbelievable."
"I've been called worse."
George pinched the bridge of his nose dramatically. "Can one of you just kiss the other so the rest of us can move on?"
Alex nodded immediately. "Please. I'm actually begging."
You looked between your friends in complete disbelief. "You all need psychiatric evaluations."
"You're literally the psychology student," Charles pointed out.
"Great," Max lifted his bottle towards you. "Diagnose yourself."
Laughter rippled around the kitchen. You rolled your eyes for what felt like the hundredth time that evening. "You're all idiots."
Oscar's grin only widened. "You forgot devastatingly handsome."
You groaned loudly. "See?" You gestured wildly in his direction. "This. This is exactly what I mean."
"What?"
"You just..." You waved your hands helplessly. "You think you're God's gift."
Oscar tilted his head thoughtfully, pretending to consider it. "I don't think that."
You folded your arms. "No?"
"No." His smile grew. "But my mum does."
The kitchen erupted into groans.
Lando physically turned away. "For God's sake." George muttered something remarkably similar.
Before you could stop yourself, a laugh escaped your lips.
Oscar's eyes found yours instantly. Like he'd been waiting for it. His smile softened almost imperceptibly.
You stopped laughing immediately. Absolutely not. "You're still annoying."
"Yeah?" Oscar asked, completely unfazed.
"Mm."
"See you on the dancefloor in five?"
You stared at him. "I'd rather walk home barefoot."
"So..." Oscar nodded thoughtfully. "Ten minutes then?"
You threw your hands into the air. "You're impossible."
Without waiting for another response, you grabbed Alex and Lily by their wrists, ignoring both of their protests as you dragged them back towards the living room. "Come on."
Lily barely managed to keep hold of her drink as she stumbled after you. "You know," she called over the music, "for someone who can't stand him, you two have remarkably good chemistry."
"Lily."
"I'm just saying."
"Don't."
She only smiled to herself.
You disappeared back into the crowd, determined to lose yourself amongst the music, flashing lights and bodies packed shoulder to shoulder across the dancefloor.
Determined not to think about Oscar Piastri for the rest of the evening.
Behind you, back in the kitchen, Oscar's eyes followed you until you vanished into the crowd.
Lando caught him watching and let out a long, tired sigh, bumping his shoulder against Oscar's. "Mate," he muttered, "you're never beating the allegations."
Oscar didn't even pretend to deny it. He simply smiled into his drink. "I know.”
By the time you finally let Alex and Lily convince you to take a break from dancing, the alcohol had settled deep into your bloodstream, leaving your limbs pleasantly heavy and your thoughts wrapped in a warm haze.
You stumbled as the three of you pushed through the crowd, laughing as Alex caught you under one arm while Lily steadied you on the other side.
"Careful," Lily laughed, tightening her grip around your waist. "I'd rather not explain to A&E that you broke your ankle attempting to dance to Pitbull."
A giggle bubbled out of you before you could stop it. Somewhere between the dancefloor and your fourth, maybe fifth shot, you'd completely lost count. Your arms had spent most of the evening waving through the air, your voice disappearing into whatever song happened to be playing, and despite every promise you'd made to yourself—
You'd still caught yourself looking for Oscar. Constantly. You knew, without even turning around, that if you looked now, he'd probably be looking straight back.
He always was. It didn't matter how many people packed into a room or how chaotic a party became. Somehow, Oscar always found you.
His eyes would catch yours across the room as though there wasn't another person there. It was infuriating.
Mostly because you could never seem to stop looking back.
You blamed curiosity. Everyone else seemed convinced it was something else entirely.
A groan escaped your lips. You came to an abrupt stop in the middle of the hallway, forcing both Alex and Lily to stop with you.
"What's wrong?" Alex asked, turning towards you with a crease between her brows.
You sighed dramatically. "Did I ever tell you about the time Oscar..." a hiccup interrupted your sentence, making you screw your face up. "...Oscar..."
Lily let out the biggest sigh of the evening. "For the love of God," she groaned, rubbing a hand over her face. "If you're still refusing to admit you fancy him, could you at least stop bringing him up every ten minutes?"
Alex dissolved into laughter beside you, the force of it making her stumble into your shoulder. "Congratulations," she managed between giggles. "You nearly made it an hour this time."
You frowned. "I don't bring him up that much."
Lily simply stared at you. "You literally started this conversation."
You opened your mouth to argue. Closed it again. "...That doesn't count."
Neither of them even bothered responding. They just exchanged a look over your head. The traitors.
You couldn't help laughing anyway.
The movement, unfortunately, made the room tilt. Your stomach lurched violently. The smile vanished from your face. "Oh no."
Both girls recognised the look immediately.
"Oh no," Alex echoed, grabbing your arm.
You slapped a hand over your mouth. "Bathroom," you mumbled through your fingers before wrenching yourself free and stumbling through the house.
Thankfully, this wasn't your first party here. You knew exactly where you were going. You shoved the bathroom door open with far more force than necessary, relief washing over you when you found it empty.
Barely making it to the toilet in time, you dropped to your knees. The evening made a swift and rather unpleasant reappearance.
The door burst open moments later. "She's in here," Alex called over the music as she hurried inside.
Lily wasn't far behind. Without a word, she gathered your hair away from your face while Alex crouched beside you, rubbing slow circles across your back.
Neither of them said, I told you so. Which, honestly, felt like real friendship.
By the time the nausea finally eased, every muscle in your body felt heavy. You leaned back against the wall with a tired groan, wiping the back of your hand across your mouth before immediately regretting how disgusting that felt.
"I think," Alex started carefully, glancing towards Lily before looking back at you, "We should probably get you home."
You squeezed your eyes shut. Home sounded incredible. Your own bed sounded even better.
The bass from the living room vibrated through the wall beside you while one of them took your hand, their thumb absently stroking across your knuckles.
For a few minutes, nobody spoke.
You just sat there, letting the room slowly stop spinning.
"I'm blaming Lando," you mumbled eventually, raking a hand through your hair. "And his stupid tequila."
Lily smiled softly before reaching for a glass waiting beside the sink. "Here," she said, holding it towards you. "Just water. I promise."
You accepted it gratefully, taking careful sips. The room still tilted every now and then. But at least your throat no longer felt like sandpaper.
The bathroom door creaked open again. Footsteps crossed the tiled floor.
"How's she doing?" came a familiar voice. You recognised it immediately. Even through the alcohol. Even with your eyes closed.
"She's exhausted," Alex whispered quietly. "I think she just needs to sleep but apparently Liam’s forgotten his promise."
There was a brief silence. Then—
"I'll sort it."
Oscar.
You frowned faintly but couldn't quite summon the energy to open your eyes.
You felt Alex's arm tighten around your shoulders. "Babe listen, the thing is," she said gently, smoothing your hair back from your forehead, "I've completely lost our designated driver, and an Uber's showing nearly an hour."
You let out a pitiful groan, dropping your forehead against her shoulder. Home suddenly felt impossibly far away.
"But," Lily added quickly, exchanging a glance you couldn’t see with Oscar, "There's a spare bed upstairs. Someone's said you're more than welcome to use it."
If you'd been even remotely sober, alarm bells would've started ringing. Whose bed? Since when? Why?
Instead, your brain simply accepted the information with a sleepy hum. "...Kay."
The glass slipped gently from your fingers before someone carefully took it from you.
A moment later, another pair of hands slid beneath your knees and around your back.
You barely had time to register what was happening before your feet left the floor.
Instinctively, you curled towards the warmth. Your cheek settled against a broad chest.
Bergamot. Mint. The familiar scent wrapped around you as securely as the arms holding you.
A soft sigh escaped before you could stop it.
Whoever was carrying you adjusted their grip ever so slightly, one hand pressing a little more firmly against the small of your back as though terrified you might slip.
It wasn't possessive. It was careful.
You'd never realised how different those two things could feel.
The music swelled around you as you were carried back through the party before fading again with every step upstairs. Your fingers curled lazily into the soft cotton beneath your palm.
Beneath your cheek, a steady heartbeat pulsed against your skin. Slow. Unhurried. Without even thinking about it, your own breathing seemed to fall into rhythm with it.
You felt a rough thumb brush absentmindedly across the bare skin of your knee, barely more than a reassuring sweep to steady you, yet the touch lingered long after it had gone.
The other hand remained splayed securely across your back. Strong enough that you knew they wouldn't let you fall. Gentle enough that, before you realised what you were doing, you'd tucked your face a little deeper into the warmth of their neck.
The thought should have embarrassed you. Instead, it simply felt safe.
By the time you were lowered onto something soft, the room had stopped spinning quite so violently.
A mattress dipped beneath your weight. A lamp clicked on somewhere nearby, bathing the room in a warm amber glow.
You blinked slowly. Everything remained slightly blurry.
Except… Baby blue. The cotton shirt stretched comfortably across broad shoulders as someone leaned over the bedside table, rummaging through a drawer.
Oscar.
Of course it was Oscar.
"What," you mumbled, your voice thick with sleep. "are you doing here?"
Oscar glanced over his shoulder before letting out a quiet laugh. "Funny," he said, pulling a maroon T-shirt from the drawer. "I was about to ask you the same thing."
You frowned at him. "Not funny."
"Little bit funny," he crossed the room, stopping beside the bed before holding the shirt out towards you. "Here," he said softly. "You'll be more comfortable in this."
You took it obediently, pushing yourself upright. Then immediately reached for the straps of your dress.
Oscar's eyes widened. "Whoa," he spun around so quickly you almost laughed. "Wait until I've turned around first."
You blinked slowly at his back. It was… Very broad. Very, very broad. Drunk-you found this incredibly fascinating.
With an absent-minded shrug, you let your dress slide to the floor before tugging the oversized T-shirt over your head.
The soft cotton settled around your thighs. It smelled exactly like him. Bergamot. Mint. Clean washing powder. Home.
You frowned slightly. Since when had Oscar smelled like home?
"Done," you announced proudly.
Oscar stayed facing the wall for another second. "Promise?"
A giggle escaped you. "Promise."
Only then did he turn back around.
Even now, his eyes only flicked towards you for the briefest second before politely settling somewhere around your shoulder instead. Like he was making a conscious effort not to look.
You weren't entirely sure why that made your chest feel strangely warm.
He crossed the room slowly. Gentle fingers wrapped around the tops of your arms as he guided you back down onto the mattress, careful not to jostle you more than necessary.
"There we go," he murmured.
You let him. Far too willingly, really.
His hands slipped away almost as quickly as they'd arrived before moving to your ankles, lifting your feet one at a time onto the bed.
The duvet had twisted beneath you in your determined effort to get changed. Oscar shook his head with the ghost of a smile before pulling it free and tucking it carefully around your legs, smoothing it over you with absent-minded precision.
Like he'd done this a hundred times before.
You watched him through heavy eyelids. Every brush of his fingertips left warmth lingering beneath your skin long after he'd pulled away.
It was ridiculous. You'd spent two years insisting Oscar was the most infuriating man you'd ever met. So why… Why did every touch feel so gentle?
Your thoughts felt thick. Slow. Something sat stubbornly on the tip of your tongue, battering against the inside of your skull, desperate to be let out.
You couldn't quite catch it.
Not until Oscar looked back up at you.
"Am I..." you asked quietly, tilting your head as you studied him, "not good enough for you to look at naked?"
Oscar blinked. Then laughed. A proper laugh. Not at you. Just surprised.
He crouched beside the bed instead of towering over you, one forearm resting lightly against the mattress as he looked at you with unmistakable fondness. "It's not that."
You waited. So did he. His fingers lingered on the edge of the duvet, absent-mindedly smoothing a crease from the fabric before his eyes dropped to his hands.
"I'd just..." he cleared his throat softly. "I'd always want your permission first."
The room fell strangely quiet. Even in your drunken haze, something about the way he'd said it settled heavily inside your chest. Not rehearsed. Not flirtatious. Just true.
You stared at him. Really stared. His hair had curled slightly from the heat downstairs, brushing softly against the nape of his neck.
You'd wondered before what it might feel like beneath your fingers. You'd always dismissed it as idle curiosity. Looking at him now you weren't quite so sure.
The lamplight caught the sharp line of his jaw. It looked tense. Held carefully in place, as though he was trying very hard not to say something he couldn't take back.
Tiny moles freckled across pale skin. Without meaning to, your eyes traced each one. Like they were a map you'd somehow already memorised.
And then… His eyes. They'd always been brown. You'd never realised how many shades of brown there actually were. Amber where the lamplight caught them. Honey around the edges. Warm enough that looking away suddenly felt impossible.
They weren't teasing you. They weren't laughing at you. They were simply looking. Like you were something precious. Something worth being careful with.
Your chest tightened.
"You know..." you murmured eventually, burrowing a little deeper beneath the duvet. "You've got a serious problem."
One corner of Oscar's mouth twitched. "Do I?"
You nodded solemnly. "You're,” you squinted at him as though trying to solve the world's greatest mystery. "Too handsome," Oscar blinked. You lifted a finger vaguely in his direction. "It's really annoying."
For a second, he simply stared. Then he laughed again. The sound filled the room, rich and warm and completely unguarded. "That's my biggest character flaw?" he asked, shaking his head.
"Yep."
"I'll have to work on that."
You hummed approvingly. "Please do."
"I'll see what I can manage."
Satisfied with that answer, you sank a little further beneath the duvet, your eyes already beginning to drift closed.
Oscar smiled to himself before reaching across to place a bottle of water and two paracetamol carefully on the bedside table. He tapped the wood lightly beside them. "Take those when you wake up."
You answered with something that sounded vaguely like agreement. Whether it actually was, neither of you could really tell.
Your eyelids grew heavier. The room softened around the edges. Just before sleep claimed you completely, you thought you felt gentle fingers brush a loose strand of hair away from your face.
The touch was so light you almost convinced yourself you'd imagined it.
Then, almost too quietly to hear, "Goodnight.”
The bedroom door clicked softly shut. For a moment, Oscar didn't move. He stood with one hand still resting on the handle, listening.
Silence.
Then, your breathing settled into a slow, even rhythm. Only then did he finally let out the breath he'd been holding. He leaned back against the closed door, rubbing both hands over his face before letting his head fall gently against the wood.
A helpless smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. "Too handsome," he muttered to himself, a quiet laugh escaping before he could stop it. "I'll take that."
He stayed there for another second. Just one. As though committing the moment to memory.
Not even a minute later, hurried footsteps echoed up the staircase. Oscar looked up just as a mop of curly hair appeared over the top step. "Cap," the younger boy called, slightly out of breath. "George said you were looking for me?"
Oscar pushed himself away from the door. "Kimi," the first-year student straightened instinctively. "Got a job for you."
Kimi's face lit up immediately. "Is this like my final initiation thing?"
Oscar nodded once. "Something like that."
"I knew it," Kimi grinned. "George said it'd be important."
"It is," Oscar reached into his pocket, pulling out his wallet before counting out a few notes. "There'll be fifty quid in it for you as well."
Kimi's eyes widened. "Fifty?" Oscar held the money out. Kimi took it slowly, turning the notes over in his hands like they might disappear. "So," he said carefully. "What's the job?"
Oscar tipped his head towards the closed bedroom door. "No one goes in there, all night."
Kimi looked at the door. Then back at Oscar. "Right."
"No one."
"Okay?"
Oscar pointed downstairs. "Unless it's Alex or Lily, you know them right?"
Kimi frowned. "So," he glanced between Oscar and the bedroom again. "You want me to be a bouncer?"
Oscar ignored him. "If she wakes up, come and find me," Kimi blinked. "If she needs water, there's some on the bedside table," Another blink. "If anyone else tries to go in..."
"They don't."
"Exactly."
A long silence settled between them. Finally, Kimi tucked the money into his pocket. "Cap?"
"Yeah?"
"Is that it?"
Oscar looked at him as though the answer was painfully obvious. "That's it."
Kimi looked at the bedroom door again. Then at the staircase leading back down to the party. "Where do I sleep?"
Oscar had already started walking away. "Here."
Kimi stared after him. "What? On the floor?"
Oscar kept walking. "You wanted to join the team."
"I did."
"You still do?"
"Yes?"
"Good," Oscar reached the top of the stairs before pausing. "Oh," he glanced back over his shoulder. "And Kimi?"
"Yeah?"
"The floor's surprisingly comfortable, don’t worry."
With that, he disappeared downstairs, the music swallowing him almost instantly.
Kimi stood alone in the hallway. He looked at the closed bedroom door. Looked at the fifty pounds in his hand. Looked down at the wooden floor.
"This," he sighed to himself as he slowly lowered himself to sit against the wall, "is the weirdest initiation ever."
He pulled out his phone, made sure the money was tucked safely into his pocket and settled in for the night.
From somewhere downstairs came the roar of another drinking game. Kimi glanced once more at the bedroom door. "Hope you're worth fifty quid."
The hallway fell quiet.
The first thing you became aware of as your eyes reluctantly fluttered open was the dryness coating your mouth.
The second was that your head was pounding so violently you briefly considered closing your eyes again and pretending consciousness had been a terrible mistake.
A groan escaped your lips as you burrowed deeper beneath the duvet, pressing your face into the pillow beneath you.
It smelled… Familiar. Not your washing powder. Not your room. Something cleaner.
Bergamot. Mint.
You frowned. Slowly, painfully, you cracked one eye open. The room that greeted you definitely wasn't yours. "Oh no."
You squeezed your eyes shut again, rubbing both hands over your face as though sheer determination might erase the hangover currently drilling into your skull.
It didn't.
After another minute spent feeling deeply sorry for yourself, you finally forced yourself upright, wincing as the room swayed slightly.
Your gaze drifted slowly around the bedroom.
It was tidy. Suspiciously tidy for a university student.
A cricket bat rested neatly against the wall beside the wardrobe, a couple of medals hanging from one of the bedposts. Textbooks sat in surprisingly organised piles across the desk beside a laptop and a stack of neatly annotated lecture notes. A pale blue hoodie had been tossed over the back of the desk chair, the only real sign that someone actually lived here.
A framed photograph sat tucked into the corner of the desk. You recognised them all immediately.
Oscar stood in the middle, one arm slung around Lando's shoulders, the other wrapped around his sister as all three of them laughed at something just beyond the camera. You'd met her more times than you could count over the years. The resemblance between the siblings had always been obvious whenever they smiled.
Your lips twitched before you could stop them. It looked comfortably him.
You weren't entirely sure what you'd expected Oscar's room to look like. Clothes strewn across the floor, maybe. Empty bottles shoved under the bed. Some sort of organised chaos.
Instead, it was warm. Orderly. Comfortable. It suited him far more than you wanted to admit.
"Brilliant," you muttered to yourself, although there wasn't nearly as much conviction behind the word as there should have been.
Your phone rested on the bedside table beside a half-empty bottle of water and two untouched paracetamol.
A hazy memory drifted to the surface. Take those when you wake up. His voice. Gentle.
The memory came with flashes rather than anything whole. Strong arms carrying you upstairs. The steady rhythm of a heartbeat beneath your cheek. Warm hands tucking the duvet around you. Him turning his back the second you'd reached for the straps of your dress.
Before you realised what you were doing, a small smile had begun to curl at your lips. You caught it almost immediately. Absolutely not.
The smile disappeared as quickly as it had arrived.
You swallowed, dragging your eyes away from the bedside table. No. You weren't thinking about that yet.
Instead, you grabbed your phone and unlocked it, squinting against the brightness.
The group chat had several unread messages.
[from: Alex] Let us know when you're alive xx
[from: Lily] Drink water before coffee.
[from: Alex] Actually drink water before anything.
A small smile tugged at your lips despite yourself.
You quickly replied that you were awake before locking your phone again.
Your eyes drifted to the maroon T-shirt you'd slept in. Oscar's. You reached down, catching the soft fabric between your fingers. For just a second, you stared at it.
Then, before your brain could wander somewhere thoroughly unhelpful, you peeled it over your head and carefully folded it.
Only after placing it neatly on the pillow did you realise what you'd done. "Whatever."
You grabbed your dress from the floor instead, pulling it back on before slipping your shoes over aching feet.
Coffee. You needed coffee. And preferably an explanation.
Taking one last look around the room, you quietly opened the bedroom door. You barely managed half a step before nearly tripping over the body stretched across the hallway carpet.
"What the—" A startled yelp escaped you. The mop of curly hair immediately shot upright.
Kimi blinked at you blearily, his face creased from where he'd apparently been sleeping on the floor. "Morning," he mumbled.
You stared. He stared back. "Kimi," your voice cracked painfully, sounding more like sandpaper than words. You cleared your throat before trying again. "What the fuck are you doing?"
He rubbed both hands over his face with an enormous yawn. "Oh," he looked suddenly very awake. "You're up."
"I gathered."
He nodded seriously. "I've got to tell Oscar."
You frowned. "Why?"
"He told me to," Kimi shrugged as though that explained absolutely everything. "If you woke up, I was supposed to find him."
You blinked. "You slept out here all night?"
Another shrug. "Apparently."
Silence. You looked at him. He looked back at you. Neither of you seemed entirely convinced this had been a sensible plan.
"Please don't go and get him," you said eventually, rubbing at your temple.
Kimi hesitated. "He did say—"
"I'm leaving."
"Oh,” he looked genuinely conflicted. “Do you think he’ll still let me keep the fifty quid?"
You stared at him. "The what?"
Kimi's eyes widened. "Nothing."
He very deliberately looked away. Your head hurt far too much to investigate whatever on earth that meant. Instead, you simply stepped over him. "You're all weird."
"I've been told that before," Kimi called after you as you wandered down the hallway.
The house was unusually quiet.
Gone was the music that had rattled the walls only a few hours earlier, replaced instead by the occasional creak of floorboards and the distant hum of someone snoring somewhere upstairs.
Alex and George's bedroom doors remained firmly shut as you padded down the hallway. Still asleep. Charles was probably back at yours by now. Lucky bastard.
The only bedroom door sitting slightly ajar belonged to Lando. You paused outside it. Maybe he was awake. Maybe he had coffee.
You nudged the door open with two fingers. "...Lando?" No answer. Only a loud snore.
Your eyes adjusted to the dim room. Lando was starfished across the mattress, still wearing yesterday's clothes, one arm hanging dramatically off the side of the bed while he'd somehow managed to steal almost the entire duvet.
A smile tugged at your lips. Typical. Then your eyes drifted to the sliver of mattress Lando had graciously left behind.
Oscar was somehow balancing on the very edge of the mattress.
One leg hung halfway off the side, one arm trapped awkwardly beneath his head while Lando monopolised not only the duvet but what appeared to be three quarters of the bed.
He looked uncomfortable.
Your brow furrowed.
The memories returned slowly now, no longer scattered fragments but moments beginning to stitch themselves together. Oscar carrying you upstairs. Oscar turning around the second you'd reached for the straps of your dress. Oscar giving you his shirt.
The water. The paracetamol. The duvet tucked carefully beneath your chin. Kimi. Sleeping outside the bedroom door.
Your gaze flicked between the room behind you and the bed in front of you. He'd given you his room.
The realisation settled quietly somewhere beneath your ribs. Warm. Confusing. Entirely unwelcome.
You'd expected him to tease you relentlessly afterwards. To hold it over your head for the next six months. Instead, he'd quietly slept half off Lando's bed so you could have somewhere comfortable to sleep.
Your eyes lingered on him for another second. It was annoyingly easy to forget, looking at him like this, that he was supposed to be infuriating.
He wasn't smirking. Wasn't making some smart remark that would have you rolling your eyes.
He was just asleep. The morning light spilled through the gap in the curtains, catching the unruly strands of hair that had fallen across his forehead.
He looked younger somehow. Softer.
You thought, fleetingly, about waking him. Just to… You weren't entirely sure. To say thank you. To see if he'd smile like he had the night before. To have a moment that belonged only to the two of you before everyone else woke up.
The thought hit you like a bucket of cold water. Absolutely not.
You frowned at yourself. God, this was exactly why you didn't let yourself think about Oscar for too long. Because every now and then your brain came up with something utterly ridiculous.
Like wanting to watch him wake up.
Gross.
Your phone buzzed against your palm, pulling you sharply back to reality.
[From: Alex] Outside x
You glanced back towards Oscar one last time. He hadn't moved.
One arm was still tucked awkwardly beneath his head, his face half-hidden by the pillow as Lando continued to wage war against the duvet beside him.
For the first time since you'd met him, he didn't look like the confident captain of the cricket team. Or the cocky idiot who somehow always knew exactly which buttons to press.
He just looked peaceful. And, irritatingly kind.
Your chest tightened.
You remembered, suddenly, the first time you'd completely bombed a pop quiz in first year. You'd been convinced nobody had noticed until Oscar had quietly appeared beside you after the seminar, slid a chocolate bar onto your notebook and told you, with the same stupid grin he always wore, that statistically someone had to finish below average and at least you'd increased everyone else's chances.
You'd rolled your eyes so hard they'd nearly fallen out of your head. Then you'd eaten the chocolate anyway.
Maybe… Maybe there had always been moments like that. You'd just never let yourself keep hold of them.
With a quiet shake of your head, you pulled the bedroom door almost closed again. "Thanks," you murmured, the word slipping out before you could stop it.
You weren't entirely sure who you were saying it to.
Oscar. Lando. Kimi. The universe.
Whoever had stopped you spending the night wrapped around a toilet bowl.
It didn't matter.
By the time you reached the front door, you'd already convinced yourself you hadn't meant it at all.
Monday arrived far too quickly.
Thankfully, your hangover had disappeared sometime between Sunday afternoon and collapsing into bed that evening, leaving behind nothing more than a lingering embarrassment every time you remembered whose room you'd woken up in.
Which, annoyingly, was more often than you'd have liked.
By lunchtime, you, Alex and Lily had claimed your usual table outside, half-heartedly picking at your food while Lily filled you in on the lecture she’d thankfully managed not to miss.
You were only half listening.
All morning you'd been catching people looking at you. Every time you glanced up, someone else's head seemed to snap away. Whispers drifted across lecture theatres. People smiled when they walked past. One group by the library had actually laughed before quickly pretending they hadn't.
It was beginning to drive you mad.
You caught another pair of students staring from two tables away. The second they realised you'd noticed, they immediately looked back down at their lunches.
You let your fork clatter onto your tray. "Right."
Alex looked up. "What?"
"What," you repeated, gesturing vaguely around the courtyard, "is everyone's problem?"
Lily frowned. "What do you mean?"
"They keep looking at me."
You leaned back in your chair with a groan. "Have I got something on my face? Did I make a complete idiot of myself on Saturday? Did I throw up on someone?"
Alex and Lily exchanged a glance. It lasted barely a second. Long enough.
"What?" you asked, pointing accusingly between them. "Don't do that."
"Do what?" Alex replied a little too innocently.
"The look."
"What look?"
"The one you just did."
Neither of them answered. Instead, Alex stabbed absentmindedly at her chips before speaking. "Have you not heard?"
Your stomach sank. "Heard what?"
Another look. This time Lily sighed. "There's... kind of a rumour."
"A rumour?" you repeated slowly. "About me?"
Lily nodded. "About you and Oscar."
Your fork slipped from your fingers. "What?"
Alex rushed in before your brain could completely short-circuit. "People saw him carrying you upstairs."
"And into his room," Lily added gently.
"And..." Alex winced, "People have sort of filled in the blanks."
You stared at them. "You're joking," neither of them smiled. "I was wasted."
"I know."
"I could barely stand."
"I know."
"So why would anyone—" you stopped yourself. Actually, university students. Of course they would. Heat rushed into your cheeks anyway.
For one utterly traitorous second, your imagination supplied an image entirely uninvited.
Oscar. Close enough to touch. One hand resting against your waist. His mouth brushing your neck.
You squeezed your eyes shut. Absolutely not. "What the fuck?" you muttered, although at this point you weren't entirely sure whether you were talking about the rumour or your own brain.
"It's alright," Alex said quickly, reaching across the table to squeeze your wrist. "It's already starting to die down."
You looked up. "Why?"
This time it was Lily who answered. "Because Oscar's been shutting it down."
You blinked. "What?"
"He hasn't let anyone get away with it," she explained. "Someone made a joke after training this morning."
Alex nodded. "George said Oscar shut it down immediately."
"What did he say?"
The two girls exchanged another glance. Lily shrugged. "He told them," she paused, trying to remember the exact words. "'You were drunk. And to leave you alone.'"
Alex picked up where she left off. "And when someone kept laughing, he basically told him to shut his mouth before he said something he'd regret."
"He nearly swung for one of the second years," Lily added. "Apparently George had to drag him away."
Silence settled over the table. You looked down at your lunch, suddenly finding it very difficult to concentrate on anything Alex was saying. He'd done all that? For you?
The thought settled somewhere quietly inside your chest. Warm. Confusing. Entirely unhelpful.
"Why?" you heard yourself ask.
Neither Alex nor Lily answered.
Across the courtyard, laughter carried through the afternoon air. Almost instinctively, your head turned towards the sound.
Oscar. Walking beside Lando, hands shoved into the pockets of his hoodie as he laughed at something Lando had said.
He looked exactly like he always did. Easy-going. Confident. Completely unaware that your entire opinion of him seemed to be quietly rearranging itself.
As though sensing your eyes on him, his head turned. Of course it did.
Somehow… He always found you.
His gaze met yours across the courtyard. The grin he'd worn a second ago softened. It wasn't the cocky smile he usually flashed after winding you up. Nor the smug one he wore whenever he won an argument.
This one was smaller. Quieter. Gone almost as quickly as it appeared. Then he gave the slightest nod before turning back to Lando, the two of them disappearing towards their afternoon lecture.
You watched him go.
"He's still annoying," you muttered eventually.
Alex smiled into her drink. "Course he is."
Neither of you sounded particularly convinced.
The rest of the week passed in a strange blur.
Oscar hadn't changed. Not really. He was still cocky. Still appeared beside you whenever you least expected him. Still somehow managed to wind you up within thirty seconds of every conversation.
The only difference was… You couldn't quite convince yourself you hated it anymore.
Ever since Saturday, little things kept catching your attention. The way his eyes lit up whenever someone made him laugh. The way he always turned fully towards whoever was speaking, listening as though they were the only person in the room. The way he somehow remembered everyone's deadlines, training schedules and birthdays without anyone ever asking him to.
It was irritating. Deeply irritating. Because it didn't fit the version of Oscar Piastri you'd spent two years building inside your head.
You tried not to think about Saturday. About the water on the bedside table. About the paracetamol. About the fact he'd slept squeezed onto the edge of Lando's bed without mentioning it once.
Most of all, you tried not to think about the rumours.
You'd expected him to tease you relentlessly. Instead, he'd barely mentioned them. He’d barely mentioned anything from that night. If anything, he'd been softer. The usual teasing never quite disappeared, but there was something gentler beneath it now. Every time he nudged your shoulder or stole food from your plate, it almost felt careful.
Which was deeply inconvenient.
Because pretending to hate him had suddenly become much harder.
By Friday evening, your entire group had migrated to the local student bar.
The boys had disappeared almost immediately, lured away by a dartboard and what sounded suspiciously like a tournament none of them had been invited to.
You, Alex and Lily claimed a corner near the bar instead, drinks in hand while the conversation drifted between coursework, weekend plans and George's truly horrific fashion choices.
Charles appeared halfway through, flashing Alex a grin before stealing her away for a game of pool.
"Wish me luck," Alex sighed dramatically as she was dragged backwards across the room.
"You'll need it," you called after her.
She responded by sticking her tongue out. Typical.
You smiled into your drink before turning back towards Lily. Except, your attention never quite made it back to the conversation. Instead, it snagged somewhere across the room.
Oscar. Of course. He was leaning against the old jukebox, a bottle dangling loosely from his fingers while a girl stood beside him.
She was pretty. Very pretty. She laughed at something he'd said, resting a hand lightly against his arm.
The room suddenly felt far too warm. You took a long sip of your vodka, hoping it might somehow wash away the uncomfortable knot tightening beneath your ribs.
It didn't.
Beside you, Lily quietly followed your line of sight. Then she smiled. "You know," she said, nudging your elbow gently with hers, "if you keep glaring at them like that, one of them might actually burst into flames."
You looked away far too quickly. "I wasn't glaring."
"No?"
"No."
Lily took a thoughtful sip of her drink. "Could've fooled me."
You sighed. "I just don't get him."
She raised an eyebrow. "What do you mean?"
"This whole week," you shook your head, searching for the words. "He's been different."
"Different how?"
"I don't know,” you frowned into your drink. "He hasn't been…” you paused. "As annoying."
Lily actually laughed. "That's your compliment?"
"It's not a compliment."
She smiled into her glass. "Sure."
You groaned. "You know what I mean."
"I do,” Lily looked back towards Oscar. "I just don't think you do."
Your eyes followed hers despite yourself. The girl was saying something now, smiling up at him. Oscar smiled politely. But then, almost automatically, his eyes lifted.
Straight to you.
Your stomach flipped. He held your gaze for barely a second before glancing back towards the girl. She was still talking. He wasn't really listening anymore.
"You know what's funny?" Lily asked quietly.
"What?"
"I don't think I've ever seen you jealous before."
You almost choked on your drink. "I'm not jealous," Lily looked at you. Didn't say a word. Just looked. "I'm not."
She laughed softly. "Whatever helps you sleep at night."
You opened your mouth to argue again. Nothing came out.
Because the truth had finally forced its way to the surface, lodging itself stubbornly somewhere beneath your ribs.
You weren't angry because Oscar flirted. Oscar flirted with everyone. You were angry because, for the first time in two years, it wasn't with you.
The realisation stole the air from your lungs.
Saturday had cracked something open. Whatever you'd spent the last two years calling annoyance, irritation, hatred… It had never been any of those things.
You'd simply given it a safer name. Something easier to carry. Something that didn't require you to admit why your eyes always found him first in a crowded room. Why every joke he made landed differently when it was aimed at you. Why every party somehow ended with the two of you orbiting each other, pulled together by something neither of you seemed willing to acknowledge.
The box you'd shoved those feelings into had finally split open. Now they were spilling out faster than you could force them back in.
Across the room, the girl stepped closer. Her hand slid easily from Oscar's forearm to his bicep as she leaned up to whisper something into his ear.
Your grip tightened around your glass until your knuckles ached.
Oscar didn't move. He didn't smile. He didn't lean in. Instead his eyes found yours.
Not for a passing glance. Not accidentally. He held your gaze. One eyebrow lifted ever so slightly. Almost expectantly. Like he was waiting.
The room seemed to disappear. The music. The conversations. The clatter of glasses behind the bar.
None of it reached you anymore. There was only him. Watching. Waiting.
The girl's lips curved into a smile before she hooked her thumb towards the corridor leading to the toilets. Oscar's eyes flicked in that direction for barely a heartbeat.
Then they were back on you.
Still waiting. Still asking.
Your pulse thudded painfully against your ribs.
Say something. Walk over. Tell him to stop looking at her. Tell him to come back. Tell him anything.
Instead, you stood rooted to the spot. Pride held your feet where your heart desperately wanted to move.
If he wanted you, he could come to you.
Across the room, Oscar's jaw shifted. Almost imperceptibly. Like he was reaching the exact same conclusion.
His shoulders rose with a slow breath before he gave the faintest nod to himself. A decision. He said something quietly to the girl that you couldn't hear.
She smiled and started towards the corridor. Oscar followed a couple of paces behind.
Once. Just once. He looked back.
Not at the room. Not at the bar. At you. His eyes lingered for the briefest second. Questioning. Almost pleading.
Like he was giving you one last chance to stop him.
You didn't. You couldn't.
"What the fuck..." you whispered, the words barely audible beneath the music. Something inside your chest twisted so sharply it almost hurt. He was really going.
Just walking away. With someone else.
You'd spent two years pretending you wanted Oscar Piastri as far away from you as possible. Now, as you watched him disappear down the corridor, all you wanted was for him to turn around.
To walk back. To look at you the way he always did. Like you were the only person in the room.
And he didn't.
Before you could lose your composure in the middle of a bar full of your peers, you set your glass down on the counter with a little more force than necessary.
"I'll see you later," you muttered.
Whether Lily heard you over the music, you had no idea. Your jacket was already over your shoulders before you'd consciously decided to leave.
Then you walked. Out through the front doors. Away from the music. Away from your friends. Away from him.
The cool night air wrapped around your flushed skin as you stepped outside, filling your lungs with a sharp breath that should have settled the storm inside your chest.
It didn't. If anything, it made everything louder. Your heart. Your thoughts. The ache spreading relentlessly beneath your ribs.
You knew exactly what this feeling was now. You just refused to give it a name. Because the second you admitted it, everything else would unravel with it.
Every eye roll. Every sarcastic comment. Every excuse. Every time you'd told yourself you hated Oscar because it was easier than admitting you wanted every bit of attention he threw your way.
You'd spent two years pretending you wanted him to leave you alone. Now, all you could think about was the fact he'd looked at someone else.
You shoved your hands deep into your jacket pockets and kept walking. The pavement was quiet this far from the bar, broken only by distant laughter spilling through the open doors behind you.
You'd almost reached the narrow alley beside the building when a familiar voice drifted through the darkness. "And where exactly do you think you're going?"
You stopped walking.
Of course.
Slowly, you turned around. Oscar was leaning casually against the brick wall at the mouth of the alley, hands tucked into the pockets of his denim jacket.
Like he'd known you'd come this way. Like he'd been waiting. The sight of him sent your pulse skittering wildly before you ruthlessly shoved it back down.
"I'm going home." You hated how flat your voice sounded.
Oscar tilted his head. "So early?"
"You'll survive without me."
"I wasn't worried about me," he pushed himself away from the wall. One slow step. "I was asking about you."
Your eyes dropped instinctively to the pavement. "I'm just tired."
Another step. "Is that really why you're leaving?"
You let out a slow, frustrated breath. "Oscar..."
"I'm asking."
"I know."
You rubbed a hand over your forehead before finally looking back at him. "I'm really not in the mood tonight."
Something softened across his face. The teasing smile eased into something quieter. "Okay," the single word caught you off guard. He watched you for another moment. Then spoke again, his voice noticeably gentler. "So tell me."
"What?"
"Why are you leaving?"
You laughed once. Short. Humourless. "I don't owe you an explanation."
"No," he nodded immediately. "You don't." Silence settled between you. Somewhere behind you, the bar doors opened and closed again before the sounds disappeared into the night.
Oscar broke the quiet first. "I just don't like seeing you upset."
Your heart stumbled painfully. "I'm not upset."
"You left without saying goodbye."
You blinked. The audacity. You actually laughed. "Are you joking? You've spent the last two years deliberately winding me up every chance you've had," you shook your head, disbelief bubbling beneath every word. "You flirt with me until I don't know whether I want to kiss you or throttle you..." your voice caught. "Then disappear after another girl and you’re saying I didn't say goodbye?."
The words slipped out before you could stop them. Silence. Your eyes widened.
Oh. God. You hadn't meant to say that part.
Oscar stared at you. Not smug. Not victorious. Just looking at you like you'd handed him the final piece of a puzzle he'd been trying to solve for years.
Heat rushed violently into your cheeks. "I..." you looked away immediately. "Forget I said anything," you turned sharply, already starting to walk again. "I just want to go home."
You'd barely made it three steps before his voice reached you once more. "This was about that girl?"
You stopped. Very slowly, you looked back over your shoulder. "What girl?"
Oscar couldn't quite hide the smile threatening at the corner of his mouth. "Don’t act dumb, the one you just mentioned, the one you've been trying to set on fire with your eyes for the last twenty minutes."
"I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about."
"No?" He folded his arms. "I think your face might disagree."
"Oh my God."
"What?"
"You are unbelievable."
"You looked like you were mentally planning her funeral."
Despite yourself, a tiny laugh escaped. It disappeared almost immediately. You sighed, looking away again. "Just go back inside."
Oscar frowned. "Why?"
You swallowed. "She's probably wondering where you've gone."
"Who?"
You hated how quiet your voice became. "Your girl," Oscar blinked. "The one you were about to disappear into the bathroom with."
For a heartbeat he simply stared. Then, very slowly, a smile spread across his face. Not cocky. Not triumphant. Almost wonderstruck. "My girl?" he repeated softly.
Your eyes squeezed shut. "Oh God."
"So you were jealous."
"I wasn't jealous."
"You called her my girl."
You buried your face in your hands. "I know, alright?"
Oscar actually laughed. Not at you. Just with complete, unfiltered delight. Like this was the best thing he'd heard all week. "I don't even know her," he said, still smiling.
You frowned. "What?"
"I asked her where the toilets were."
You blinked. "What?"
Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, another quiet laugh escaping him. "She'd only been in the bar about five minutes," he shook his head, almost in disbelief. "But you thought..." his smile softened. "You thought I was leaving with her."
You folded your arms tightly across your chest, trying desperately to gather what little dignity you still had. "I didn't think anything."
"You stormed out. And you've never voluntarily left before midnight."
"I've matured."
Oscar snorted. "Today?"
You glared at him. "You're still unbelievably annoying."
"There she is,” his smile was impossibly soft now. "I've missed her."
The words settled somewhere deep inside your chest. You looked anywhere but at him. The pavement. The cracked kerb. The sleeve of your jacket. Anywhere except those stupid brown eyes that always seemed to know exactly what you were thinking.
Oscar didn't fill the silence. Didn't tease you. Didn't chase another joke. He simply waited. Patiently. Like he already knew you weren't walking away again.
Your thoughts were a mess. Part of you still wanted to protect yourself. The other part, the louder part, needed to know. Needed him to say it. Needed all of this to mean something.
Oscar took another slow step towards you. Close enough now that you could see the tiny scar beside his eyebrow. Close enough to smell the familiar scent that had lingered in his T-shirt all week. "Do you not want to know why I was out here?" he asked quietly.
Your eyes lifted before you could stop them. "What?"
"I left," he shrugged one shoulder. "The second you did."
Your brow furrowed. "But…” you gestured helplessly back towards the bar. "The girl..."
"What about her?"
"You followed her."
Oscar laughed again. Warm. Disbelieving. "I followed her because she was showing me where the toilets were," he smiled. "I never actually made it to the toilets," your heart skipped. "I saw you leave," his smile faded into something quieter. "So I came after you."
No dramatic declaration. No grand gesture. Just the truth. Like there had never been another option.
You stared at him. "Why?"
Oscar blinked. "Seriously?"
"I'm asking."
He looked at you for a long moment. Then let out a slow breath. "I don't really know how else to say this anymore," another pause. "I've spent two years flirting with you."
You gave a quiet scoff. "You flirt with everyone."
"I do," he nodded easily. "I've only ever meant it with you."
Silence.
The sounds of the town disappeared completely. Your heartbeat seemed impossibly loud.
"Oscar..."
"No," he smiled faintly. "Let me finish."
For the first time since you'd known him, he looked nervous. Not because he doubted himself. Because he cared what your answer would be.
"I'm tired," he laughed quietly at himself. "I'm tired of pretending I'm joking," his eyes never left yours. "I ask where you are before I even say hello to anyone else. I steal chips off your plate because I know you'll tell me off. I sit next to you whenever I get the chance. I know your coffee order. I know Tuesdays are your least favourite day because your timetable's awful. I know you always say you don't want the last chip," a smile tugged at one corner of his mouth. "You always eat it anyway."
Despite yourself, you smiled.
"I gave you my room," his voice softened. "I paid Kimi fifty quid to sit outside my bedroom all night because I didn't want anyone bothering you. I nearly punched someone because they were talking about you."
He took another step closer. Only one. "But none of that seems to matter,” his voice dropped almost to a whisper. "Because every time I think I've made it obvious..." he gave a tiny shake of his head. "You look at me like you still think I'm joking."
You swallowed hard.
Oscar smiled sadly. "And you're studying psychology," a tiny laugh escaped him. "So," he looked at you with so much fondness it almost hurt. "Either I'm the worst flirt in human history or you're absolutely terrible at reading me."
A watery laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
Oscar's entire face lit up. "There she is."
You looked down at your shoes. "I..." the words tangled somewhere behind your ribs. "I thought..." you took a shaky breath. "I thought you were just..." you laughed quietly at yourself. “Like that."
"Like what?"
"Confident. Cocky. The sort of guy who makes everyone feel special," your voice cracked slightly. "I never thought..." your eyes finally met his again. "That maybe you were only making me feel special."
Oscar didn't hesitate. "I was," the words landed with startling simplicity. No hesitation. No uncertainty. Just certainty. "It was always you."
Your eyes burned. You laughed once, covering your face with your hand. "...God. I've been such an idiot."
"I wasn't going to say it."
"You were thinking it."
"I've been thinking it for about two years."
You groaned. "I've spent all this time convincing myself I hated you."
Oscar tilted his head. "Did it work?"
You looked at him properly. Really looked at him. The answer had been there all along. Slowly, you shook your head. "No."
Oscar smiled. Not the cocky grin you'd spent years pretending to hate. Not the teasing smile he'd thrown across crowded rooms. Just Oscar. "I didn't think so.”
For a moment, neither of you moved. The space between you had never felt so impossibly small. You could hear his breathing. Feel the warmth radiating from him.
One more step and your chest would brush his. One more step and… Neither of you seemed brave enough to take it.
Your eyes caught on his. For the first time in two years, there was nowhere left to hide. No jokes. No sarcasm. No pretending. Just the truth.
You let out a shaky breath. "You're still," you laughed quietly, shaking your head. "The most infuriating person I've ever met."
Oscar's smile widened. "I know."
"And I still want to throttle you most days."
"I'd be worried if you didn't."
You laughed again. It came easier now. "I really hate how right you were."
His eyebrows lifted. "About what?"
You looked at him for a long moment before giving in. "That I'd like you eventually."
Oscar's grin faltered. Not because he was disappointed. Because he suddenly realised you were serious.
You swallowed. "I don't think,” your voice softened. "I don't think I ever hated you."
Something flickered across his face. Disbelief. Relief. Hope. All at once.
"I just,” you laughed at yourself, eyes dropping briefly to the pavement. "I didn't know what else to call it."
Oscar didn't say anything. He simply looked at you. Like he'd waited two years to hear those words.
You looked back up at him. "You are so unbelievably annoying. But..." you stepped towards him. Just one step. "God, I like you."
The grin that broke across Oscar's face was unlike anything you'd ever seen. Bright. Unrestrained. Almost boyish. "Yeah?" he breathed. "No bullshit?"
You smiled. "No bullshit."
That was all it took.
You both moved at exactly the same time. You reached for the front of his denim jacket just as his hands found your waist. The last inch disappeared in a heartbeat.
Your mouths collided more than they met. Messy. Desperate. Two years of almosts crashing together all at once. You kissed him like you'd been trying not to for twenty-four months. He kissed you back with equal desperation, one hand sliding up to cradle your jaw while the other tightened instinctively around your waist, pulling you impossibly closer.
You could feel him smiling. Actually smiling. Into the kiss. The feeling made you laugh against his mouth before he kissed you again, softer this time, smiling so much neither of you seemed capable of kissing properly.
Your fingers slipped into the hair at the nape of his neck. Soft. You'd known it would be.
Oscar let out the smallest, happiest sound you'd ever heard, his forehead dropping gently against yours as the two of you caught your breath. "I cannot believe," he laughed quietly, "That it took you two years."
You nudged his shoulder. "I hate you."
He raised an eyebrow. "No, you don't."
"No," you smiled. "I really don't."
He looked at you for another second. Like he still wasn't entirely convinced this was real. Then he leaned in again.
The second kiss was completely different. Slower. Gentler. No desperation. No proving anything. Just the quiet certainty of finally being exactly where you were supposed to be.
When you eventually pulled apart, neither of you had managed to let go of the other.
"So..." Oscar murmured. "Want to go back inside?"
You snorted. "They've probably started a search party for you."
Oscar held out his hand. "Come on."
You looked down at it. Then back up at him. Without another word, you slipped your fingers through his. They fit surprisingly easily. Like they'd been waiting to do that, too.
The music grew louder as you stepped back inside together.
It took approximately three seconds. George looked up from his drink. Saw your joined hands. Then looked across the table.
"About fucking time."
Lando didn't even look surprised. Instead, he held his hand out towards Max. Max sighed dramatically before fishing a twenty-pound note from his wallet and slapping it into Lando's palm.
"You two were betting on us?" you asked, horrified.
"No," Alex said far too quickly. A beat. "...Well."
Lily burst out laughing. "We were betting on which one of you would crack first."
You looked around the table in complete disbelief before you turned slowly towards Oscar. "You know, I still might change my mind."
Oscar leaned down just enough for only you to hear. "You won't because I know you."
Your eyes rolled instinctively. "You are impossible."
"I know."
You reached up anyway, fisting your hand in the front of his jacket before pulling him down into another kiss.
Around you, the entire table erupted. Someone wolf-whistled. George groaned theatrically. Lando covered his eyes. "Right," he announced to absolutely nobody. "They're unbearable."
You laughed into the kiss. And somewhere between the cheers, the teasing and Oscar smiling so hard his cheeks must have hurt, you realised something.
You hadn't just fallen for Oscar tonight. Or that night. You'd been falling for him all along.
Tonight was simply the first time you'd finally let yourself land.
SUMMARY: Everyone in Raleigh has always assumed you and Sebastian are together, even though neither of you has ever given your relationship a name. But after spending the summer in Finland, the two of you return with more than one life-changing secret—and a simple passport is enough to reveal everything.
WC: 5.1k
WARNINGS: Secret relationship, friends-to-lovers, established intimate relationship, brief suggestive/sexual references, secret marriage, protective Sebastian, fluff, domestic moments and playful teasing.
Requested: Sebastian Aho + everyone thinks you´re dating except the two of you
Everyone in Raleigh thought you and Sebastian were dating.
Everyone.
His teammates, their wives and girlfriends, the Hurricanes’ staff, the employees at the coffee shop you visited together almost every morning and even the fans who regularly saw you waiting outside the arena after games.
The only two people who apparently did not know you were in a relationship were you and Sebastian.
At least, that was what the two of you always claimed.
“We’re friends,” you would insist whenever one of the women gave you a knowing look after Sebastian placed his hand on the small of your back.
“Best friends,” Sebastian would add, as though that explained why your toothbrush had been sitting beside his for almost two years.
Jordan Staal had stopped believing either of you a long time ago.
“Of course,” he would respond whenever Sebastian explained that you were staying at his house because it was closer to work, because the air conditioning in your apartment was broken or because you had fallen asleep on his couch after a late game.
There was always an excuse.
None of those excuses explained why you had your own key to his home, why Sebastian kept your favorite tea and snacks in his kitchen or why you had an entire side of his closet.
They did not explain why he automatically looked for you in the stands after every home game. They definitely did not explain why you sometimes opened his front door wearing nothing except one of his shirts.
The truth was that your relationship had never been simple enough to fit into the word friendship.
You and Sebastian had known each other long before Raleigh.
You had grown up in neighboring towns in Finland, surrounded by many of the same people, traditions and places. Your families had known one another for years. Your mothers spoke frequently, your fathers occasionally watched games together and Sebastian’s sisters had treated you like family long before either of you understood what your relationship had become.
You had watched Sebastian leave Finland to pursue hockey. He had watched you build a life and career of your own before eventually accepting a job in North Carolina.
Your move to Raleigh had nothing to do with him.
That was what you had told yourself. Sebastian had picked you up from the airport, helped you move into your apartment and spent almost every free evening there during your first month.
Within six months, you were spending more nights at his house than your own. By the end of your first season in Raleigh, people had stopped inviting one of you anywhere without automatically including the other.
Neither of you corrected them.
There had never been a formal beginning between you. No first date, no anniversary, no dramatic confession beneath the rain. There was only a collection of moments that gradually blurred the line between friendship and something deeper.
The first time Sebastian kissed you, you had both been drinking wine at his house after he returned from a long road trip. Neither of you mentioned it the next morning. The second time, neither of you had been drinking. After that, kissing became something you did whenever it felt natural.
Then you started sleeping together.
At first, it was occasional. A late night after a game. A quiet weekend when neither of you had plans. A night when missing Finland felt heavier than usual and Sebastian held you until homesickness became something easier to carry.
Eventually, there was no separation between intimacy and everyday life. You slept in his bed even on nights when nothing sexual happened.
He knew how you liked to be touched, but he also knew that you hated waking up to an empty house.
You knew every expression he made when he was trying to hide pain after a game, but you also knew exactly how to distract him when his mind refused to stop analyzing every mistake.
He knew how you took your coffee, how you sounded when you were pretending not to cry and how your body reacted when he kissed the sensitive place beneath your ear.
You knew which meals he wanted after a long road trip, which injuries continued bothering him despite his insistence that he was fine and how his breathing changed seconds before he fell asleep.
Sebastian kept a charger for your phone on both sides of his bed because you always misplaced yours. You washed his clothes without thinking about it. He bought groceries for both of you. You shared routines, holidays, beds and bodies.
You simply never called it dating.
Whenever someone asked, the two of you looked at each other as though the question were unnecessarily complicated.
You were Sebastian’s person and he was yours.
Neither of you seemed to need a different explanation. That changed during the summer in Finland. You had returned home together after the season ended, dividing your time between both families while Sebastian trained nearby.
It was the first time in months that neither of you had schedules constantly pulling you apart.
There were no road trips, no early flights, no games forcing Sebastian to leave for days at a time. There was only Finland, the summer sunlight and the comfort of being somewhere that belonged equally to both of you.
You had already been feeling different before the trip. More tired, more emotional. Certain foods made your stomach turn, while others became impossible to stop thinking about.
You blamed travel, stress and your changing schedule.
It was Sebastian’s sister who eventually looked at you across the breakfast table and asked whether your period was late. You had immediately denied it, then you had counted the weeks in your head.
Later that afternoon, you bought three pregnancy tests from a pharmacy nearly forty minutes away because you were terrified someone your family knew would see you.
All three were positive.
You sat on the closed bathroom lid in your parents’ house, staring at them with your hands trembling.
Sebastian found you twenty minutes later. You had sent him a message asking him to come over, and he had arrived so quickly that you suspected he had ignored at least two speed limits.
He entered the bathroom, closed the door behind him and immediately crouched in front of you “What happened?”
You could not speak, you simply handed him one of the tests. Sebastian stared at it. For several seconds, there was no reaction, then his eyes lifted slowly to yours “You are pregnant?”
You nodded, his gaze dropped toward your stomach, although there was nothing visible yet.
“I think so.”
“You took more than one?” You pointed toward the counter, he looked at the other tests “All of them?”
“All positive.”
Sebastian remained completely still. The silence made your chest tighten, you had never discussed children in any serious way. You had never even officially discussed your relationship “Say something,” you whispered.
His eyes returned to yours “Are you scared?”
“Yes.”
“Do you want the baby?” The question was quiet and careful, you swallowed “Yes.”
His shoulders relaxed “Then we are having a baby.”
Your eyes filled with tears “You make that sound very simple.”
“It is not simple.” He reached for your hands. “But you want the baby. I want you. We will figure out everything else.”
“You want the baby?”
Sebastian looked almost offended that you had to ask “It is ours.”
“That isn’t an answer.” He brought your hands to his mouth, pressing a kiss against your knuckles “Yes,” he said firmly. “I want our baby.”
You started crying, Sebastian immediately stood, pulling you against his chest while you buried your face against his shirt. He did not tell you everything would be perfect. He did not make promises he could not guarantee. He simply held you and repeated that you would not face any of it alone.
The doctor confirmed the pregnancy the following week, you were farther along than either of you had expected.
Nearly twelve weeks.
That meant you had conceived in Raleigh shortly before the end of the season, during one of those nights when you and Sebastian had behaved like a couple while continuing to insist that you were not one.
Both of your families were thrilled. Your mother cried, Sebastian’s mother cried harder. His sisters immediately began arguing about which of them would be the favorite aunt.
For Sebastian, the pregnancy seemed to eliminate the final illusion that the two of you could continue pretending your relationship had no name. One evening, after dinner with both families, you and Sebastian walked down toward the lake behind his parents’ house.
The Finnish summer sun remained above the trees despite the late hour, its pale light reflecting across the water, Sebastian’s fingers brushed yours.
Then he took your hand, you looked down at your joined fingers before glancing at him “You know everyone thinks we’re together,” you said.
“We are together.”
“Are we?”
He stopped walking, the confusion on his face was almost genuine “Aren’t we?”
“You have never asked me.”
“I did not know I had to.”
“You usually need to ask someone to be your girlfriend, Seb.”
His eyebrows pulled together “You are carrying my child.”
“That still does not automatically make me your girlfriend.”
“You live at my house.”
“I have an apartment.”
“You have not slept there in months.”
“That is not the point.”
“You sleep in my bed.”
“Because your mattress is better.”
“You have your own side of my closet.”
“You gave it to me.”
“My family already considers you part of the family.”
“They like me.”
“My sisters call you before they call me.”
“That sounds like your problem.”
He stared at you for a moment before a quiet laugh escaped him. Then Sebastian stepped closer and placed both hands around your waist, careful of the slight tenderness you had recently started feeling in your stomach “I love you,” he said.
The teasing disappeared from his voice “You love me. We have built our entire lives around each other. We share a home, a bed and now a baby. What would asking you to be my girlfriend change?”
Your heart softened “It would be nice to hear you ask.”
Sebastian studied your expression before leaning closer and pressing his forehead against yours “Will you be my girlfriend?” You pretended to consider it “I don’t know.”
He pinched your side gently, you laughed, winding your arms around his neck “Yes.”
His smile appeared slowly. Sebastian kissed you beneath the pale Finnish sky, one hand cupping your cheek while the other rested firmly against your waist.
The kiss was familiar, you already knew the pressure of his lips, the movement of his tongue and the way his fingers tightened when he wanted you closer.
There was no uncertainty, no awkwardness, no nervous discovery. There had never been anything new about touching him. When he pulled away, he remained close enough that his breath brushed your lips “We should get married.”
You blinked “You have been my boyfriend for less than a minute.”
“I have known you for most of my life.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It is better.”
You searched his expression, Sebastian was completely serious “You are proposing?”
“Yes.”
“Right now?”
“Yes.”
“Without a ring?”
“I can buy one tomorrow.”
You stared at him “Sebastian.”
“I do not want to spend months pretending we are in some new phase when nothing between us is new.” His thumb moved gently across your cheek “I already know what life with you feels like.”
His eyes remained fixed on yours “I know what you look like first thing in the morning. I know when you are angry before you say a word. I know you pretend not to be scared when you are waiting for medical results, and I know you need me to hold your hand even when you insist you are fine.”
Your eyes began to sting “I know how your lips taste,” he continued, his voice lowering. “I know the sounds you make when I kiss your neck.”
Your cheeks warmed “Seb.”
“I know which position you like the most.”
Your eyes widened “Sebastian Aho.”
“What?”
“You cannot say that while proposing.”
“Why not? It is true.”
“That does not make it appropriate.”
His mouth curved slightly “I know how you look when you are trying not to ask me to touch you. I know exactly where you want my hands, even when you are too stubborn to tell me.”
You pushed lightly against his chest “You are ruining the romantic moment.”
“I am making my point.”
“Your point is that we have sex?”
“My point is that there is nothing about you I am waiting to discover before deciding whether I want to marry you.” The amusement disappeared from his expression again “I know your body. I know your mind. I know the parts everyone sees and the parts you only show me.”
His hand slipped from your cheek and settled gently against the small curve of your stomach “And now we are having a child.”
Your breath caught.
“I already know that when something good happens, you are the first person I want to tell. When something terrible happens, you are the person I need beside me.”
His thumb brushed slowly across the fabric covering your stomach “I know you will be a wonderful mother because I have watched the way you care for everyone around you. I know I want to be there when this baby is born. I want the late nights, the crying and every terrifying part of it.”
A tear slipped down your cheek, Sebastian wiped it away “I do not want to pretend this is the beginning,” he whispered. “It is not. We have already been together for years. We were simply too stubborn to admit it.”
“And the next logical step is marriage?”
“Yes.”
“Not dating for a while?”
“We already did that without calling it dating.”
You laughed through your tears “That is annoyingly reasonable.”
“I know.”
“You are very confident for someone proposing beside a lake without a ring.”
“I am confident about you.” The answer stole the remaining humor from your expression, Sebastian moved closer “I want you to be my wife. I want this baby to be born into the family we have already created. I want to go back to Raleigh knowing that you are coming home with me, not as my friend or whatever excuse we keep giving people.”
His forehead rested against yours “As my wife.”
You swallowed “You really mean this.”
“I have never meant anything more.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Is that a no?” You kissed him instead of answering, Sebastian’s arms tightened around you immediately. When you pulled away, he looked at you expectantly “You need to say it.”
“Yes.”
“Yes, what?”
“Yes, I’ll marry you.”
The smile that spread across his face made your chest ache, he kissed you again, softer this time. Then he lowered himself in front of you, placing both hands carefully against your stomach. “You hear that?” he murmured to the baby. “Your mother finally agreed.”
You ran your fingers through his hair “I agreed quickly.”
“It felt very long to me.”
Three weeks later, you married Sebastian in Finland.
It was small and private, held near the same lake where he had proposed. Both of your immediate families attended, along with a few childhood friends who had been sworn to secrecy.
By then, you were approaching four months pregnant. Your stomach had begun to show, although the soft fabric of your dress disguised most of the curve.
Sebastian’s sisters helped you get ready, Your mother cried before you even put on your dress, Sebastian’s mother cried when she saw the small bump beneath the fabric.
The ceremony was conducted in Finnish.
Sebastian looked at you as though no one else existed, his vows were quiet but certain. He promised to love you through every version of the life you were about to build.
You promised to stop insisting that you did not live with him.
Both families laughed.
When the officiant pronounced you married, Sebastian cupped your face and kissed you slowly while one of his hands rested instinctively against your stomach.
There was no press release, no social media announcement, no message in the Hurricanes’ group chat.
You did not tell anyone in Raleigh about the marriage, you did not tell them about the baby either. The two of you wanted a little time where the news belonged only to you and your families.
During the final weeks in Finland, you legally changed your surname.
Sebastian seemed far too pleased by the new passport, on the flight back to Raleigh, he watched you open it repeatedly “You have already seen it,” you whispered.
“I like it.”
“You are acting as though you invented the name Aho.”
“I gave it to you.”
“You make it sound like an award.”
“It is a very good name.” He took the passport from your hands and looked at the identification page, your new name appeared beneath your photograph.
YN Aho.
His gaze dropped briefly toward your stomach, now clearly rounded beneath your loose sweater “My wife and my baby.”
“You sound unbearably proud of yourself.”
“I am.”
“You did not do all the work.”
“I contributed.” You narrowed your eyes, he grinned and kissed your temple. Returning to Raleigh at four months pregnant required more secrecy than either of you had anticipated.
Your body had changed significantly during the summer. Most of your regular clothes no longer fit comfortably, and the slight curve of your stomach was difficult to hide unless you wore oversized sweaters, loose dresses or Sebastian’s shirts.
Fortunately, no one questioned your clothing immediately.
Raleigh remained warm, but you blamed the layers on constantly feeling cold after the summer in Finland.
Sebastian became almost comically protective, he carried every bag, he refused to let you lift anything heavier than your handbag. He kept crackers, ginger candies and bottles of water in his car.
During team gatherings, he monitored everything you ate without realizing how obvious he was being “You do not like that,” he would say when someone offered you food that recently made you nauseous.
Or he would quietly slide another plate toward you when he noticed you had barely eaten.
The women noticed his behavior, they simply assumed Sebastian had become more attentive after spending the summer with you. No one suspected that he was monitoring the mother of his unborn child.
Back in Raleigh, life appeared almost exactly the same, you stayed at Sebastian’s house. He drove you to work whenever possible, you arrived at team dinners together and left together.
The only visible differences were the wedding band on your finger and the growing curve hidden beneath your clothing.
Somehow, no one noticed the ring.
Sebastian wore his own band on a chain beneath his shirt during practices and games. Away from the rink, he wore it on his finger, although he often kept his hand inside his pocket whenever teammates were nearby.
The secrecy was not meant to last forever, you planned to tell everyone after your next doctor’s appointment.
At least, that was the plan. The truth came out because of your passport.
Jordan’s wife had invited several of the wives and girlfriends to her home to organize travel for an upcoming road trip. They wanted to attend two away games, and she had volunteered to coordinate the flights and hotel reservations.
You almost declined.
Traveling had become more exhausting, and Sebastian was not thrilled by the idea of you taking multiple flights while pregnant but your doctor had already said that traveling was safe, and you wanted to support him.
So you sat around the kitchen island with the others, wearing a loose sweater that concealed most of your stomach.
“Okay,” Jordan’s wife said, opening her laptop. “I need everyone’s full legal name exactly as it appears on your passport. No nicknames and no missing middle names. I am not spending three hours fixing reservations again.”
Several women laughed, one by one, they passed their passports across the counter.
You were distracted by a message from Sebastian.
Did you eat?
You rolled your eyes.
Yes.
His response arrived immediately.
What did you eat?
You were still typing an answer when Jordan’s wife asked for your passport. Without thinking, you pulled the Finnish passport from your bag and handed it over.
She opened it, she typed your first name. Then she stopped, the kitchen slowly became quiet as she stared at the page. You remained focused on your phone.
Sebastian had sent another message.
That is not an answer.
You smiled despite yourself “YN,” Jordan’s wife said slowly.
You looked up “Yeah?” She looked from the passport to you, then back to the passport “Why does this say your last name is Aho?”
Every conversation stopped, your stomach dropped, one of the women nearly spilled her drink. Another leaned across the island so quickly that her chair scraped against the floor.
You stared at the passport, for one irrational moment, you considered claiming that it had been printed incorrectly “It does?” you asked weakly.
Jordan’s wife turned the passport toward you, your picture appeared beside your full legal name.
YN Aho.
“You know it does.”
The room erupted “What?”
“Are you married?”
“When did this happen?”
“Is Sebastian your husband?”
“You said you were not even dating!”
You lifted both hands helplessly “We technically did not date for very long.”
“How long?”
You hesitated “About three weeks.”
The shouting became louder, Jordan’s wife closed her laptop completely “You dated for three weeks and got married?”
“We had known each other for years.”
“That does not answer the question.”
“It kind of does.”
“When did you get married?”
“This summer.”
“In Finland?” You nodded.
“With your families?”
“Yes.”
“And none of you told us?”
“We were going to.”
“When? At your tenth anniversary?” You bit your lip to stop yourself from laughing, that only made everyone more outraged “You let us spend years trying to figure out whether you were together.”
“To be fair, we were also trying to figure it out.”
“You married him before figuring it out?”
“We figured it out quickly.”
One of the women pointed toward your left hand “That is a wedding ring?”
“Yes.”
“I complimented it last week.”
“I said thank you.”
“You did not think to mention that Sebastian gave it to you when you married him?”
“It did not come up naturally.”
Jordan’s wife stared at you, then her eyes narrowed. Her gaze moved slowly from your face to the oversized sweater you were wearing. You instinctively pulled the fabric closer around yourself.
She noticed “Why are you doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Covering your stomach.” The entire kitchen fell silent again, you froze. One of the women looked down at your untouched coffee, another glanced toward the plate of crackers beside you.
Jordan’s wife’s eyes widened “No.” You said nothing “YN" You swallowed “Please do not scream.” She screamed, the others immediately joined her.
“You’re pregnant?”
“How far along are you?”
“Does Sebastian know?”
“Of course Sebastian knows!”
“Is that why you got married?”
“No,” you said quickly. “We got married because we wanted to.”
“How far along?”
You hesitated “Four months.” The reaction was somehow louder than the marriage revelation “Four months?”
“You left Raleigh and came back married and four months pregnant?”
“You hid an entire pregnancy?”
“I was not showing much before we left.”
Jordan’s wife placed both palms against the island “I need a minute.”
“You said that about the marriage.”
“I need several minutes.”
One of the women stood and moved toward you “Can we see?”
You looked down at your sweater.
There was no reason to hide anymore, you slowly lifted the loose fabric enough to reveal the rounded curve beneath it. The room softened immediately, the outrage transformed into gasps and emotional smiles “Oh my God.”
“You have a real bump.”
“You were hiding that under Sebastian’s clothes?”
“Mostly.”
Jordan’s wife stared at your stomach, then she looked at the passport again “Married and pregnant.”
“Yes.”
“Anything else?”
You thought for a moment “We bought a crib in Finland?”
She made a strangled sound, your phone started ringing on the counter. Sebastian’s name appeared across the screen.
Every woman looked at it, then at you. Jordan’s wife reached across the island and answered before you could stop her. She put the call on speaker. “Hi,” Sebastian said. “you told me you ate, but you would not tell me what.”
No one spoke, Sebastian paused “Hello?”
Jordan’s wife leaned toward the phone “Sebastian.”
There was a brief silence “Yes?”
“Is there something you would like to tell us?”
You covered your face, Sebastian remained silent long enough that you knew he had immediately understood “She gave you the passport.”
It was not a question, the room erupted “You knew this could happen?”
“I told her to be careful with it.”
“You told me not to lose it,” you corrected.
“That too.”
“Sebastian,” one of the women demanded, “are you married?”
“Yes.”
“How long?”
“Seven weeks.”
“And YN is pregnant?”
Another pause “She told you that too?”
“They noticed.”
“Is she okay?”
You lowered your hand “I am fine.”
“Did you eat?”
The women groaned “Yes, Sebastian.”
“What?”
“You are being interrogated about your secret marriage and secret baby, and you are asking about lunch.”
“You need to eat.”
Jordan’s wife stared at the phone “You two are unbelievable.”
“I have been told that.”
“Jordan is going to lose his mind.”
“He already thought we were married.”
“He thought you acted married. He did not know you actually had a wedding and made a baby.”
Sebastian went quiet “That is not exactly the order it happened.”
Your eyes widened “Sebastian.” Several of the women immediately leaned closer to the phone “What does that mean?”
“Nothing,” you said quickly, Sebastian laughed, Jordan’s wife pointed accusingly at the phone “You have one hour to tell Jordan before I do.”
“Can you record his reaction?”
“No.”
“Please?”
She handed the phone back to you, “You have five minutes to speak to your husband, and then you are showing us every wedding picture and every ultrasound photo.”
You took the phone“Hi, baby”
His voice softened immediately “Hi, wife.” The women groaned loudly “They know everything.”
“I noticed.”
“They are angry.”
“They will survive.”
“They made me show them the bump.”
“Did anyone touch you without asking?”
You smiled “No.”
“Good.”
“Seb?”
“Yes?”
“I think we underestimated how dramatic this would be.”
“I told you we should have stayed in Finland.”
“You were the one who needed to return for training camp.”
“I have made mistakes.”
You rested one hand against your stomach “The baby kicked earlier.” The teasing left his voice immediately “Really?”
“Yes.”
“Was it strong?”
“Not very. You probably would not have felt it.”
“I will try tonight.” Your smile widened, Jordan’s wife watched your expression and shook her head “You two are disgustingly married,” she muttered.
Sebastian heard her “Thank you.”
By the time you arrived at the arena later that afternoon, almost the entire Hurricanes organization knew, Jordan stood outside the locker room with his arms crossed. Several players waited beside him, their expressions ranging from shock to betrayal.
Sebastian stood in the middle of them, looking remarkably calm for a man being interrogated about a secret wife and unborn child.
Jordan pointed toward you “There she is. Mrs. Aho.”
Sebastian’s expression immediately brightened, his eyes dropped toward your stomach first, checking you automatically, before returning to your face.
He crossed the hallway, wrapped one arm around your waist and kissed your temple. His free hand settled protectively over the curve of your stomach.
The gesture caused another wave of shouting “Oh, now he is touching the bump.”
“He has been hiding an entire family.”
“How did none of us notice?”
Jordan looked between you “You got married?”
“Yes,” Sebastian answered.
“This summer?”
“Yes.”
“In Finland?”
“Yes.”
“And she is four months pregnant?”
Sebastian glanced down at you “Yes.”
Jordan pressed a hand against his chest “I made you part of the single guys group chat.”
“That happened before the wedding.”
“That does not make this better.”
One of Sebastian’s teammates stared at your stomach “So everyone was right. You were together.” You and Sebastian exchanged a glance “Eventually,” you said.
Jordan shook his head “You skipped dating, got married and came back with a baby on the way.”
“We did not need the practice,” Sebastian said.
The hallway filled with groans, your cheeks warmed as you remembered his proposal beside the lake and the intimate list of reasons he had given for why neither of you needed to practice being together.
Sebastian noticed your expression, a knowing smile spread across his face. You narrowed your eyes “Do not say it.”
“I did not say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“I am allowed to think about my wife.”
Jordan made a disgusted sound “You have been publicly married for less than an hour, and I already regret knowing.”
Sebastian ignored him, he lowered his head, kissed your forehead and then crouched slightly to press a gentle kiss against your stomach through your sweater.
The men around him became quiet.
For all their teasing and outrage, the sight of Sebastian smiling against the small curve of your stomach softened every expression in the hallway.
He straightened and looked at you “You are tired.”
“A little.”
“We are going home.”
“We just got here.”
“You have been interrogated all afternoon.”
“They are your friends.”
“They are loud.”
Jordan looked offended “We are standing right here.”
Sebastian took your hand “I know.”
You laughed as he led you toward the exit, ignoring the complaints behind you, For years, everyone had assumed you and Sebastian were in love.
They had watched the two of you share a life without naming it and had understood your relationship long before either of you admitted it.
They simply had not expected you to disappear to Finland for the summer and return to Raleigh with Sebastian’s surname, his wedding ring and his child growing beneath your heart.
summary - jack abbot fucking loves his wedding ring, and hasn't parted with it since the day the two of you wed. after damaging it while helping robby fix his bike, it is back at the jeweller to get re-plated, and he has to endure a shift without both you and his beloved band of metal. without his ring, it becomes apparent that doctor abbot is a hot item. all he wants is to be back in your arms.
warnings/themes - married couple/established relationship, attending!reader, jealousy, poorly written dialogue, fluff, suuuuper mild angst/displeasure, awkward scenarios, reader is the kind of person to laugh at everything, cattiness, corny as fuck
notes - I got myself lost in some other written bits and got so tangled up that I'm sick of them and never want to release them hahahaha - this is the result of me wanting to just create SOMETHING ELSE. I hope you enjoy.
-
Jack Abbot, to his credit, absolutely adored wearing his wedding ring.
When the conversation regarding marriage had first come up between you, now a good few years ago, you had approached the topic of rings with gentle palms.
He had stopped wearing his first ring a few months into your time at PTMC, a decision which was made after many late nights of him pacing around his apartment, whiskey in hand and ring clinking against the glass. When he put the golden band down for the last time, his heart exhaled a breath he hadn’t realised it was holding. Three months later, Jack gave into the butterflies in his stomach - ones he thought would never come around again - and asked you out.
When he proposed you had insisted, a beautiful, sizable diamond on your ring finger, that when the pair of you tied the knot, he didn’t have to wear a ring again regularly, or at all, if he didn’t want to.
But damn, did this man ever want to. The smooth gunmetal band which sat on his ring finger was his pride and joy from the moment you slipped it on at the altar. He loved the subtle weight of it grounding him under his blue gloves. And the way it looked against your smooth skin as his hands found your body. Most of all, he loved the way it linked him to you, showing the world that he was a more than happily taken man. There was very, very little which would make Jack part with his ring, even for a short time.
One of the things which did force him to take his ring off was the scratches and grease which came with fixing Robby’s motorbike. Between reinstalling a chain and shoving his hands between tight metal components, the black rhodium plating on the platinum had been scratched away in several places.
“For fuck’s sake.” The man groaned when he looked down at his hand. Robby looked over at what had caused his best friend so much displeasure.
“Looks like it’s time to make a trip back to the jeweller, brother.” The older man grinned, clapping Jack on the shoulder.
When your husband had come home to you, he looked like a school boy who had just shattered a window with a stray baseball, a shy shame present on his face at damaging something so precious. After he confessed his so-called crime, you had laughed, grabbed his hand and kissed his knuckles, an act so warm it sunk into his bones in a way only your love could. Then you pointed out a cut along the back of his hand, patched it up and booked an appointment at your jeweller to have it polished and re-plated.
And that was how, on a cool Monday evening, Jack Abbot had rolled up to the Pitt without his wedding ring. You were off that night, set to instead take over Collins’ attending shift the next morning, and had bid your husband goodbye with a soft ice-cream flavoured kiss from where you sat curled up on the couch.
The kiss lingered as he walked through the ER doors, bag slung over his shoulder. He had been running his thumb over the empty space on his ring finger, half still thinking about the taste of sweet dairy on your lips as Lena and Dana waved him over. Dana was clearly on her way out, her civilian jacket already over her scrubs. Two unfamiliar women stood beside the charge nurses, each with MEDICAL STUDENT emblazoned on their plastic nametags.
“Amber, Amy, this is Doctor Jack Abbot, our nighttime attending and ER cowboy.” Dana nodded in Jack’s direction as he strode over to the desk. She gave him a knowing, teasing look as the two newcomers took him in. Judging by the way the ginger - Amber - straightened her back and licked her lips, and the way Amy lit up in a shy blush, twirling a strand of platinum blonde hair around her finger, the sight of the older attending had made an impression on them.
“These ladies are our newest medical students and are currently on their emergency department rotation.” Lena continued, glancing over her red reading glasses at Dana. They had seen those looks on more than a few newbies over the years. Jack Abbot just had that effect on people.
“Doctor Abbot, it’s such a pleasure.” Amber smiled, wide and cat-like, extending a thin hand to him. “I have heard such good things about PTMC’s emergency department, and I’m sure you’re the reason for that.”
“We have a good team of nightcrawlers here, I’m just a cog in the machine.” He shook her hand, and then Amy’s, his standard dry, polite smile gracing his face.
Before either medical student could gush further, McKay walked up to Jack, tablet in hand. Judging by the dark circles under her eyes, she was more than ready to begin hand-over. He greeted her with a smile, eyes crinkling.
“What have you got for me?”
-
The last of the day shift filtered out an hour later, surprisingly on time compared to the usual timeline the liminal space of the ER followed.
“Trouble in paradise, eh boss?” Shen needled with a grin as he came through the ambulance bay door, gesturing at his ring finger, which was just as bare as Jack’s in that moment. As one of your closest friends, you had texted him about the situation the night before, but that wasn’t about to stop him teasing the older man. Jack rolled his eyes.
The night progressed with the same erratic heartbeat it always did. A deeply displeased man came in with a mild GSW to his foot, his friend trailing behind the gurney with a guilty look on his face as he attempted to explain the bizarre, convoluted game they had been playing which had somehow involved a shotgun. Jack oversaw Ellis teaching Amy how to remove buckshot from the wound, the blonde turning to him for approval at every step. She flushed bright pink under the fluorescent hospital lights when the attending gave her a ‘looks good’ and a thumbs up, before leaving the room. Ellis shared a look with Shen as he walked past, poorly hiding the amusement on both of their faces.
An hour later a trio of twenty-something year old women drunkenly stumbled through the door of the ER in a mess of flakey mascara and hair extensions, following their friend who sat crying her eyes out in a wheelchair. It had turned out to be a wrist fracture, likely thanks to the broken bright red heel which now sat in her lap. When Jack strolled in, x-ray results in hand, the tears instantly stopped, replaced by a watery smile. Amber trailed in a moment later.
The group giggled quietly, and not so quietly, among themselves as the attending calmly walked the patient through the fix for her wrist. She nodded along, carefully not making eye contact.
“We’re so glad she’s in such good hands, and biceps!” One of the group sputtered out, being cut off by an elbow to the ribs from the friend sitting next to her, who was a tad more sober - that being a very low bar.
“Amber here is one of our med students and great learner and will be putting the cast on for you today.” Jack offered one of his professionally charming smiles, much to the delight of the tipsy gaggle. Amber’s scrowl at the unabashed flirtation from the party-goer melted away at the praise.
Half an hour and one fairly well completed cast later, the med student was pulled from the treatment room to accompany Ellis for a new case assessment.
“So…could I get your number…just in case I need any further…checkups?” The mixture of painkillers, her girls behind her and the late hour made the dark-haired patient unusually bold, even through the now-dried mascara lines on her cheeks.
“Our charge nurse can find you some urgent care contact numbers,” Jack bit back a smile as she flexed her fingers and checked her range of motion. “You can always come back tomorrow if there ‘s any rubbing or discomfort with the cast - might even meet my wife if you do.” The smile pushed its way through at the mention of you.
At the mention of a wife and the genuine, boyish smile which had appeared on the doctor’s face, the group cooed in unison, a new kind of delight making its way into the room with the information that their handsome doctor had deservedly found his other half.
“Oh my gosh I’m so sorry I didn’t mean to-” The patient hid her face in her unimpeded hand.
“Photos! Show us photos!” She was cut off by one of her friends. “Is she a doctor here too?”
“Sure is. Damn good doctor, better than me.” The man chuckled, pulling out his phone. Outside of what was required by the ER, he wasn’t the most tech-savvy, but the first thing he had done upon getting his new phone was to change his lock screen to a photo of you on your last holiday together - far too long ago now - a large sunhat perched on your head and bright smile on your face.
The girls squealed in collective approval, even the patient forgetting her embarrassment to join in on the comments of ‘power couple’ and ‘oh she’s gorgeous!’.
Half an hour later, discharge documents in hand marked 1.17am, the group made their way out, waving their farewells and chirping their sweet ‘goodbye Doctor Abbot’s. Jack good-heartedly returned their waves, an action which brought a sour expression to Amber’s face.
-
Jack Abbot was typically one of the most business-minded, compartmentalised doctors that the PTMC had to offer. On an ordinary day he left the outside world on the other side of the ER doors and focused his whole self on whatever came his way. Yet, that evening, as the night waned he found his mind floating back to you. You’d be asleep right now, tucked under the small mountain of blankets and sheets which you insisted on when sleeping alone. Somehow, without the band of metal sitting against his skin, he felt lonelier than he had in a long while. He should have just called in sick, he thought with a sigh. He could be enjoying the way you curled up into him in your sleep right now, instead of doing whatever this was.
“You alright darl’?” Lena raised an eyebrow at the man and his left hand. He had been standing at the PC for a moment too long, staring blankly at a chart which didn’t need half the attention he was giving it. Shen had shooed the med students away to eat ‘lunch’ - at 2am - and the ER hit the strange, slow, half-awake lull that the nightcrawlers had come to expect on Monday nights. Jack's left thumb ran over where his ring usually sat, again and again. “You’re not wearing your usual hardware, you piss off our girl?”
“Fuck I hope not.” He snapped out of his train of thought, looked up from the screen and smiling wryly with a shake of his head. “Can thank Robby and his death machine for this.” He held up his hand.
Lena scoffed, stapling the stack of paper before her.
“So the only person beating you up right now is you, I take it?”
He grumbled out an agreement, finally closing the patient file before him and beginning charting another.
“She’s so calm about it. She laughed when I showed her.” He murmured. “It’s just…’s unnatural. Being without it.”
Lena let out a chortle at the attending’s unusually soft confession, patting him on the back as she walked past.
“You’ll be okay, hon’.”
-
The worst of the shift came in the form of a middle-aged driver who had been at an intersection at the wrong time. After an hour of stabilising procedures and near-misses, he lay unconscious on the table in the middle of Trauma 1 in the early hours of the morning, a large gaping wound along the side of his abdomen the last remaining obstacle between him and finally heading up to the ICU. Amber had been pulled in alongside Jack and Jesse, the three of them appropriately gowned and geared up. Jack was already covered in blood, largely thanks to the punctured artery which had been addressed, but this was finally a task which he could take the time to walk the med student through.
“Okay - this is a simple closure, what nylon are we using for this?”
“Uhh…standard 4/0 should do the trick?” She looked up at him through her thick lashes.
“Correct, good.” The attending nodded as Jesse handed her the correct equipment. Amber smiled under her mask.
She began the procedure, Jack correcting her tension on occasion, but otherwise remaining silent, looming over her with a watchful eye.
“Y’know…” the student continued sewing, “it’s unusual to have an attending who isn’t…intimidating.”
“Hm?” Jack didn’t look at her, eyes still on the procedure. Her knots and lines were straight enough for a med student, but that didn’t stop his mind from drifting to the, frankly, picturesque closure jobs you performed. His lip twitched upward beneath his mask - you’d laugh at him describing your work as ‘picturesque’.
“You’re just so…warm and supportive,” Amber continued, Jesse cringing from the corner of the trauma room. “So…available.”
The male nurse made a mental note to be moved back to the day shift.
“I mean - uh…” she caught herself and the lack of filter between her brain and mouth. “You’re very, uh- easy to talk to.”
Jack blinked. He was a good attending, he thought, but you handled med students far better than he typically did. Again he smiled under his mask, eyes crinkling at the thought of you. Fuck he missed his ring.
“Thanks. I think it’s important that we operate as a unit to get the job done.” He looked up at the clock on the wall. Another hour to go before you would finally show up, but this task was finally complete.
“Good job today, kid.” He shed his gown and glasses. “Jesse, make sure that the ICU knows there’s one coming up.”
Jesse half breathed a sigh of relief as the attending left the room, and then half rolled his eyes at the look of smug delight on Amber’s face.
-
In actuality it took less than an hour for you to show up, emerging through the ER doors with your messenger bag slung over one shoulder and cherry-coloured scarf thrown around your neck. In typical fashion you beat the rest of the day shift to being on site, something which you made a mental note to hang over Robby’s head later. Your winter coat sat over your dark scrubs, a paper bag hanging off one hand, and four hot coffees in a cardboard tray in the other. You strolled up to the hub, which was empty save for Amber at a PC, placing the tray on the desk. The chief attending wasn’t around yet to complain about food and drink being outside the breakroom.
“Morning,” you gave Amber a smile. After a beat she looked up from her charting. “You know where Abbot is?”
“Oh, you’re Doordash.” She looked at you and then the tray before her, expression flat. “You can just leave that there, I’ll find Doctor Abbot shortly.”
“No need, thanks Amber.” The man in question appeared behind her, face lit up despite the dark circles now under his eyes. “This is one of our normal night attending,” he introduced you with your full doctorly title, grinning at the way you rolled your eyes at the formality. “She’s filling in for one of the day shift staff today.”
At this point your husband was standing at your side, eyeing the tray before you. He gratefully accepted the cup marked with a ‘J’, taking a sip with a satisfied hum. It was black, medium roast, a drip of cream. Perfect. Jack wanted to kiss you so badly in that moment that it hurt, partially because of the coffee but mainly because of the ache in his heart that the absence of his ring had brought about in your 13 hours apart. But no, in accordance with HR’s conditions on you working together, PDA was to be kept to a minimum while at work.
“I’m glad you’re in early - got something that I need an extra set of eyes on.” His lips curved up in a way that only ever meant trouble. “Would you be able to join me for a moment before we begin handover, doctor?”
Amber had been watching this exchange with a sour look of uncertainty. She knew something was afoot here, but was unable to put her finger on it.
“Can I come?” She blurted out, reminding you both of her presence. “To learn, of course. Doctor Abbot has been so informative today and I am always eager to get ahead.”
“No need, Amber. You finish up and clock out. Help yourself to a pastry if you want.” Jack took the paper bag from your hand and offered it to her. She took it silently, watching on as you followed after the man, throwing your coat over the back of a computer chair as you went.
-
“So what do you have to show me in this empty, ordinary treatment room which just so happens to be at the very end of the south wing, Doctor Abbot?” You grinned as your husband pulled the curtain shut, before stepping into your space.
His hands, calloused, skilled, found your scrub-clad waist, pulling you close and kissing you deeply. He tasted like the sip of coffee he had enjoyed a moment earlier, and a tad more of desperation than he normally did. You melted into it, fingers finding his thick curls.
You finally pulled back to look at your beautiful man, running your ER-short nails down the back of his neck.
“Missed you,” he murmured, voice rough as he buried his face in the dip between your neck and shoulder. Jack inhaled deeply, humming softly as he savoured the scent of you and the comically expensive lotion which you lathered yourself in before slipping into your scrubs. It was to stop your skin from drying out under PTMC’s constant air conditioning, you had explained the first time he watched you get ready for work. And he was never one to complain about something which somehow made you even more edible than you were naturally.
“We’ve been apart what, 12 hours? What happened to my strong, independent man?” He could feel you smile through your faux-protest.
“13, actually.” Jack pulled himself away from your neck to graze his lips over the crown of your head.
“Oh of course you’re missing me then. So many millennia have passed, lover mine.” You teased, throwing your arms around his neck to pull him for another kiss. He could taste the sugar of the danish you had had for breakfast that morning.
“How about…” he mumbled against your lips, his fingers finding their way under the very hem of your scrub top. Your skin was warm and familiar under his touch. “...you call out today-”
“What the fuck!”
A feminine screech split the moment. Amber stood before the two of you, having pulled back the curtain just a smidge. She looked mortified, pulling the privacy screen back once more and booking it for the central hub. Jack groaned, resting his forehead against your shoulder. You laughed.
-
The two of you made your way back to the hub a few minutes later. You had slung your stethoscope around your neck, looking every bit the professional you were. Likewise, Jack didn’t have a hair out of place, looking down at a tablet as he calmly explained what cases were being carried over by you into the day shift. You had shared a giggling, conspiratorial look in the hallway a moment earlier - you were nothing if not experts at this.
Amber stood at one of the desks, her back to you. She was whispering loudly to Ellis, her voice sharp and irritated. You caught Ellis’ eye as you walked over, and she threw up a peace sign in your direction, one of the brown paper coffee cups being cradled in her other hand.
“-and they were all over each other! It was shocking!” The med student hissed. Ellis nodded slowly, taking a sip from her cup.
“So you saw Doctor Abbot…involved…with another member of the staff?” The senior resident queried, voice dry.
“Yes! It was absurd.”
“Was it that member of the staff?” Ellis gestured to where you stood, looking down at a patient’s chart as you listened in on the conversation, unable to fully hide your smile.
Amber nodded emphatically.
“So you…saw Doctor Abbot…kissing his wife?”
“His wife!?” The ginger looked incredulous, spinning around to take in where you and Jack stood. “He has a wife? Her!?”
Jack sighed where he stood, leaning in as he handed you the tablet, his shift now over. You smothered a giggle with a faux yawn, hand over your mouth. Your husband pressed a kiss to your forehead, eyes flicking up to meet Amber’s in a very deliberate, very rare, work treat. She shrunk back at the look.
SUMMARY: After losing her first job out of law school, YN tries to hide how badly she is struggling from Nathan. But as the distance between them grows, he begins to realize that she has been carrying far more than she ever let him see.
Requested: Nathan Mackinnon + you hide your struggles because you dont want to be a burden
Dating Nathan had taught you that he noticed more than people gave him credit for.
He noticed when a teammate’s skating was half a second slower than usual. He noticed when someone was forcing a smile after a bad game. He noticed when you changed shampoos, when you were cold but refused to admit it, and when you pretended to understand whatever complicated play he was drawing on the back of a napkin.
Unfortunately, he also noticed when you started pulling away.
It didn’t happen all at once.
At first, you simply stopped suggesting restaurants for date night.
You told him you were tired of eating out and would rather stay in, which Nathan accepted easily. He liked quiet evenings with you—takeout containers spread across the coffee table, your legs resting over his lap while he watched game footage and you complained about whichever legal drama had recently offended you with its inaccuracies.
Then you stopped ordering takeout too. You insisted on cooking, even when your cupboards were nearly empty and dinner consisted of pasta, butter, and the last bit of grated cheese in your refrigerator.
Nathan ate two bowls without complaining.
Then you started declining invitations. Team dinners became overwhelming. Weekend trips were impossible because you had applications to finish. Even grabbing coffee before Nathan left for practice came with an excuse.
“I already made some at home.”
“I’m running late.”
“I’m not really in the mood.”
Each explanation sounded reasonable on its own. Together, they formed a pattern. Nathan noticed patterns.
You had been together for almost a year, but there were still parts of your life you kept carefully separated from his.
Nathan knew you had recently graduated from law school at the University of Denver. He knew you had spent years working toward the degree and that you had been proud—almost painfully proud—when a small Denver firm hired you shortly after graduation.
He had been there when you received the call.
You had thrown your arms around his neck and nearly knocked him backward, crying into his shoulder while repeating that you had done it.
Nathan had taken you to dinner that evening, even though you spent most of the meal talking about student loans, bar fees, and how you were finally going to be able to breathe.
For a little while, you had, then the firm began cutting junior staff. You were one of the first to go.
Nathan knew you had lost the job. What he didn’t know was how quickly everything had fallen apart afterward.
Your severance barely covered a month of expenses. Your student loan payment was withdrawn two days before your final paycheck cleared, leaving your checking account dangerously close to zero. You had paid only part of your electricity bill the previous month, which meant the new statement included the remaining balance, a late fee, and a warning printed in bold red letters.
Your credit card balance climbed each time you used it for groceries, then your landlord slid a notice beneath your door. Your rent would be increasing when your lease renewed. You read it three times while sitting on the floor of your apartment, surrounded by unopened envelopes and a laptop displaying another rejection email.
It felt as though every decision you had made was returning to punish you.
You had gone to school because you wanted stability. You wanted a career that mattered. You wanted to be able to support yourself without relying on anyone else. Instead, you were unemployed, drowning in student debt, and calculating whether a box of cereal could reasonably count as dinner for four nights.
And your boyfriend was Nathan MacKinnon.
Nathan, who could pay your yearly rent without noticing the money had left his account. Nathan, whose idea of treating you was booking flights without checking the price and replacing your winter coat because he had decided the old one wasn’t warm enough.
You loved him.
That was precisely why you couldn’t tell him. You didn’t want him wondering whether you had stayed because of what he could provide. You didn’t want money to become something uneven and ugly between you. You didn’t want him to feel responsible for fixing a life that had been complicated long before he entered it.
Most of all, you didn’t want to become another person who needed something from him.
Nathan already carried enough. The expectations. The team. The city. The constant pressure to be better than he had been the day before.
You refused to add yourself to that list. So you hid it. You smiled whenever he asked how the job search was going, you changed the subject whenever he asked about your apartment. You told him your phone had been on silent when you missed his calls, even though you had watched his name illuminate the screen and hadn’t answered because you were crying too hard to sound normal.
You began wearing oversized sweaters whenever you saw him, you blamed your exhaustion on applications, you blamed your headaches on staring at your laptop. You blamed the way your jeans had started hanging more loosely from your hips on stress.
You thought you were protecting the relationship and Nathan felt like he was losing you.
—
“You coming over tonight?”
You held your phone against your ear with your shoulder while opening the refrigerator. A carton of eggs, half a bottle of ketchup and a container of leftovers you no longer trusted “I don’t think so.”
There was a pause on the other end.
Nathan had called after practice, his voice still slightly breathless, as though he had barely stepped out of the locker room before reaching for his phone “Why not?”
“I have applications to finish.”
“You said that yesterday.”
“I had applications yesterday too.” Your tone came out sharper than intended, Nathan went silent. You closed your eyes and pressed your forehead against the refrigerator door “I’m sorry,” you whispered. “I’m just stressed.”
“I know.” The softness in his voice somehow made it worse.
“I’ll call you later, okay?”
“YN—”
“I really need to finish this.” You hung up before he could respond. For several seconds, you stood motionless in the kitchen, staring at your dark reflection in the refrigerator door.
Then someone knocked.
You frowned. You weren’t expecting anyone, and your building’s security system usually required visitors to be buzzed inside. You walked toward the door cautiously and glanced through the peephole.
Nathan stood in the hallway. Your stomach dropped, you opened the door only wide enough to look at him “What are you doing here?”
His eyebrows pulled together “Nice to see you too.”
“I thought you were still at the arena.”
“I was. Now I’m here.” His hair was damp from a shower, and an Avalanche hoodie was pulled over a plain black T-shirt. He held a paper grocery bag against his chest.
You stared at it “What’s that?”
“Dinner.”
“I told you I had work.”
“And I told you I’d call when I was done with practice.” His gaze moved over your face. “You didn’t answer, so I came here.”
“That doesn’t mean you can just show up.” The words left your mouth before you could stop them. Nathan’s expression changed, not anger.
Hurt.
It was worse “I’m sorry,” you said quickly. “I didn’t mean it like that.”
“How did you mean it?” You tightened your grip on the door. His eyes moved past you into the apartment. The living room lights were off despite the sun having disappeared nearly an hour earlier “Can I come in?”
You wanted to say no. You wanted to tell him you were exhausted and promise to see him tomorrow, when you had cleaned the apartment and hidden the envelopes scattered across your table. But Nathan was already looking at you as though he knew something was wrong.
You stepped aside, he entered without another word and placed the grocery bag on the counter. You folded your arms across your stomach, suddenly conscious of the oversized sweatshirt hanging from your frame. Nathan looked at you for too long.
“What?”
“Nothing.”
The answer came too quickly.
You frowned “Why are you looking at me like that?”
His eyes moved down your body before returning to your face “You’ve lost weight.”
Your stomach twisted “No, I haven’t.”
“Yes, you have.”
“You’re imagining things.”
“I’m not.” Nathan stepped closer, studying you with a concern that made you want to disappear inside the sweatshirt.
The last time he had seen you properly had been nearly a week earlier. You had spent most of that evening wrapped in a blanket on his couch. Before that, you had worn loose clothes, blamed your exhaustion on job applications, and avoided changing in front of him.
You hadn’t thought the difference was noticeable. Nathan noticed everything “It’s probably stress,” you muttered.
“How much have you been eating?”
“I eat.”
“That wasn’t the question.”
You turned toward the counter “Can we not do this?”
Nathan didn’t answer immediately. Then you heard the quiet rustle of paper behind you. Your entire body went still. The grocery bag had been placed beside a stack of envelopes you had forgotten to move. When Nathan set it down, several letters had slipped onto the floor.
You turned around.
He was holding one of them. The electricity company’s logo was printed in the corner. A red FINAL NOTICE was visible through the plastic window.
“Nate.”
He looked at the envelope, then at you “What is this?”
“Give it to me.” You stepped forward, but he picked up another letter before you could reach him.A late notice from your student loan provider. Then the rent increase.
His expression changed with every page. Concern hardened into disbelief. Disbelief became anger—not explosive, but sharp and controlled “How long has this been going on?”
You reached for the letters, Nathan held them away from you “Give them back.”
“How long?”
“They’re addressed to me.”
“You’re avoiding the question.”
“Because it’s none of your business.” The moment you said it, you knew it was the wrong thing.
Nathan stared at you “None of my business?”
“They’re my bills.”
“You’re my girlfriend.”
“That doesn’t give you permission to go through my mail.”
“I didn’t go through it. It fell on the floor beside a bag of food I brought because I suspected you weren’t eating.”
Your face burned “Lower your voice.”
“I’m not yelling.” He wasn’t, that somehow made it more intense. Nathan placed the letters on the counter, spreading them out as though he needed to see all the evidence at once.
A missed utility payment. An overdue loan installment. A credit card statement. The notice explaining that your rent would rise at the end of your lease. He tapped one of the envelopes “What the hell is going on?”
“Nothing you need to worry about.”
“Stop saying that.” His voice cracked through the apartment. You flinched, Nathan saw it and closed his eyes briefly, forcing himself to calm down.
When he spoke again, his voice was quieter, but no less firm. “You’ve lost weight. Your fridge is empty. You haven’t wanted to go anywhere for weeks, and now I find final notices all over your apartment.” He looked directly at you. “So don’t stand there and tell me nothing is going on.”
You looked away.
The refrigerator suddenly sounded impossibly loud in the silence, Nathan walked toward it and opened the door. You didn’t try to stop him this time.
He stared at the nearly empty shelves, the carton of eggs, the box of the old leftovers, the almost empty bottle of ketchup and the bottle of water. He shut the door harder than necessary. “When did you last buy groceries?”
“I don’t remember.”
“When did you last eat?”
“I ate today.”
“What?” You said nothing, Nathan’s jaw clenched “What did you eat, YN?”
“Toast.”
He stared at you.
“I wasn’t hungry.”
“That’s bullshit.”
“Don’t swear at me.”
“I’m not swearing at you.” His hand dragged through his damp hair. “I’m trying to understand why you’re starving yourself while pretending everything’s fine.”
“I’m not starving myself.”
“You’re thinner.”
“I’ve been stressed.”
“You’re skipping meals because you can’t afford them.”
The words struck with enough force to make your eyes burn. You folded your arms tighter around your body “You don’t know that.”
“I can see it.”
“That doesn’t mean you understand.”
“Then explain it to me.”
“I don’t owe you an explanation for every problem in my life.”
“No, but I think I deserve one when you’ve been lying to my face for weeks.”
“I wasn’t lying.”
“You told me you were fine.”
“What was I supposed to say?” you snapped. “That I couldn’t afford coffee? That I was avoiding team dinners because I couldn’t keep letting you pay for me? That I stopped coming over because every time you suggested ordering food, I felt like a charity case?”
Nathan recoiled slightly “You think that’s how I see you?”
“I don’t know!” Your voice broke, you turned away from him, pressing the heels of your hands against your eyes. Everything you had worked so hard to hide was sitting between you now, laid across the kitchen counter in white envelopes and red lettering.
Nathan knew, there was no pretending anymore “I didn’t want you to find out like this,” you whispered.
“How did you want me to find out?”
“I didn’t.” The admission filled the room, Nathan became still, you stared at the floor “I was going to handle it.”
“How?”
“I don’t know.”
“That’s not handling it.”
“I was applying for jobs.”
“And while you waited, what?” His voice sharpened again. “You were going to stop eating? Let them shut off your electricity?”
“I would’ve figured something out.”
“You should have told me.”
“I couldn’t.”
“Why?”
“Because there’s nothing you can do without making it weird!” Nathan blinked. You immediately wished you could take the words back, but everything was spilling out now. “You don’t understand what this feels like,” you said. “You don’t understand checking your account before buying groceries or deciding which bill can be late. You don’t know what it’s like to owe more money than you’ve ever seen because you thought getting an education would guarantee you could support yourself.”
“You’re right.” His answer stopped you, Nathan didn’t move closer, he didn’t argue “You’re right,” he repeated. “I don’t know what that feels like.” Your eyes started burning “That doesn’t mean you get to hide it from me until you’re making yourself sick.”
“I’m not sick.”
“You’re barely eating.”
“I ate enough.”
“You’ve lost weight.”
“Stop saying that!” Your voice echoed across the apartment. Nathan’s expression softened, but he didn’t take the words back. He looked at you with the same focus he carried onto the ice, except now there was fear beneath it.
“I noticed it as soon as you opened the door,” he said quietly. “Your face is thinner. That sweatshirt used to fit you differently.”
You wrapped your arms around your stomach “You weren’t supposed to notice.”
The confession came out so quietly that Nathan nearly missed it, His entire face changed “YN.”
You shook your head, wiping angrily at your cheeks “I did everything I was supposed to do,” you continued. “I studied. I worked throughout school. I took internships that barely paid me because everyone said the experience would be worth it. Then I graduated and got a job, and I thought I was safe.”
Your voice trembled “And now I can’t even afford this apartment. I’ve applied everywhere, Nate. Firms, nonprofits, assistant positions—jobs that don’t even require a law degree. Half of them never respond, and the other half tell me they went with someone more experienced.”
Nathan took a careful step toward you.
You shook your head. “My loans keep coming out. My bills are higher because I couldn’t make the full payments last month. My landlord is raising the rent, and I don’t know what I’m supposed to do. I can’t ask my parents. They already helped me through school. I can’t ask my friends because they’re struggling too.”
“You can ask me.”
“That’s exactly what I didn’t want.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t want to be your responsibility!” The apartment fell silent.
Nathan stared at you, pain flashing across his face. “You think that’s what you are?” You couldn’t answer. “Do you think every time you have a problem, I see you as something I have to deal with?”
“No, but we’ve only been together a year.”
“Only?”
“It’s not long enough for you to take on all of this.”
“I’m not asking to take over your life.”
“You’d try.”
“Yeah,” he admitted. “Probably. Because I love you.” Your breath caught, Nathan had told you he loved you before, but never like this. Never with frustration in his voice and his heart completely exposed. He moved closer until only a few inches separated you. “But helping you doesn’t mean I think you’re incapable,” he said. “And you telling me you’re scared doesn’t make you a burden. It makes you my partner.”
“I don’t want you paying my debts.”
“Okay.”
You searched his face through tear-blurred eyes “Okay?”
“I heard you.” His answer was immediate, but something about it felt deliberately careful.
You were too exhausted to question it. Some of the tension left your shoulders. Nathan reached for you, his hands settling gently around your arms. “But I’m also not going to pretend it’s fine that you’re losing weight because you’re too scared to let me buy you dinner.”
“It isn’t your responsibility to feed me.”
“That’s not what I’m saying.”
“It sounds like it.”
“I’m saying I love you.” His voice softened. “And watching you make yourself smaller so nobody has to worry about you isn’t something I can ignore.” your lower lip trembled, Nathan glanced toward the grocery bag “I brought enough food to last you more than one dinner.”
“You knew?”
“I suspected.”
“Because I lost weight?”
“That and every time we ate together, you barely touched anything unless I put it directly in front of you.”
You hadn’t realized he had noticed that too, Nathan noticed everything.
“I didn’t want you thinking I expected this from you,” you whispered. “The food. Money. Any of it.”
“Did I ever make you feel like you had to prove you weren’t with me for money?”
You looked down “No.”
“Then stop deciding what I’m going to think before giving me a chance.”
“Because it’s humiliating.” The confession escaped in a broken whisper. All the remaining anger disappeared from Nathan’s face. He moved closer and cupped your cheeks “I’m not humiliated by you.”
“You should be.”
“No.”
“I’m a lawyer who can’t pay her electricity bill.”
“You’re a lawyer who lost her job.”
“I should’ve saved more.”
“You did what you could.”
“I should’ve found another job by now.”
“That isn’t how it works.”
“You don’t know that.”
“No, I don’t,” he admitted. “But I know you. You work harder than anyone I’ve met. You’re not lazy, and you’re not waiting for someone to rescue you.”
You swallowed “I don’t know how to fix this.”
“Then we make a plan.”
“I don’t want you fixing everything.”
“Then we’ll figure it out without me fixing everything.”
“How?”
“We go through the bills together. You tell me what kind of help you’re comfortable with, and I respect it.”
“You make that sound easy.”
“It won’t be.” His expression softened. “But it’ll be easier than you doing it alone.”
You hesitated before glancing at the rent notice “I might have to move.”
Nathan was quiet for several seconds, then he said, “Move in with me.”mYour head snapped toward him “What?”
“Move in with me.”
“Nathan.”
“I’m serious.”
“We’ve never even talked about living together.”
“We’re talking about it now.”
“I’m not moving into your house because I can’t afford mine.”
“Then don’t move in because of that.”
“What other reason would there be?”
“Because we’ve been together for almost a year, you already spend half your time there, and I hate waking up when you’re not beside me.” The anger inside you faltered, Nathan continued before you could respond “Move in because you steal all the blankets. Move in because your shampoo has been in my shower for six months. Move in because you keep pretending those clothes in my closet aren’t yours.”
“They aren’t mine.”
“There are three dresses in there.”
“They’re emergency dresses.”
“What kind of emergency requires three dresses?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
His mouth twitched, but his eyes remained serious “Move in because I love you.”
You shook your head “I can’t make that decision tonight.”
“Then don’t.”
“You’re not going to keep asking?”
“Oh, I’m definitely going to keep asking.”
“Nate.”
“But you don’t have to answer tonight.” He kissed your forehead, “Tonight, you’re going to eat. Tomorrow, we deal with the bills.”
“You mean we look at them.”
“That’s what I said.”
“No, you said deal with them. That sounds suspicious.” Nathan glanced away, You narrowed your eyes “Nathan.”
“I haven’t done anything.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m actually very good at it.”
“No, you’re not.”
“I convinced you the chicken pan was defective.”
“You burned the chicken.”
“Allegedly.” Despite yourself, you laughed. Nathan’s shoulders relaxed at the sound. He pulled you into his chest, holding you tightly enough that you could feel his heartbeat through the hoodie “You scared the hell out of me,” he murmured.
“I’m sorry.”
“I thought you didn’t want to be with me anymore.”
Your heart dropped.
“Nate.”
“You stopped coming over. You barely answered me. You wouldn’t let me see you.” His arms tightened. “And the whole time, you were dealing with this alone.”
“I didn’t want you to worry.”
“Well, that worked out great.” You let out a watery laugh, he pressed his lips to your hair “Promise me you’ll tell me next time.”
“I’ll try.”
“No.”
You pulled back “No?”
“Don’t give me ‘I’ll try.’”
“You can’t order me to communicate.”
“I’m not ordering you.”
“You’re using your captain voice.”
“I don’t have a captain voice.”
“You absolutely do.”
He sighed, lowering his forehead to yours “Please tell me next time.”
The quiet plea broke through the last of your resistance “I promise.”
“And you’re eating dinner.”
“Nathan.”
“That one is an order.”
—
You moved into Nathan’s house three weeks later, Not because your landlord had raised the rent. At least, that was what you repeatedly told yourself.
You moved in because Nathan asked you every morning, every evening, and nearly every time he found you staring anxiously at an apartment listing, sometimes he asked seriously, sometimes he slipped it casually into conversation.
“Do we need milk?”
“I don’t know. You’ll have to move in and check.”
“Have you seen my black hoodie?”
“Probably packed with the rest of your things for when you move in.”
“Where should we eat tonight?”
“My house. Which could also be your house.”
“You’re very subtle.”
“I’ve never claimed to be subtle.”
At first, you resisted. You didn’t want moving in with Nathan to feel like another form of rescue. You didn’t want to wake up one morning and realize the relationship had accelerated only because you had nowhere else to go.
Nathan listened to every objection, then he countered every one.
He reminded you that you already spent most weekends with him. That half your toiletries lived in his bathroom. That he had bought your favorite tea months before because he was tired of you bringing it back and forth in your purse “I don’t want you moving in because you’re broke,” he told you one night. “I want you moving in because I want you here.”
The distinction mattered, eventually, you gave in. Your name remained on none of the paperwork, and Nathan refused to let you call it his house after the first box crossed the doorway “It’s ours.”
“I don’t own any of it.”
“Neither do i, the bank does, technically.”
“That isn’t reassuring.”
He gave you space in every room.
Half the closet became yours. Your law books appeared beside his collection of hockey memorabilia. The spare bedroom became an office where you could complete applications and prepare for interviews.
Nathan even cleared an entire kitchen cabinet for your tea, although he complained that you owned too many kinds that all tasted exactly the same.
For the first time since losing your job, you could breathe.
You still had loan payments. You still carried a balance on your credit card. You insisted on contributing what you could toward groceries and utilities, although Nathan argued with you every time money left your account.
But you were eating again, you were sleeping, your face slowly regained its softness. Nathan never commented directly on the weight returning, but you caught him watching you whenever you finished a full meal.
He tried to hide the relief, he was terrible at it.
You began attending team dinners again. You stopped pretending you weren’t hungry. When you had a bad day, you sat beside him on the couch instead of crying alone in the bathroom.
Not every day was easy, some mornings, a rejection email still ruined your entire mood, some nights, you woke at three in the morning convinced you had made a catastrophic mistake by allowing yourself to depend on him.
Nathan would wake whenever you shifted too much beneath the blankets “You okay?”
“Go back to sleep.”
“That wasn’t an answer.”
You hated his ability to use your own words against you. Eventually, you would tell him. Sometimes you needed him to hold you. Sometimes you only needed him to listen.
He was learning the difference, so were you.
Then, two months after moving in, you logged into your student loan account. The balance read zero.
For several seconds, you assumed the website had failed to load, you refreshed the page.
Zero.
You checked the payment history, a single payment had been made four days earlier. The entire remaining balance. Your stomach dropped, you opened your credit card account next.
Zero.
The overdue utility balance from your old apartment had also been cleared. So had the small private loan you had taken during your final year of law school. Every debt Nathan had seen in those letters was gone.
You sat frozen at the desk, then you heard the front door open downstairs “Nate!”
There must have been something in your voice because his footsteps stopped. A moment later, they started again, quicker this time, Nathan appeared in the doorway of the office, still wearing his practice clothes “What happened?”
You turned the laptop toward him, his eyes flickered toward the screen. That was all you needed to see “You did this.”
Nathan exhaled “YN—”
“You paid them.”
He stepped into the room and closed the door behind him “We can talk about it.”
“You told me you wouldn’t.”
“I said I heard you.”
“You said okay!”
“I didn’t technically say I wouldn’t.”
Your mouth fell open “That’s your defense?”
“It’s not a great one.”
“You lied to me.”
“I didn’t lie.”
“You deliberately let me believe you were going to respect what I asked.”
“I did respect it for two months.”
“That doesn’t make this better!”
Nathan rubbed a hand over the back of his neck “I knew you’d be mad.”
“So you did it behind my back?”
“I knew you wouldn’t let me do it otherwise.”
“Exactly!” You stood so quickly that the chair rolled backward “You had no right.”
“I know.” The immediate admission threw you off for half a second, then the anger returned “No, you clearly don’t know, because you did it anyway.” Nathan remained near the doorway, watching you pace
“I told you that I didn’t want your money.”
“I know.”
“I told you I didn’t want you fixing everything.”
“I know.”
“I trusted you.”
“I know.”
“Stop saying that!” Your voice cracked, Nathan flinched. You hated that his expression made you want to comfort him when you were furious with him “You can’t make decisions about my life simply because you have the money to do it,” you continued. “Those were my debts. My responsibility.”
“They were destroying you.”
“That still didn’t make them yours.”
“They became mine the second they made you think you had to starve yourself.”
Your eyes burned “That isn’t fair.”
“No, none of this was fair.” Nathan finally moved closer “You worked for years. You graduated. You got the job. Then someone else decided to cut positions, and suddenly you were drowning.”
“That happens to people every day.”
“And if they have someone who can help, I hope that person helps them.”
“It wasn’t your decision.”
“I know.”
“Then why did you do it?”
“Because I could.”
“That isn’t enough.”
“It is to me.” You stared at him, Nathan’s voice became quieter “I could make those numbers disappear without it changing my life. For you, they were changing everything.”
“That doesn’t mean I wanted them to disappear like this.”
“You weren’t sleeping.”
“I was getting better.”
“You still checked your bank account every morning.”
“That was none of your business.”
“You were having panic attacks in the bathroom because you thought I couldn’t hear you.” Your breath caught, Nathan’s jaw tightened “I heard you every time.”
You looked away “I was trying to find another job.”
“And you will.”
“What happens if I don’t?”
“Then you don’t.”
You stared at him in disbelief “That’s easy for you to say.”
“I don’t mean you stop trying.” He stepped closer. “I mean your value doesn’t disappear if it takes longer than you expected.”
“That still doesn’t justify what you did.”
“No.” the word was quiet, Nathan stopped in front of you “I know it doesn’t.”
“Then apologize.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You don’t sound sorry.”
“I’m sorry I broke your trust.”
“But not for paying them.”
“No.”
You let out an incredulous laugh “You are unbelievable.”
“I know.”
“You’re controlling.”
“Sometimes.”
“You’re infuriating.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“You don’t get to joke right now.”
“I’m not joking.”
You turned away from him “I need space.”
“No.”
Your head snapped back toward him “No?”
“I’m not letting you walk away thinking I did this because I believe you’re incapable.”
“I don’t care why you did it right now.”
“I do.”
“Nathan—”
“I paid them because I’m going to marry you.” The room went silent, you stared at him. He stared back. Your anger momentarily disappeared beneath complete confusion “What?”
Nathan seemed to realize what had just left his mouth. His eyes widened slightly, then he looked toward the ceiling and muttered something under his breath.
“What did you say?”
“Nothing.”
“You said you were going to marry me.”
“I’m aware.”
“You can’t just say that in the middle of an argument.”
“Apparently I can.”
“Nathan.”
He dragged a hand over his face “This wasn’t how I planned it.”
“Planned what?” Nathan didn’t answer, instead, he walked past you toward the closet in the office. You watched as he reached onto the top shelf and pulled down a small black box. Every coherent thought disappeared from your mind “Nate.”
“I’ve had this for three weeks.”
You stared at the box “You bought a ring?”
“I was waiting.”
“For what?”
“I don’t know. A good night. Somewhere nice.” He looked toward the laptop displaying the zero balance. “Definitely not this.”
“You are not proposing to me because I’m mad at you.”
“I’m not.”
“It looks like you are.”
“I was already going to propose.”
“You just happen to have the ring in this room?”
“I moved it after you almost found it in my nightstand.”
“When did I almost find it?”
“When you were looking for a charger.”
“You acted like I was going to find something embarrassing.”
“I panicked.”
“You told me there were vitamins in there.”
“There were vitamins.”
“And an engagement ring.”
“Yeah.”
You stared at him, Nathan looked down at the box in his hand. “This is a disaster.”
“You paid all my debts without permission.”
“I know.”
“You broke your promise.”
“Technically—”
“Do not say technically.”
His mouth closed “You’re still angry,” he observed.
“Very.”
“Should I wait?”
You folded your arms “That would probably be the sensible thing.” Nathan nodded, then he lowered himself onto one knee. Your mouth fell open “Nathan!”
“I’ve never been especially sensible.”
“You cannot be serious.”
“I’m completely serious.”
“You’re proposing while I’m furious with you.”
“I’d rather know you’ll still say yes when you’re furious.”
“That is the stupidest thing you’ve ever said.”
“I’ve said worse.” He opened the box, the ring inside was simple and beautiful, exactly the kind you would have chosen for yourself. Your eyes immediately filled with tears “That’s not fair.”
“What isn’t?”
“You know I love you.”
“I’m hoping that helps.”
“Nate.”
His expression softened “YN, I know we haven’t been together as long as some people think we should be before doing this.”
“It’s been a little over a year.”
“I know.”
“You paid my debts behind my back.”
“I know.”
“I’m still mad.”
“I know that too.”
“You need another sentence.”
A nervous laugh escaped him, he looked more frightened than you had ever seen him before a game “I love you,” Nathan said. “And I don’t love you because you need me. Half the time, you refuse to need anybody.”
You attempted to glare at him through your tears, he continued “I love you because you’re stubborn and brilliant, and because you make fun of every legal show we watch. I love you because you argue with me when I’m wrong, even when I don’t realize I’m wrong yet.”
“That happens a lot.”
“I’m proposing. Be nice.”
“No.”
His smile appeared briefly before his expression became serious again “I love coming home to you. I love that your things are everywhere now. I love that my house finally feels like somewhere I actually want to be because you’re in it.”
Your lower lip trembled “I paid those debts because I couldn’t stand watching them hurt you when I had the ability to stop it. I should’ve talked to you. I should’ve found a way to help that didn’t make you feel like I was taking away your choices.”
“Yes, you should have.”
“I’m sorry.” You believed him that time, Nathan took a breath “But I’m not sorry that you are going to wake up without that weight on you.”
Your eyes closed briefly.
“I want to be the person you tell when you’re scared,” he continued. “I want to be there when things are good, when they’re terrible, and when you’re yelling at me because I did something stupid.”
“You did something very stupid.”
“I know.”
“And expensive.”
“That part isn’t important.”
“It is to me.”
“We can keep arguing about it for the rest of our lives.” your eyes opened, Nathan held the ring between his fingers “So marry me, and we’ll have plenty of time.”
A laugh broke through your tears “That’s your proposal?”
“I had a better speech planned.”
“What happened to it?”
“You started yelling at me.”
“You deserved it.”
“I did.”
You studied him. The man kneeling in front of you was infuriating, he had ignored your wishes. He had made a major decision without you, convinced that love made it acceptable.
You would not let him forget that.
You would make him sit with you and establish boundaries. You would insist on repaying at least some of the money, even if Nathan argued until both of you were exhausted. You would make sure he understood that being partners meant making decisions together, not protecting each other through secrecy.
But he was also the man who had noticed you disappearing before anyone else did. The man who had filled your empty refrigerator without making you ask.
The man who had given you space in every part of his life long before he placed a ring in front of you. The man you loved.
“Yes.”
Nathan froze “Yes?”
“I’m still angry with you.”
“I understand.”
“And this doesn’t mean you’re forgiven.”
“Completely understood.”
“And we are having a very serious conversation about boundaries.”
“As many as you want.”
“And I’m paying you back.”
“We’ll discuss that.”
“Nathan.”
“Fine. We’ll discuss discussing it.”
You narrowed your eyes, he smiled “Is that a yes?”
“Yes.” The word barely left your mouth before Nathan surged to his feet. He slid the ring onto your finger with shaking hands and pulled you against him, you laughed through your tears as his arms wrapped tightly around your waist “You’re insane,” you whispered against his neck.
“You’re marrying me.”
“I might reconsider.”
“You already said yes.”
“Engagements can be broken.”
“Don’t joke about that.” The sudden seriousness in his voice softened you, you pulled back and placed both hands against his face “I’m not going anywhere.”
Nathan kissed you. It wasn’t a careful kiss.
It carried all the fear from the night he had found the letters, all the frustration of the argument, and all the relief of finally having the future he had apparently been planning without telling you. When you separated, you looked down at the ring “You really had this for three weeks?”
“Yeah.”
“When were you planning to ask?”
Nathan hesitated “I made a reservation for next weekend.”
“Where?”
“I’m not telling you now.”
“Why?”
“We can still go.”
“As an engaged couple?”
“Yeah.”
You smiled faintly, then you remembered why the argument had started. Your smile disappeared “I’m still mad about the debts.”
“I know.”
“You’re sleeping in the guest room.”
Nathan’s head snapped toward you “The guest room?”
“Yes.”
“After we got engaged?”
“Yes.”
He stared at you as though you had suggested he sleep outside in the snow. Then he gestured helplessly between the two of you “Baby, we i thought that we would fuck tonight.”
You blinked, Nathan appeared completely serious “You did not just say that.”
“I did.”
“You literally proposed to me in the middle of an argument, and now you think that means you’re entitled to engagement sex?”
“I didn’t say entitled.”
“You said we should.”
“Because we should.”
“Nathan.”
“We just got engaged.”
“Because you panicked.”
“I had a ring.”
“That does not make the timing less insane.”
His eyes dropped briefly to the ring now resting on your finger “You said yes.”
“I did.”
“So we should celebrate.”
“We are celebrating.”
“By sending me to the guest room?”
“You should’ve thought about that before paying all my debts behind my back.”
Nathan groaned and dragged both hands over his face “Baby.”
“No.”
“What if I apologize again?”
“You already did.”
“What if I make dinner?”
“You burn chicken.”
“I’ll order dinner.”
“With the money you apparently enjoy spending without permission?”
He pointed a finger at you “That was a low blow.”
“You earned it.”
Nathan pressed his lips together, visibly fighting a smile “I cannot believe I’m engaged and being sentenced to the guest room on the same day.”
“You’re lucky I’m only sentencing you to one night.”
“One night?”
“Keep arguing and I’ll make it two.”
His expression became genuinely offended “That’s cruel.”
“You paid off my entire student loan without telling me.”
“I was trying to help.”
“You were being controlling.”
“I can be helpful and controlling at the same time.”
“That isn’t the defense you think it is.”
He sighed “Can I at least kiss my fiancée before my exile?” You tried to keep your expression serious “One kiss.”
His grin returned instantly “One very long kiss?”
“Nathan.”
“Worth asking.” He stepped forward anyway, cupping your face before pressing a soft kiss to your lips. It began gently. Then his hand slid around your waist, pulling you closer as the kiss deepened.
For several seconds, you forgot you were supposed to be angry.
Nathan seemed to notice, he smiled against your mouth. You immediately pushed a hand against his chest “No.”
“I didn’t say anything.”
“You were thinking it.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I know you.”
“That’s fair.”
When he pulled away, he rested his forehead against yours “I still don’t regret proposing.”
“I know.”
“I do regret paying the debts without talking to you first.”
You studied him for a moment before nodding “Good.”
“But,” he added, lowering his voice, “I’m still hoping my fiancée changes her mind about the guest room.”
You smiled sweetly “Goodnight, Nathan.”
“You’re really making me sleep there?”
“Yes.”
“After we got engaged?”
“You already used that argument.”
“It’s a good argument.”
“It isn’t.”
“What about the other thing I said?” You stared at him, Nathan’s mouth twitched “Guest room,” you repeated.
He sighed dramatically “You’re enjoying this.”
“A little.”
—
The engagement announcement did not happen that night. Neither did the celebration Nathan had so bluntly suggested. Instead, the two of you spent nearly three hours at the kitchen table with your laptop open between you.
Nathan produced the payment confirmations reluctantly. You wrote down every amount, he complained whenever you added another figure to the spreadsheet.
“You’re not paying me back.”
“I am.”
“No.”
“That isn’t your decision.”
“You’re unemployed.”
“Temporarily.”
“You don’t know when you’ll find another job.”
“That doesn’t mean the debt disappears.”
“It literally did.”
You glared at him “That isn’t funny.”
“It was a little funny.”
“It was not.”
Nathan leaned back in his chair and folded his arms “You’re not paying me back for helping you.”
“You didn’t help me. You ambushed my bank accounts.”
“I didn’t touch your bank account.”
“You know what I mean.”
“I paid creditors.”
“That sounds even worse when you say it like that.”
He reached across the table and rested his hand over yours “YN.” You tried to pull away, he held on “Listen to me.”
“I’ve been listening to you all evening.”
“No, you’ve been preparing your next argument while I’m talking.”
“That’s called being a lawyer.”
“That’s called being impossible.”
“You proposed to me.”
“Yeah. That was probably my first mistake.” You stared at him, Nathan’s face changed immediately “I’m kidding.”
“You’d better be.”
“I am.” He lifted your hand and kissed your knuckles, his lips brushing against the new ring “I don’t regret this.” your anger softened despite your best efforts. Nathan continued “I understand why you’re upset. I do.”
“You don’t get to make financial decisions for me.”
“I know.”
“Even when you think you’re helping.”
“I know.”
“Even if the amount means nothing to you.”
“I know.”
“You need to stop saying that and actually listen.”
“I am listening.” You watched him carefully.
Nathan wasn’t good at surrendering control. He wasn’t good at accepting that determination couldn’t solve every problem. Most of his life had taught him that if he worked harder, pushed longer, and refused to stop, he could eventually force things into place.
Relationships weren’t hockey.
You couldn’t overpower every obstacle “You made me feel like I had no choice,” you said quietly. “That’s what hurt.”
Nathan’s expression fell “I didn’t mean to.”
“I know you didn’t.”
“I just wanted it gone.”
“I know.”
His fingers tightened around yours “I saw those letters and then I saw you standing there in that sweatshirt.” His voice roughened. “You looked so small.”
Your eyes dropped.
“I kept thinking about how long it had been happening while I didn’t know.”
“That wasn’t your fault.”
“I should’ve noticed sooner.”
“You did notice.”
“Not soon enough.”
“Nate.”
“I could’ve helped before you stopped eating.”
“You couldn’t help with something I refused to tell you.”
“Exactly.”
You looked back at him “That’s why you can’t solve things by hiding them from me either.”
The realization settled between you. Nathan looked toward the payment confirmations “You’re right.” You waited, he exhaled “I should’ve told you what I wanted to do. I should’ve let you say no.”
“Yes.”
“And then I probably would’ve spent the next month trying to convince you.”
“That would have been annoying.”
“But better.”
“Much better.”
He nodded “I’m sorry.”
This time, the apology felt complete, You squeezed his hand “I’m still making a repayment plan.”
“No.”
“Nathan.”
“What if we compromise?”
You narrowed your eyes “What kind of compromise?”
“When you get another job, you put whatever you planned to repay me into savings.”
“My savings?”
“Our savings.”
Your gaze moved toward the ring “You’re moving very quickly.”
“You moved into my house.”
“Our house,” you corrected automatically. Nathan smiled “Exactly.”
You hated when he used your own words against you “What would the savings be for?” you asked.
“A wedding. A future house if you decide you hate this one. Emergencies, our kids college founds.” His thumb brushed over your ring. “Whatever we decide together.”
Together, the word mattered. You looked down at the spreadsheet “I’m still going to struggle with this.”
“I know.”
“I might feel guilty every time I look at the balance.”
“There is no balance.” You glared “Sorry.”
“You’re not.”
“A little.”
You sighed, Nathan tugged gently on your hand until you stood from your chair. He guided you around the table and pulled you between his knees “You’re not a burden,” he said.
“I know.”
“Do you?”
You hesitated “I’m trying to.”
His hands settled on your hips “That’s enough.”
You rested your hands on his shoulders “For now.”
“For now,” he agreed.
Nathan leaned forward and pressed his face against your stomach, arms wrapping around your waist. The position was oddly vulnerable for him. You stroked your fingers through his hair “You’re still sleeping in the guest room.”
His head lifted immediately “Seriously?”
“Yes.”
“We just had emotional growth.”
“You still paid my debts behind my back.”
“I apologized.”
“And I accepted your apology.”
“Then why am I still being punished?”
“Consequences.”
Nathan groaned against your stomach “Baby.”
“No.”
“We should fuck tonight.”
You covered your face with one hand “You already said that.”
“And it’s still true.”
“You are unbelievable.”
“You said yes to marrying me.”
“I’m reconsidering every time you open your mouth.” His arms tightened around your waist “No, you’re not.” The confidence in his voice made you smile despite yourself “No,” you admitted. “I’m not.”
—
Nathan lasted twelve minutes in the guest room.
You were lying in bed, staring at the engagement ring beneath the glow of the bedside lamp, when the bedroom door slowly opened. Nathan stood in the doorway holding his pillow.
You raised an eyebrow “What are you doing?”
“I can’t sleep.”
“You haven’t tried.”
“I know I can’t.”
“That sounds like a personal problem.”
He stepped inside “I won’t touch you.”
“You said you should be having sex with me twenty minutes ago.”
“I’ve adjusted my expectations.”
“How mature.”
“I just want to sleep beside my fiancée.” The word made warmth spread through your chest, you tried not to show it. Nathan noticed anyway, he always noticed “You smiled.”
“I did not.”
“You did.”
“Go back to the guest room.”
“No.”
“Nathan.”
“I’ll sleep on top of the covers.”
“That makes no sense.”
“I’m showing restraint.”
“You’ve never shown restraint in your life.”
“Exactly. This is a big moment for me.”
You stared at him for several seconds, then you lifted the edge of the blanket. Nathan crossed the room so quickly that you almost laughed.
“On your side,” you warned.
“Yes, ma’am.”
“And no touching.”
“Understood.”
Nathan climbed into bed and settled flat on his back, both hands folded dramatically over his stomach. You turned off the lamp. Silence filled the room.
Thirty seconds passed.
Then his hand brushed against yours beneath the blanket “Nathan.”
“Accident.”
Another few seconds, his little finger hooked around yours. You turned your head, in the darkness, you could barely make out his profile “You’re terrible at following instructions.”
“I’m trying.”
“You aren’t.”
He turned toward you “Can I hold your hand?” You sighed, but didn’t pull away “Yes.” His fingers threaded through yours, a minute later, he spoke again “Can I kiss you?”
“No.”
“Okay.” Another pause “Can I tell you I love you?”
“You don’t need permission for that.”
“I love you.”
You turned toward him “I love you too.”
Nathan smiled in the dark “Can we—”
“No.”
“I wasn’t going to say that.”
“You were.”
“I was going to ask if we could cuddle.”
You considered it “Cuddling only.”
“I can do that.”
“You’d better.”
Nathan moved closer, wrapping one arm around your waist and pulling you gently against his chest. He remained perfectly still for approximately forty seconds.
Then his lips brushed the back of your neck “Nate.”
“That was affectionate.”
“It was suspicious.”
“Everything I do is suspicious to you now.”
“You earned that.”
“Fair.”
Despite your warning, you relaxed against him, Nathan pressed one final kiss to your shoulder “I really am sorry.”
“I know.”
“I’m also really happy you said yes.”
Your fingers brushed over the ring “So am I.” His arm tightened “You’re still not getting engagement sex.”
It’s been a slow day in the pitt with few major traumas and a lighter load of charts than normal. Due to this you decided to take your lunch break a little early.
A dramatic sigh sounds from across you at the breakroom table.
“Giiiiirl, I am ready to go.” Trinity moans as she mindlessly scrolls through her phone.
You smile a bit as you eat your sandwich.
“Like why didn’t we just skip medical school and do tiktoks all day, i swear”
Looking down you do your best to hold in your laugh before responding.
“Maybe because we’re too uncoordinated for that life and would end up in the pitt from a dumbass injury?”
Trinity gives you a blank stare before frowning “Ugh you’re right, sweets. We’d be ass.”
Suddenly her eyes widen as she looks at you.
That can only mean trouble.
“Trinity Santos if y-”
“Hear me out! I have an idea!” she pleas
You look at her with a raised eyebrow
“Okay” she starts “have you ever done a tiktok prank on your boy toy?”
You laugh as you roll your eyes.
“Trin, Jack is my fiancee, not my boy toy. But no I haven’t.”
She quickly moves to the seat beside you, leaning into your side with her phone in your face.
“This would be a good one to try on him. He’s so whipped by you, it’s perfect.”
You scrunch your face as you watch the video she shows you.
It’s a compilation of a girl nonchalantly wiping off her boyfriend’s kisses and catching his reactions.
Funnily enough, Trinity was right about this being a perfect one for Jack. Jack, your physically affectionate fiancee who would stay wrapped around you all day if he could. Who loves giving kisses and getting them too.
“Okay, I’ll do it but you have to get the reactions. And if it ends badly I’m blaming you fully.” you point a finger at her.
She salutes you with a goofy smile “Ma’am yes ma'am."
You shake your head with a smile.
Oh Jack.
Please don’t hate me for this
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
Jack’s shift started two hours before yours so he was up and out of the house before you had even gotten out of bed.
All you remember was a kiss pressed to your forehead and a soft ‘love you’.
You savored it because that was gonna be the last one you let stay for the next several hours.
—--
You walk into the pitt, bag and lunch box in hand, and make your way to the locker rooms. That’s where you find Trinity waiting with a big smile. She looked like she was vibrating with excitement.
“Sweets, thank god! I thought you were gonna back out.”
You chuckle while putting your things up “As if. I feel kinda bad but I know he’ll get a laugh out of it later.”
Trinity links arms with you as you both make your way to the nurses station.
“That man could never truly be upset with you. He’s all heart eyes for you and shit.”
Your face heats up at her words.
Trinity lets go of you and taps her phone.
“I’ll be around and catch all the good stuff.”
“Okay Trin, let’s do this” you point at her as she makes herself scarce.
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
The first time Jack comes around for the day, he spots you standing at the desk working on charts. You don’t notice him until strong arms gently wrap around your waist.
“Hey pretty girl, how are things so far?”
You turn your head towards him and he kisses your cheek.
Here it goes.
“Hey handsome,” you smile as you nonchalant wipe the kiss off “it’s been okay. Hoping for a fast day.”
You don’t miss the way Jack zeros in on your hand when you wipe off your cheek. He looks a bit confused but otherwise keeps his smile.
“Is everything o–”
“Incoming MVAs! Multi-car pileup with several patients in route! Get ready!”
Jack’s interrupted by Dana’s announcement.
“That’s our cue, babe. Let’s go” you close your chart and go join the other nurses to gather medical supplies.
Jack watches as you move but shakes his head.
Maybe he’s just seeing things.
—--
The next time it happens, you’re taking a breather in the ambulance bay after a busy nonstop string of traumas.
Hands on your hips you slowly pace back and forth, letting out a large breath.
Jack had seen you make your way out of the building and gave you a few minutes alone before following you out.
He finds you with your hands covering your face as you continue to pace. He steps into your path and pulls your hands from your face.
“Hey, you did great in there sweetheart” he praises you.
You nod your head silently.
“Thanks J. I’m just… I just needed a minute.”
He pulls you closer to his body.
Jack kisses you briefly, wishing he could bundle you up and take you home.
You, again, wipe the kiss off but this time with the sleeve of your scrub.
“I need to get back but at least we get to go home soon. See you in a bit J.”
You give him a wave as you walk back into the pitt.
Jack stands there with his arms crossed. This time he knows he didn’t just imagine it.
You did wipe off his kiss.
But why?
﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌
The one that finally does him in is when you’re talking to Robby about a patient you both were helping. You both had stepped out of the room to discuss treatment and recovery when Jack makes his way towards you.
Surely you would accept his affection in front of friends.
Little did he know.
“Hey sweetheart” he greets you.
He then grabs your waist from behind with one arm and the other across your chest, placing a kiss on your cheek.
“Ready to head home?”
Then you do it. You wipe the cheek he kissed with the back of your hand.
“Yesss finally,” you answer dramatically.
Jack’s eyes widen as he looks at Robby who has equally wide eyes.
In the whole time he had been around you and Jack, he had never seen you shy away or literally wipe away his affection towards you.
“I’ll take care of this first thing in the morning Robby” then you turn to Jack “I’m gonna grab my stuff and then we’ll go. Be right back.”
The two men watch as you go.
“Dude” Robby starts “What was that?”
Jack shrugs as he looks in the direction you disappeared to.
“I dont know but im fucking worried man.”
Robby pats his back “It’s something but I wouldn’t worry too much. Just talk to her.”
Jack nods as Robby walks off.
He can only hope whatever it is can be fixed.
—--
You both walk to Jack’s truck, arms full of your stuff.
You’re in the middle of naming dinner options as you go to reach for the passenger door handle
“I could make spaghetti. Maybe some quick steaks. Oh! I could make that casserole you l–”
Everything stops as Jack’s hand pushes against your door, keeping you from opening it.
You turn your head to Jack.
“J, what’s wrong?”
He gets close into your space.
“First, you know that you’re never going to have to open your own door when I'm around. Second,” his hand goes to your hip “Is everything okay?”
You know what he’s talking about but you have to play it cool.
“Yeah? What are you talking about baby?”
He looks to the side and takes a deep breath.
“I… did I do something wrong? Are you upset with me? You’ve wiped off all of my kisses today and I'm lost here baby. Just tell me what I did so I can fix it”
Fuck.
You don't know how much longer you can keep this up.
It breaks your heart that he thinks he's done something wrong.
You set your things down and grab his face in your hands.
“It was a joke, J. Something Trinity saw online. There's nothing you did wrong.”
His face scrunches “a joke? So we're okay?”
“Yes Jack, we’re okay. I promise. I’m sure Trin will send me the video she took of it earlier.”
He immediately kisses you. It turns more into a short makeout. He pulls back slightly, forehead pressed to yours.
“Gonna wipe that one off?” he smirks
You chuckle at that.
“Hmmm, I think I need another one before I decide.”
Request from @marspastries - oscar's always been a really reserved guy, we all know it and always did, but i guess it would be so him to randomly drop bombs like "kids?yeah umh..got one, second on the way" "marriage?oh yeah, my *wife* is really happy with ours" if you get what i mean, so i can totally picture this scene of him having a dinner with lando, maybe a few others and just randomly start talking about his life things, like showing off his kid's first steps on the phone or just randomly mentioning little sibling on the way or things like anniversary dinner planning
Word count: 1.6k
Oscar never really considered the fact that so many people were unaware of his home life.
That he's married, he had a little boy at home with another baby on the way and they're settled into a routine and life together even with F1 shaking it up.
They met while they were young and he didn't see point in wasting time in prolonging their inevitable marriage and naturally Alfie came a few months after that.
"How are you feeling?" Oscar asks as he sits in the car on the way to the track.
"My back hurts a little but nothing to be concerned about." Y/n shrugs with a soft smile before sighing. "Alfie is down for his nap. So I'll call you later to chat with him."
"Thank you." Oscar smiles earning a small nod before she sighs softly looking at him. "What?"
"Nothing, I just miss my husband sometimes-and before you feel guilty, it's not about anything other than I am so turned on 24/7 right now."
Oscar almost chokes at her candour, though he recalls this part of her first pregnancy which he took great joy in being part of even if he was terrified about causing any damage or harming the baby.
"I'll make it up to you once I'm home."
"You really don't have a choice." Y/n states earning another laugh.
-
Oscar yawns as he walks in for a dinner that has been planned ahead of the weekend, they have these sorts of dinners a few times a year. The most famous being the Abu Dhabi end of season meal.
"Hey, mate. How you feeling?" George asks as the two McLaren drivers sit down but the question being directed at Lando.
"I'm good. Already looking forward to the weekend being over." Oscar sighs making George frown.
"Already having doubt in yourself?"
"No. God definitely not. But y/n is at a certain point in her pregnancy and I just want to be there for her." Oscar states casually making George's eyes bulge in shock. But he's not the only one since the table falls silent.
"You have a baby on the way?" Max asks making Oscar look around.
"Yes...I've got a toddler too. He's about to turn 2." Oscar smiles just thinking about Alfie.
"How did you never mention that? I've never even met your girlfriend." Lando states making Oscar clear his throat and shift a little.
"You never asked...My wife and I got married at the end of 2023." Oscar states making the table go into a sequence of questioning, some even accusing him of lying.
"I'm offended I wasn't invited." Lando huffs crossing his arms jokingly.
"Any other secrets? We're asking now." Fernando questions making Oscar think for a moment.
"No. I don't think so. Wife, toddler, baby on the way. That's everything I can think of." Oscar shrugs then frowning as his phone rings. "Her ears must be burning, I gotta take this."
He steps out knowing the group are going to question if any of them had any suspicion but not one of them realised just how little they knew about Oscar. An assumption that Logan may have been aware since he's known Oscar so much longer and at one point was very much considered near family.
"Hey, baby. Everything ok?" Oscar asks softly making y/n huff out trying to make a sniffle. "Y/n?"
"I have braxton hicks." Y/n hiccups making Oscar sigh, hating that he's not there to help but she's officially in the third trimester and the doctor is advising against her travelling especially so far. A short couple hours might be allowed but from Las Vegas to Qatar then Abu Dhabi for the final triple header to round off the season. "Where are you?"
"Nowhere important."
"Oh you're at that dinner. I'll-I'll call back later I don't want to-"
"You are my priority, especially if I can't be there physically. Anyway they're all processing the news that I have a wife and kids since no one knew."
"What? How did they not know?-I mean I know I try to keep out the way of people when I'm there, but we don't act like strangers." Y/n rambles. "Did they think you were single?"
Oscar smiles a little sensing her getting possessive over the idea these men might've thought that Oscar would be up for another woman. He's not sure if she'd usually be so offended at the idea of Oscar being single but maybe he should've figured that pregnancy would be a little more upset at the thought of her husband being assumed single.
"Don't worry, I'll make it very clear from here forward that no one else thinks I'm single." Oscar promises earning a hum. "You know...when I get back there is something to celebrate."
"Our anniversary I know. I might be pregnant but my mind hasn't lost me yet." Y/n smiles lightly.
"Leave it all to me. I've got some plans."
The talk for another 5 minutes before y/n insists Oscar get back to the meal and he promises that they'll be talking again later when the dinner is over.
He returns to find the food has arrived and smiles sitting down, though he doesn't get more than a couple bites before George has to ask more questions and Max joins him as a new father on the grid, he's intrigued about Oscar's own journey with fatherhood. Though he doesn't word it quite in that way.
"Got any pictures?" Lando eventually asks and Oscar is happy to provide since despite him not making it a priority to discuss his private life, he is more than happy to share is someone asks.
Everyone make assure to let Oscar know he has a beautiful family, Lando also makes sure to let him know that he's batting out of his league by bagging his wife. Obviously joking but Oscar will take the compliment to y/n.
"We're coming up to the anniversary, thankfully it falls after everything for the season is done." Oscar states earning a small smile from the group since it's really nice getting to know this side of Oscar.
Some of them even realised he wears his wedding ring on his right hand but none of them had thought anything of it earlier when they'd noticed. They definitely didn't think it was a wedding band.
It's not till later when Oscar is on phone call with y/n and Alfie is finally on the call. He's grinning and yapping away with Oscar, mainly gibberish that is an attempt at real words. Y/n and Oscar understand most of what he's saying but when he's especially excited and just talking to talk, he stops using words and make noises that sound like words but aren't.
Oscar captures a couple screenshots and y/n is about to hang up but he asks if he can stay on call for the bedtime routine with Alfie. Plus he just wants to talk to y/n alone and after saying goodnight to Alfie, y/n leaves him in his room. Oscar always have to credit y/n as the most amazing mum because she has got Alfie in a routine and he sleeps through the night almost every night without fail.
"You don't usually want to stay on call for so long. What's up?" Y/n smiles as she settles down with a donut to finish her day. Something in Oscar wants to comment about that choice of snack purely out of concern for her blood sugar (his inner athlete is so nutrient focused but pregnancy hormones don't give a fuck and he learnt that in the first pregnancy) but he also doesn't want to be hung up on and ignored.
"I just want some extra time with you. My beautiful wife." Oscar smiles softly while y/n immediately pouts. "I love you, baby. Not because we have kids together, not because we're married, not because of anything but because you are such an incredible person and sometimes I don't make it obvious but that's how I feel."
Y/ bursts into tears, having to cover her mouth to make sure she doesn't sob and trigger Alfie's reappearance.
"You dick. You did that on purpose." Y/n hiccups while Oscar smiles a little. "I love you too, and you might not make it obvious to everyone else. But you make just how much you love me obvious to me. I never doubt it."
"Well I spent the rest of that dinner bragging about you and our family without apology." Oscar states earning a grin. "I'll be home soon and you will not be lifting a finger. I've got a lot of daddy duties to make up for and you...should not have to be doing this stuff on your own with Alfie when you're this far along."
"Oscar..." Y/n warns since she has never allowed him to feel guilt about working and just doing what he has to for his career. "I'm fine. I miss you like hell, but I missed you like hell before we were married and before we had kids. Alfie is doing great. I'm doing great, baby is doing great. We're all great. You own me nothing."
"I owe you so much more than you realise" Oscar whispers suddenly before smiling. "I'm going to let you sleep. I love you, we'll talk tomorrow. I'm going to play padel."
"I love you too, talk tomorrow and have fun. Try to win...unless it's Carlos, Lance or Fernando. In which case accept a gracious defeat."
summary: no one understands how Oscar suddenly dropped facts after facts on the most random historical events
based on this request (by my favorite ever)
liked by mclaren, redbullracing and 1,300,000 others
f1 🎥 Grill the Grid: High School Edition is HERE
Watch our drivers struggle with math problems, historical dates, and chemical reactions 👀
Spoiler alert: we had some surprises.
view all comments:
lando who gave oscar a cheat sheet? be honest
charles_leclerc I would like a rematch with no ancient greek questions please
yukitsunoda0511 I said “napoleon” for everything. Not my fault it worked twice.
mclaren We are also surprised. Very surprised.
redbullracing Gonna have to bring this up to the stewards 🙂↔️
fernandoalo_oficial finally, someone knows I was there when Caesar was stabbed
alex_albon me watching oscar answer every history and geography question with his arms crossed like he’s on who wants to be a millionaire😭
user bro oscar even corrected the quizmaster once. is he ok?
user oscar casually dropping historical facts like it’s not suspicious at all…
user i'm so glad they are f1 drivers and not doctors or something
user why did oscar answer all of that without blinking? i’m scared 💀
user nah bc that man answered “Battle of Waterloo” like it was a pop quiz at dinner. WHO ARE YOU 😩
user oscar's not real. he’s a government experiment gone rogue
user the way he SMIRKED when he got the Cold War question right?? sir who are you trying to impress 😭😭😭
user idk if i want to kiss oscar or force him to write my next essay
user charles i expected more from you
user no but Lando getting the math question was so sweet
user when max said “well technically…” I felt that in my bones.
> user he maxplained that whole video and still lost
> maxverstappen1 I want a rematch
Oscar Piastri just added to his Instagram Story
"Great read 👍"
liked by oscarpiastri, yourusername, mclaren and 757,000 others
SkySportsF1 🎤 Oscar Piastri revealed or us the secret behind all his world history knowledge:
“It just sort of happens when you date a historian. Everything becomes a lesson. She once paused a movie to explain Dutch colonialism.”
View all comments:
user not me googling “how to become a historian”
user she paused a movie to explain Dutch colonialism and he STAYED??? yeah he’s in love your honor
user no bc i’d explain imperialism mid-makeout if he asked 😭
user that household must be insufferable
user I too wanna monologue to Oscar during breakfast
user imagine pausing a movie to rant about colonialism and he looks at you like it’s the hottest thing ever? god i’m weak
user and he LISTENED??? he RECALLS the info??
user she taught him centuries of world history and what did he give her back? driving lessons?
user “everything becomes a lesson” sir that is the dream 😭 i want to analyze the French Revolution over dinner too
user this is what happens when you date a girl who annotates books and knows who Franz Ferdinand is
user i want what they have. and by that i mean him. and also her brain. pls.
lando so you’re telling me i lost to oscar in Grill the Grid bc his gf is smarter than everyone at McLaren combined?
> oscarpiastri: you lost because you said Napoleon invented the calendar
> yourusername: to be fair… he did change the calendar. you were just off by a few emperors
> lando: OH MY GOD SHE’S HERE I’M SORRY PLEASE DON’T QUIZ ME
alex_albon oscarpiastri she paused a movie to explain colonialism and you didn’t RUN? bro you’re in deep
> oscarpiastri: i stayed. i took notes. there was a powerpoint.
> yourusername: in my defense, it was really bad colonialism. like offensively inaccurate.
> user: i am obsessed with the fact that she said “bad colonialism” like it’s a genre of film
> user: alex is 100% pretending he gets this rn
georgerussell63 I want to add to the conversation that just 5 minutes ago during a chat this man casually cited the Meiji Restoration.
danielricciardo nah bc when she paused the movie he just sat there?? with his mouth shut?? couldn’t be me 💀
> yourusername he nodded. he asked questions. it was adorable.
> danielricciardo stop you’re going to make the rest of us look bad
mclaren Confirmed: Oscar is now banned from date night and team trivia. Unfair advantage.
user WHY IS SHE SO CASUAL IN THE COMMENTS I’D DIE
> user she’s literally explaining history and being hot about it
> user no bc she called it “bad colonialism” and suddenly I need a PhD
>user someone make a TikTok of her best comments, we’re documenting greatness in real time
charles_leclerc If my girlfriend taught me history i’d listen too 🥺
> alexandrasaintmleux you can't even tell me who painted the Mona Lisa
> charles_leclerc I said "history" 🙄
user do you think Ferrari can hire her to do something?
> user omg what would she even do there?
> user anything is better than what they have ❤️ liked by charles_leclerc
liked by yourusername, lando, mclaren and 2,400,000 others
oscarpiastri Turns out there are so many good museums in England Also I now know what mercantilism is now.
view all comments
lando i want her to quiz me
charles_leclerc I refuse to learn, but i’m proud of you
georgerussell63 do you think she tutors for fun?? asking for me
alex_albon you’re literally a walking historical source
danielricciardo please ask her to explain the entire French Revolution to me in meme format
maxverstappen1 you scare me but i respect it
user THEY ARE TOURING HISTORICAL LOCATIONS 🥹🥹🥹🥹
user i know he’s got a napoleon bobblehead
user dating a historian and surviving is proof he’s the chosen one
liked by oscarpiastri, yourbff, mclaren and 8,150 others
yourusername He said “teach me everything” and now he can name every Cold War proxy war. Proud of my little historian-in-training. Also yes, he scored higher than some of my students on the practice quiz.📚💋
view all comments
oscarpiastri Cold War was a vibe
georgerussell63 okay but she’s intimidating in a hot way
> oscarpiastri don’t call my girlfriend hot. LEAVE.
> georgerussell63 it was a compliment 😅😅😅
charles_leclerc imagine being forced to learn at dinner 😔
lando can she explain the space race to me using memes and finger puppets
> oscarpiastri are you 2??
user “cold war was a vibe” i’m IN TEARS
user she’s not just teaching him history. she’s giving him range
user whatever taylor swift said about you know how to ball i know aristotle
user i would risk it all for her to yell about the ottoman empire in my kitchen
hattiepiastri just watched him explain the industrial revolution like it was a bedtime story
kimiantonelli who even knows what happened in 1848????
> user aren’t you supposed to be learning that in school?
user is this a kink thing?
user dating a historian sounds like a trap. a sexy, educational trap.
maxverstappen1 can you prepare me for the next grill the grid?
> yourusername sure thing!!
> oscarpiastri NO
liked by lando, oscarpiastri and 1,450,000 others
mclaren Study season. Quiz night prep. We no longer know if this is for history or Hungary GP. 🧠🏁📚
view all comments
oscarpiastri she just asked me to rank my favorite Enlightenment philosophers. it’s 10pm. i said Kant and she said “incorrect.”
> yourusername it was a trick question. you were supposed to say “you, darling”
> oscarpiastri i’m logging off before I get in trouble
> user I NEED THEM TO ADOPT ME
lando does this mean i can’t cheat???
> oscarpiastri she said next time you cheat off me she’s quizzing you on Byzantine trade routes
> lando nevermind i’m studying. i’m SCARED.
yourusername Quiz night winner gets free coffee. Loser gets a 20-minute lecture on the French Revolution.
> mclaren we are printing flashcards as we speak
alex_albon imagine prepping for Hungary and getting hit with “define the Treaty of Utrecht” over breakfast
> oscarpiastri: she did that. literally. it was before coffee.
charles_leclerc what’s happening? Why is everyone smarter now.
> georgerussell63 she’s infecting the grid with knowledge. we’re not safe
> fernandoalo_oficial finally.
user this is the power of a woman who annotates books and kisses you mid-lecture
user can’t wait until one of them starts mixing up tire degradation with the fall of the Ottoman Empire
after one very good night together, oscar piastri finds himself with two problems: he has no way of contacting you, and he can’t stop thinking about you.
genre: rom-com, he falls first and hard, friends with benefits to lovers, idiots in love (per usual).
warnings: fluff to the point of diabetes, oscar piastri being catastrophically down bad, friends with benefits who are very bad at being casual, stolen hoodies, mutual pining and poor decision-making, dry humour, soft kisses, and public yearning, a concerning amount of fond staring, implied sexual content, happy ending, obviously.
word count: 10k
a/n: after throwing away two different versions of this exact story, i’m finally handing this one over to you! this one genuinely fought me every step of the way, but i made it through. this idea actually wasn’t mine in the first place. it came from this request, so thank you so much, anon, for sending it in! there are probably still a few little mistakes here and there, and a million things my perfectionist brain would still love to tweak, but at some point i had to let it go. i had so much fun writing this in the end, and i really hope you have just as much fun reading it ❤️🩹
The first thing Oscar feels when he wakes up is a pleasant ache all over his body.
Which part of him feels the most sore? Hard to say. He’s used to physical exertion, but maybe, for the first time in his life, he’s actually reached his limit. I mean… things really did get a little out of hand. But how could they not have? He had nothing to do yesterday, neither did you, and wow… wow…
A small sleepy smile tugs at his lips as he lets himself sink back into the mattress. Nice. His eyes remain closed, and he’s so close to drifting back to sleep… so close… sleep is already catching up to him again, but—
You jolt upright like you’ve just been struck by lightning, and when you reach for your phone on the nightstand, your next “fuck!” comes out even more desperate.
There’s no time to waste. Your body is running on pure adrenaline as you bend down to grab your panties first, pulling them on with impressive speed, then your bra, your jeans, your shirt… Your movements are frantic, and Oscar has only managed to push himself up in bed enough to rub at his eyes and try to keep up as you whirl around the room like a hurricane, looking for your socks.
“What… what’s happening?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.
You don’t even look at him as you finally tug your socks on and jump off the bed, dropping to your knees to reach for the sneakers that somehow ended up underneath it.
“I got a text. I have ten minutes to get to work. Shit. It was supposed to be my day off,” you complain, tying your laces.
Your hoodie. Oh my God. How many layers had you even been wearing last night? Where is it?
Oscar gets up. Calmly, he walks to the other side of the room and picks up his hoodie, which had been hanging over the back of the desk chair.
“Here. Don’t worry about giving it back,” he says, holding it out to you.
Your shoulders relax a little, and your hands close around the fabric before you shrug it on.
“Sorry for rushing out like this. Last night was really good, Oscar. Seriously,” you say, already heading toward the bedroom door. In a second, you’re in the living room, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and then you’re already at the front door, running your hands through your hair. “I loved meeting you. Hope you have a great day. Bye, cutie!”
And you blow him a kiss.
Oscar, naked and slightly bewildered, gives you a lopsided smile and a little wave, watching as you rush out of his house and straight into whatever morning disaster had stolen you from his bed.
From that distance, he can see through the front windows, past the curtains, the moment you reach the curb and wave down your Uber. Once you’re inside that car and it’s pulling away toward whatever address your job requires of you, Oscar finds himself officially alone.
He clears his throat, as if someone might be there to witness his pitiful state, and turns on his heel, heading to the bathroom.
He can say with a certain amount of pride that he left you with something to remember him by. He’s a perfectionist, deliberate by nature, which means the marks he left behind won’t be visible to the world, nothing that would give away exactly what happened inside those four walls to anyone looking from the outside, but you’ll notice them. That’s enough for him. When you look at yourself in the mirror, there they’ll be: two on either side of your waist, four on your stomach, and the faint little trail along the inside of your thighs. Ah, yes. He remembers those. Remembers how his mouth ended up there, making you sigh louder and—
No. Hang on. That’s too much.
Oscar needs to turn on the shower. Cold setting.
The water comes down over him in a steady cascade, doing what it can to freeze those thoughts in his mind before they have the chance to become a far more immediate part of his bloodstream. And once that happens, there’s only one direction they’ll go. Down, down, down. And how humiliating would it be to spend the rest of the day in that condition?
Fuck.
Oscar Piastri is reliving the final moments of his night with an intensity that can’t possibly be healthy.
He presses his wet forehead against the wall and closes his eyes. He’s really trying… but his hand already knows exactly where to go.
The thing about Oscar is that he’s not an impulsive man. If anything, the opposite is true. Everybody knows that. Calm and collected have been the two words trailing after him ever since he became relevant enough for the media to care. It’s his thing. His whole brand, really. Oscar Piastri: Calm & Collected™.
Only once in his life has he taken that particular fact about himself and thrown it straight out the window, consequences be damned. How did that happen?
The night before, in what was a completely justifiable course of action, Oscar had been lingering in the corner of the club, near the bar, a glass of his favorite tropical yellow drink in hand, when your voice cut through the air:
“Is that any good?”
He turns, the rim of the glass still pressed to his lips halfway through a sip. The first thing he notices is the purple and blue light catching on the glitter dusted across your cheeks. It's an interesting look. Artistic, somehow. He finishes the sip and lowers the glass.
The long lashes framing your eyes are still there. So is your gaze. Steady. Unbothered. Fixed on him.
"It's alright," he says, leaning back against the wall.
A hum of approval leaves you as you step a little closer.
"I was thinking about getting a drink too. Got any recommendations?" you ask, using that sweet, faintly distracted tone accompanied by a small smile that seems to be saying far more than the words themselves.
"I'm not sure I'm the best person to be giving that kind of advice," Oscar replies, taking another sip of his drink.
You tilt your head slightly, your smile growing just a little wider.
"I thought you were an expert. You've been standing here for a while."
That gets his attention. Oscar tips his head back slightly, narrowing his eyes as though he’s trying to solve a particularly complicated case.
"You've been watching me," he says at last.
The mischievous smile spreading across your face is answer enough.
"Have I?" you reply, slipping past him to look over the selection of drinks displayed behind the bar.
It takes exactly ten minutes for Oscar to end up at the back of the club, your hands tangled in his hair, both of you kissing like it’s a competition to see who can be more impatient.
His hands are everywhere.
Mostly because he can't seem to decide where he wants to touch you first. Jesus Christ. He's never kissed anyone like this before. There's so much heat, so much urgency, that neither of you notices when his hand slides down to your ass.
You both notice when he squeezes.
And he definitely notices the muffled sound you make against his mouth.
"Did you drive here?" you ask somewhere between kisses.
"Taxi," he murmurs. "Alcohol."
"Hm. Good call."
His mouth finds yours again immediately.
A few seconds later—
"Your place?" you ask.
"Okay.”
So, yeah. Right. It had been a good start to a good night that ended a little too abruptly, but… well, that’s okay. Oscar isn’t even thinking about it. He’s definitely not thinking about how he would’ve liked to bring you into his kitchen for a nice cup of coffee, maybe make you scrambled eggs because it’s simple enough to pull off and still might somehow surprise you, and talk about what the rest of your week was going to look like and all that.
He’d kiss you again.
Well, he’d want to. Obviously. If you wanted to. After breakfast, of course. And then he’d take you to the shower and the two of you could… you know. Again. Yes. Right. He would like that.
As he makes his way over to the simulator, though, he goes back over the morning in his head. Tries to figure out what happened. Because you weren’t upset with him. You weren’t angry at him. God, what kind of massive ego would Oscar have to think that anything about that morning had been his fault? You got called into work on your day off, and even then, you were still sweet enough to blow him a kiss on your way out.
Knowing all of that, why is he still so disappointed?
Oscar turns on the simulator, waits for the screen to light up, and settles into the seat. When he lets out a slow breath, he makes himself a promise: he’s going to let it go.
At some point in the middle of the night, Oscar is sitting on the bed while you’re walking back from the bathroom. The only thing on your body is his t-shirt.
You stop halfway across the room, hands settling on your waist as you look at him with one eyebrow raised and a small smile on your face.
“What?” he asks, squinting at you.
You shrug and shake your head. Don’t say anything. You just climb back onto the bed and make your way over to him.
“I want to kiss you again,” you say, swinging one leg over either side of his lap before wrapping both arms around his neck.
Oscar arches an eyebrow too.
“I think you can kiss me again.”
“You think?” you ask, resting your forehead against his.
“I thought you were tired,” he murmurs, a small smile tugging at his lips.
“Oh, I lied,” you whisper, leaning in to press your lips to his through your own smile.
His arms wrap around your waist, and then his hands slip beneath the hem of the t-shirt, his fingers gliding slowly upward and sending shivers racing across your skin. And the two of you have touched each other like this so many times since you got there, but Oscar still hasn’t gotten tired of the sound that leaves your mouth when he reaches the middle of your back and pulls you even closer against him.
Maybe Oscar isn’t actually all that good at keeping promises he makes to himself, because it’s already halfway through the next day and you still haven’t texted him. He doesn’t want to think about it, but he does anyway.
That’s not even the worst part.
At some point that morning, while taking out the trash, Oscar realized the two of you never exchanged numbers. Of course you’re not going to text him. But even if you did have his number, would it really be a problem if you didn’t text him? Oscar likes to think not.
He calls Lando.
“Hey, mate!” Lando greets, sounding a little distracted. “You left the club pretty early that night.”
“Hey,” Oscar says back, pinning the phone between his ear and shoulder so he can wash his hands at the kitchen sink. “Uh, yeah. I… went home.”
Lando laughs.
“With a girl. I saw,” he says, and Oscar straightens up, clearing his throat.
“Right. Yeah. You… you saw her with me?”
“Of course, mate. You literally waved goodbye to me as a warning, remember?”
Yes, Oscar had forgotten that.
“Do you… Do you think you know who she is?”
“Like, if she’s an influencer or something? Mate, I don’t think so,” Lando says, and Oscar can practically picture him shaking his head. “Anyway, I’ve gotta go deal with something. But good for you, though. Glad you had fun. I know these shiny party things aren’t really your scene.”
A small smile tugs at Oscar’s mouth.
“Yeah. It was fun,” he admits.
“Right. And about the girl, if I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
“Thanks.”
“No worries. See you, mate.”
And finally, the call ends.
Oscar locks his phone, slips it into his pocket, and heads into the living room. He drops onto the couch, turns on the TV, and tries, really tries, to focus on the action movie playing in front of him, where some woman is busy throwing herself from one building to the next.
The only problem is that she looks a little too much like you.
You’re sitting on top of him, hands braced against his chest. His own hands rest on your thighs, thumbs stroking over your skin while you look down at him, again and again.
“You’ve got so many freckles,” you say, lifting a finger to touch a few scattered across his chest.
Oscar nods, a tiny smile pulling at his lips.
“I do. I think it’s genetics mixed with sun exposure,” he explains without much thought, because that’s simply what he’s always assumed.
Your head tilts to the side as you reach up to touch the small constellation along his neck. Oscar swallows.
“I once heard this theory that freckles show up in the places where your soulmate used to kiss you most in a past life,” you say, continuing your careful little exploration as your fingertips brush softly over his cheek.
Oscar closes his eyes.
“I didn’t know that,” he murmurs.
You let out a small laugh and lean down to press a quick kiss to his lips.
“I think your soulmate must’ve loved you very much in your past life,” you say.
And just like that, the conversation is over, because Oscar is kissing you again, and you kiss him back without even thinking.
He’s been running for hours now.
Oscar glances at the time and, yes, a full two hours.
His hair is soaked with sweat, and his t-shirt is even worse. Honestly, he’s pretty disgusting, if he stops to think about it. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps running, slipping past people like a guided missile — except he doesn’t actually have anywhere programmed to go.
Oscar just runs.
He called his trainer earlier to say he’d be doing his cardio outside today, which surprised the man enough, but he said it was fine as long as Oscar actually did it. Of course Oscar was going to do it. He just needed to get out for a while.
The pace of his feet only starts to slow when he turns onto a familiar street.
It’s not really a run anymore, just a slow walk along the cobbled street of the shopping district where some of the best clubs in the city are tucked away. Not exactly the kind of place people go for a casual stroll, but no one in Monaco would question it — the country is small enough that any stretch of road can be justified if you try hard enough.
He stops in front of that club.
The one where he met you three days ago.
“Can I help you with something?” the bouncer asks, giving him the flat, unreadable look of someone who’s had to deal with every kind of drunk in Monaco.
Oscar blinks at him, a little thoughtful, because he doesn’t really know how he ended up there, let alone what exactly he wants to ask.
But he has to ask something.
“There’s a girl who comes here. We met a few days ago, and I was wondering if maybe she’d shown up again after that, or if… if she’s a regular. If you remember her,” he says.
The man just raises his eyebrows and waits.
Oscar describes you to him. First name, age, height, job, eye color, what you were wearing, the way your gaze looks, the makeup you had on… everything he knows.
Then he waits.
The bouncer shrugs.
“No clue, mate. A lot of people come through here.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake. How could he not recognize you with a description like that? Of course, Oscar doesn’t say any of that. He just nods politely and says,
“Right. Thanks.”
That, apparently, is the end of his walk home. Oscar decides he’d rather take an Uber back.
With one arm wrapped around your waist, Oscar keeps you tucked against him. Your body is still full of little aftershocks, still humming with the kind of pleasure that hasn’t fully faded yet, leaving you with nothing but a deep, sleepy need to stay exactly where you are — warm, boneless, and held against him.
Oscar lets out a very, very satisfied laugh and slides his other hand down to your hip.
“You okay?” he asks, his nose brushing into your hair.
“Hmm… yes,” you mumble, stretching out the word in a soft, sleepy little sound that makes him tighten his arm around you. “I’m slowly coming back to the real world.”
“I’ll wait,” Oscar murmurs, and you nod against him. “We should probably take a shower.”
You snuggle in closer.
“Can we stay like this for a little longer?” you ask in a whisper.
How was Oscar supposed to deny you anything?
“Of course we can,” he replies, and you melt against him.
It’s been two weeks, and Oscar doesn’t think about that night anymore. Or about the fact that, somewhere in the city, you’re out there living your life. Maybe wearing his favorite hoodie — the one he’s probably never getting back. The idea is ridiculous, obviously, and not something he spends any real time dwelling on.
So he carries on as if nothing ever happened, which is how he’s ended up at the supermarket, standing in the pasta aisle with a thoughtful look on his face. He's pretending he has any clue what separates one type of pasta from another, even though he already knows he’s leaving with five boxes of spaghetti either way.
That's when a woman passes by him.
Oscar’s head snaps up, and he turns so quickly it’s almost embarrassing, because for one stupid second, he’s sure that—
Oh.
No.
She doesn’t look anything like… anyone he knows.
Oscar goes still for a moment, then turns back to his cart and drops the boxes of pasta inside, red as a bell pepper as he heads for the checkout.
“Hi… are you Oscar Piastri?”
He blinks, sliding the gas nozzle back into place before turning toward the little girl staring up at him with huge brown eyes.
“Sorry, she… she spotted you from over there and really wanted to come say hi. I hope we’re not bothering you,” her mother says.
The smile that spreads across Oscar’s face is slow, but entirely genuine. He shakes his head and glances down again, this time noticing the orange cap in the little girl’s hands, with the number 81 stitched across the front.
“I don’t actually have a pen on me to sign—”
“Here.” Her mother quickly holds one out.
“Thanks,” Oscar says, taking both the pen and the cap. “Alright, what’s your name?”
“Estelle.”
“Estelle? That’s a beautiful name,” he says, scribbling his autograph across the cap before handing it back to her.
Her mother lifts her phone to take a picture, and Oscar steps closer to the little girl, smiling as he raises a thumbs-up for the camera.
“Did you get it?”
“Yes, I did. Thank you so much, Piastri.”
“Yeah, thanks, Piastri! Hope you actually win next year, at least.”
Her mother looks instantly mortified, but Oscar just laughs as he hands the pen back to her.
“I’m hoping to win too,” he says, giving Estelle a friendly pat on the top of the head. “Soon.”
The two of them wave goodbye and start to turn away, and Oscar lifts his head to watch them go… only to catch sight, all the way across the station, of someone very, very familiar climbing into a car and pulling the door shut.
For one long second, he just stands there in the middle of the gas station.
His McLaren is still parked by the pump. A line is starting to form behind it. Fuck. There’s a line. But—
He blinks.
It’ll be quick. There are other pumps.
He doesn’t think.
Oscar bolts past the two girls in such a sudden rush that even the attendants stop what they’re doing to stare. He keeps going, one step after the other, because Oscar only ever runs like this when he’s training, except now he has somewhere to be, and you’re getting farther and farther away, and if he doesn’t catch you now, maybe he never will.
He needs to know how you are.
And you’re right there.
And he’s almost there. And your engine is already turning over and—
Oscar is completely out of breath.
He comes to a stop beside your car, one hand braced against the hood, the other on his knee. This is so wildly out of character for him that he nearly passes out from the sheer realization of what he’s doing and where he’s doing it. Jesus Christ. One second. Calm down.
Your door swings open. He knows because he hears it.
Oscar shouldn’t be this affected. He has athlete lungs. Twenty-five years on this earth without ever touching a cigarette.
Fuck.
“Oscar?” you say, your brow furrowing as you hurry toward him. “Oh my God. Oscar!”
Finally — and very slowly — Oscar straightens up enough to look at you.
“Are you okay?” you ask, your hands flying to his shoulders, mostly because he still isn’t saying anything and he’s pale as a ghost, which is starting to genuinely scare you.
But he just blinks. Looks down at your hand.
“I am,” he says with a nod. “I’m okay.”
You’re not entirely sure you believe him, but you let your hands fall away anyway. Back at the station, a chorus of car horns starts going off, and the attendants have gathered in a small cluster, all waving impatiently for him to hurry up. Oscar looks mildly horrified.
“Wait here, okay? Don’t leave,” he says, lifting a finger toward you even as he’s already moving. “I need to get my car out of there, but I’ll be right back.”
Your eyes blink once, but you… you nod.
Okay.
Oscar hurries back toward the gas station, murmuring quiet apologies to a few people on the way before finally making it to his car and pulling it out of the way.
Oscar comes back a minute later, shutting the door of his McLaren with a little more force than necessary before making his way toward you.
You’re still standing beside your car, arms folded loosely over your chest now, watching him with a look that lands somewhere between concern and confusion.
For a second, neither of you says anything.
Oscar clears his throat.
“So,” he says, a little breathless still. “Hi.”
You blink at him.
“Hi,” you echo, like you’re not entirely sure this qualifies as a normal greeting after whatever the hell that was two minutes ago.
His mouth twitches.
“Sorry about the…” He gestures vaguely behind him, as if that explains anything. “Running.”
Your eyebrows lift.
“Right,” you say slowly. “I was going to ask.”
Oscar glances away for half a second, then back at you.
“Yeah. No, that’s fair.”
And there it is — the smallest hint of embarrassment settling over his face, enough to make something warm flicker in your chest before you can stop it.
“I just—” He stops, exhales through his nose, and tries again. “I saw you getting into your car and thought if I let you leave without saying anything, I’d probably regret it.”
The way he says it makes you let out a breath.
“You idiot,” you say simply.
Oscar arches an eyebrow.
“You didn’t have to leave half of Monaco annoyed at you because of me,” you say, shaking your head before uncrossing your arms and stepping forward to wrap him in a hug. “This is how you’re supposed to greet someone, see?”
Shaking his head, he lets out a quiet laugh. Oscar isn’t even sure he’s allowed to do this, but he wraps his arms around you too, and the hug is a little awkward, a little clumsy — mostly because the two of you barely know each other and… yeah. You barely know each other. The thought makes him frown.
“How are you?” he asks, pulling away slowly.
You shrug.
“Normal. Fine. I’ve been working on a few new projects for uni this week,” you say, a little dreamily, gathering your hair in one hand as the wind keeps blowing it out of place. “I was actually on my way to get lunch. Do you want to come with me? It’s better than standing out here. My hair’s about two seconds away from sticking to my lip gloss and turning into a complete disaster.”
Oscar blinks because… did he hear you right? Lunch? You just asked him to lunch? As if the past two weeks hadn’t existed at all? As if they hadn’t been their own special little version of hell on earth?
“Yeah,” he says a little too quickly.
Then he clears his throat.
“Yeah. Sure. If you want.”
And because apparently he’s determined to make this worse for himself, he adds, a touch too late to sound normal:
“I mean— yes. I’d like that.”
A quiet laugh slips out of you at that, but all you say is,
“I’ll be right in front of you. No running this time, okay?”
As you walk back to your car, leaving Oscar behind, he rolls his eyes — but he’s smiling so hard it completely ruins the effect.
He drives slowly behind you, following your car through the streets of Monaco toward whatever lunch spot you had in mind. It’s not far, but it gives Oscar more than enough time to think. Or, more accurately, to sit there in a state of mild disbelief. For one brief second, he genuinely considers the possibility that he’s hallucinating. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe he hit his head somewhere between the petrol station and the parking spot. Maybe this is one of those bizarre out-of-body experiences people talk about, because up until today, you had been nothing more than a very good memory in his head — and now you’re leading him to lunch. Lunch. A thing you invited him to. With your own mouth.
Despite everything, Oscar really had thought there was a decent chance he’d never see you again.
By the time you pull into a parking space and step out of the car, he’s still sitting behind the wheel of his own, staring at you from that short distance like he’s trying to come up with some logical explanation for why this is happening at all. You walk over after a second, leaning down just enough to tap twice against his window.
“Come on,” you say.
Oscar drags his tongue over his bottom lip and nods, like that somehow makes him look less like a man who’s currently being led around by divine intervention.
As you walk into the restaurant, you head in front first to speak to the host, explaining that the reservation had originally been for one, but that you had a last-minute guest. He looks ready to say that won’t be possible — right up until he catches sight of Oscar and his eyebrows lift. Alright, then. He can come in.
You nod, and the two of you are led to your table, Oscar offering the man a grateful nod of his own while still biting the inside of his cheek, because he still hasn’t quite gotten used to how easily doors open for him.
And then, finally, you’re seated. One across from the other.
Oscar hadn’t actually thought that far ahead.
Your hand goes straight for the menu, and Oscar tries not to look at you too much. Predictably, he fails. Your lashes stay lowered as your eyes move from one option to the next, widening with interest whenever something catches your attention and narrowing again whenever something sounds questionable enough to make you pull a face. Your cheeks are pink, and you tap the edge of one nail against your tooth while you think.
“Do you eat seafood?” you ask after a moment, still scanning the menu.
“Yeah,” Oscar says. “Why?”
Now you finally look up at him.
“Because I kind of want the shrimp bucket,” you say. “But it’s way too much food for one person. Do you want to split it with me?”
A small smile appears at the corner of his mouth.
“Yeah,” he says, nodding once. “I’d like that.”
You smile too and close the menu, then lean forward to rest your cheek against your hand.
Now it’s your turn to look at him. At his hair, his soft face, the freckles scattered across his skin…
“It’s been a little while since that night, hasn’t it?” you say. “If I’d known you were going to be here, I would’ve left your hoodie in the car.”
Oscar shakes his head.
“I told you not to worry about that.”
You smile faintly.
“So how’ve you been?” you ask. “Did you go back to the club? You said Lando likes going there.”
“Not really,” Oscar says. Not in the way you mean. “Lando’s more into that sort of thing than I am.”
You nod.
“Right.”
“What about you?” he asks. “Did you go back?”
“No, no. I haven’t had time,” you say. “Like I said, these projects have completely taken over my life lately—”
A waiter appears beside the table, and you glance up with a quick smile.
“Oh, hi. We’ll get the shrimp bucket, and…” Your eyes flick back to Oscar. “What do you want to drink, Osc?”
Osc.
His smile widens, just a little.
“The berry Italian soda, please,” he says. “Non-alcoholic.”
You nod and turn back to the waiter.
“And mine can just be strawberry, please.”
The waiter writes it down, and you thank him softly before he walks away.
“I love this restaurant,” you say, glancing around before your attention catches on an elderly couple tucked away in the corner. Oscar notices the little smile on your face and follows your gaze.
They’re adorable. The man is holding an analog camera, and his wife is posing like someone who knows, without a doubt, that she’s adored.
“They look happy,” Oscar says, tilting his head slightly.
Your nose scrunches with a smile as you turn back to him.
“They really do. They come here all the time.”
He lifts an eyebrow.
“So you’re a regular.”
A tiny smile tugs at your mouth.
“I’m a creature of habit.”
That earns a quiet laugh from Oscar.
“I’ve never been here before,” he says, glancing up at the decorations hanging from the ceiling. Everything about the place feels so… oceanic. A wash of blue and white, starfish painted along the walls, dark wood everywhere.
You grin.
“Yeah, they really commit to the theme.”
Oscar’s mouth twitches.
“I’m a creature of habit too,” he says. “I usually stick to the restaurants in the city centre.”
Your eyes widen.
“The ones that are basically lit entirely by candlelight?”
He shrugs.
“They’re charming.”
That pulls a soft laugh out of you.
“I’ve never been to any of them. People have recommended them to me, but I just never got around to it.”
“Maybe we—” He stops himself, already knowing exactly where that sentence was headed. But Oscar pushes on anyway. “If you ever think it sounds nice, maybe we could go there sometime. I imagine it’s better with company.”
Seeing the look on your face, Oscar realizes with a flicker of nerves that you’re actually considering what he said. And when you nod, all soft expression and soft eyes, he feels his shoulders loosen.
“I’d love that,” you say.
A small smile tugs at the corner of Oscar’s mouth.
“Yeah?” he says, like he just needs to hear it one more time.
Your smile deepens.
“Yeah.”
If Oscar could, he’d probably put this afternoon somewhere near the top of the list of the best days of his life. He can’t quite explain why, but maybe it has something to do with the fact that two weeks of waiting have finally led him here — to the realization that you’re still the same person who laid your head on his chest and asked for five more minutes.
How exactly is anyone supposed to recover from that kind of experience?
Well. Oscar doesn’t have an answer.
The question only gets worse over Italian sodas and fried shrimp, when you point at the sauce on his cheek with a laugh. The table is full of laughter after that, and the two of you talk about everything. And when you lean in to hear his answer to whatever question you’ve just asked, Oscar almost lets himself believe you keep asking and asking and asking just because you like the way he explains things.
Later, when you lead him to the back of the restaurant to show him the view of the sea, you point at a gull gliding back and forth overhead and say,
“That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”
But Oscar looks down at you and, for the first time that afternoon, feels the urge to disagree.
The days pass easily.
You don’t do anything out of the ordinary. Work, home, university. University, work, home. Lunch squeezed into whatever break the day happens to give you. The same routine, the same schedule, the same familiar little rush from one place to the next.
But now there’s something extra tucked into the middle of it all — a nice surprise that, if you’re being honest, you really hadn’t seen coming.
Ever since that lunch with Oscar, when you gave him your number so he could actually arrange the dinner the two of you had talked about, things have been… fun.
Which isn’t exactly shocking. He is nice; you already knew that much. You’d spent a night together, after all. A very intense night, actually. Intense enough that every now and then, when the memory sneaks up on you at the worst possible moment, your cheeks go warm because you genuinely don’t know who you were that night. Some insatiable little menace must have taken over your body. It’s the only explanation that makes any sense.
You hadn’t meant for any of it to turn into more than that. A handsome guy at a bar, one good night of sex to work the tension out of your system after a string of exhausting days and the thousand things you always seem to have on your plate, and… well. That was supposed to be it. A solid plan. A very reasonable plan.
Then Oscar had quite literally run after you and nearly passed out in the process, leaving you a little stunned and far more charmed than you should probably admit.
So now, apparently, this is your life.
On your way into work, you stop halfway across the courtyard because a gull is circling overhead, and your first thought, naturally, is that Oscar needs to see it. You pull your phone from your pocket, angle the camera upward, and snap a picture before sending it off with the caption:
look. they’re following me now.
He replies two minutes later.
have you considered the possibility that they’re spying on you?
You lift an eyebrow, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you head for the door and type back:
gulls aren’t spies. pigeons are.
His answer comes through almost immediately.
have you ever seen a baby gull?
And honestly, you don’t have a response to that. Not one that matters, anyway. All you can do is laugh under your breath as you pull the door open, because no — now that he’s mentioned it, you’ve never actually seen a baby gull in your life.
“Well, look who’s in a good mood,” Bonnie, the woman at reception, says.
You glance up, still smiling as you make your way toward the staff room.
“Just having a good week,” you reply.
And you’re not lying.
The day goes by nicely. Work is exactly what it’s always been too, nothing's new. The schedule is predictable, your break happens at the same time it always does, but there’s something particularly entertaining about knowing that, at around four in the afternoon, you can pull out your phone and text someone that Susan from finance is cheating on her husband with Robert, the man who delivers the chemicals for the photo developers.
Oscar seems especially horrified by the replies he sends back, and when he says that maybe he should tell Susan’s husband, you let out a laugh so loud that the girls in the booth immediately tell you to keep it down. You nod, covering your mouth with one hand as you text back, you’re getting me into trouble here. He answers almost immediately with a simple okay, sorry, and somehow that’s enough to leave a small smile lingering on your face.
Yes. Yes, things have been nice.
His break is almost over, which means you won’t be in the same city for much longer. Soon enough, he’ll go back to travelling the world in his tight little racing suit — as you so kindly pointed out to him. Oscar had smiled at that one and made sure you knew it by sending back a bright little 😁.
This gives you an idea.
It’s a silly one. Probably a little more compromising than you’re giving it credit for. But you and Oscar are friends now, aren’t you? And you’ve already slept together once. It was good. Very good. So what harm could a second night together really do, when he’s about to spend so much time away? It wouldn’t be anything new. If anything, it might even help. Oscar has an exhausting job. You have an exhausting job.
It takes him fifteen minutes to reply to your suggestion with a simple okay. Then it takes him an hour and a half to show up at your door.
Glancing around before opening it, you suddenly wonder if you might’ve backed yourself into a corner a little. It’s not as though you were trying to be subtle about why Oscar was here, but maybe the low yellow lighting and the slow music are making the whole thing feel a touch more deliberate than you meant it to. A flicker of embarrassment runs through you, and you hurry over to your phone, biting the inside of your cheek as you hit pause.
Okay. Better. Your shoulders loosen, and you head for the door.
“Hi,” you say, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you pull it open.
Oscar looks ridiculous.
Ridiculously attractive, to be specific.
You’re not blind. You knew that from the first time you saw him leaning against that wall at the club, all soft eyes and unfairly pretty mouth. And when he gives you that crooked little smile, whatever lingering doubt you had evaporates on the spot.
This was absolutely the right decision.
God, you’re a genius.
“Hi,” he says back.
Your eyebrows lift, just a little, because suddenly you’re not nervous anymore. Not really. What you don’t know is that Oscar’s heart is beating so fast it might actually give up from exhaustion at any moment.
You tilt your head toward the inside of the house, silently inviting him in.
The door clicks shut behind you as you head for the couch. Oscar follows, glancing around with that curious, slightly charmed look on his face, but in the end, his attention settles back on you. He walks over and sits beside you.
“So…” he says, flicking you a quick glance. “Do you want to talk?”
The little look on your face already answers for you, but you say it anyway.
“We already talk all the time.”
Oscar laughs.
It’s low and warm and quietly melodic, and then he reaches for you, because suddenly he understands that he can. That he’s allowed to. That you want this just as much as he does. Christ, you invited him here.
You shift closer and swing your legs over his hips, and you know he loves that. He told you so that night. He told you so many things and nothing at all, and somehow, you remembered every single one.
“I want to kiss you,” he says, his eyes dropping to your mouth.
“I think you can kiss me,” you reply, repeating the same thing he’d said to you nights and nights ago.
His smile widens.
“You think?”
“I’m pretty sure you’re not tired, so I’m not going to keep following the script. I haven’t worn you out yet,” you murmur, lifting your hands to his cheeks.
And Oscar becomes quite certain that he could die right there and still be perfectly happy about it in the afterlife.
He leans in, and he already knows exactly what to do.
You part your lips for him straight away, because this kiss was never supposed to be soft. No. It was always meant to burn.
Fuck. Yes. This is it. This is exactly what Oscar had been looking for for the past two weeks, and when you push his head back against the sofa and take over the kiss with an intensity that makes his grip tighten around your waist, he’s fairly sure he’s just been launched into another dimension.
One that smells like you. Feels like you. Has you everywhere.
This is casual, Oscar reminds himself. Just one more night before he leaves. Normal sex. With someone he trusts. A way to let off steam. Right. Of course. Sure.
Yes. He knows that.
He eases you back against the couch. Oscar is in control now. Or at least, that’s the plan. But the second he presses into you and hears that hungry little sound disappear into his mouth, he forgets what the word control is even supposed to mean.
You’ve just gotten out of the shower. Together.
Now you’re lying on your side, facing Oscar, wearing the hoodie you stole that morning before leaving his place — and he’s quietly losing his mind over the fact that it doesn’t smell like him anymore. Now it’s just you.
He’d love to steal it back, though not because he misses it.
“What are the next few weeks going to look like?” you ask softly, your index finger tracing absent little patterns over the freckles on his chest.
Oscar slips a hand beneath the hem of the hoodie and rests it on your waist, and you immediately pull a face when his fingers meet your skin.
“Your hand is freezing,” you complain.
He just laughs.
“Two races back-to-back,” he says, his thumb stroking over your waist, “and then two weeks without one.”
Your eyes lift to his.
“Two race weekends in a row?”
Oscar nods.
“And you like that?”
He raises an eyebrow.
“The racing part?”
You nod.
A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.
“It’s my favourite thing in the world,” he says.
Your fingers pause over his chest.
“What does it feel like?”
You shift a little closer into the bed, settling in as you wait for his answer, your eyes fixed on his. Oscar bites the inside of his cheek for a second, thinking, then blinks up at the ceiling.
“I think…” he says slowly. “I think it’s probably the closest anyone can get to real freedom.”
Your expression softens.
“And maybe a little like flying,” he adds. “If flying came with lower back pain.”
A laugh slips out of you.
“It hurts that much?”
“Oh, yeah.” He nods. “Feels like someone stuffed me into a sardine tin and then stretched me out with medieval torture equipment.”
That makes you laugh properly.
“Wow. Sounds lovely.”
“It is,” Oscar says, smiling. “I told you. It’s my favourite.”
Your expression softens again, and without really thinking about it, you nudge your forehead against his shoulder in a quiet little request to be held. Oscar immediately wraps an arm around you.
“Then I think you need to sleep, you sardine-tin masochist,” you murmur, your eyes already drifting shut. “It won’t do for McLaren’s best driver to show up exhausted.”
He goes still for a second, breathing a little mechanically.
“Sleep here?”
“Hm.” You tuck yourself in closer. “I’m not about to kick you out after you gave me some of the best orgasms of my life for the second time. That would just be rude.”
The heat that rushes into his cheeks is so immediate he’s half-convinced there might actually be smoke coming out of his ears.
“Oh my God.”
You burst out laughing and melt further into him.
“You’re so puritanical when you talk. It’s adorable.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“Hm. Alright, then. Say something outrageous.”
Oscar thinks. Really thinks.
“Sex.”
You gasp.
“Wow.”
Now it’s his turn to laugh, low and helpless, as he pulls you in a little tighter.
“Go to sleep,” he says.
“Okay,” you mumble, already halfway there as your body goes soft against his.
And Oscar can’t quite believe this day is real — that you, of all people, are curled up against his chest, wearing his hoodie while you drift off to sleep.
When he closes his eyes, he already knows exactly what he’ll be dreaming about.
The two race weeks go by fast, but not kindly. Oscar feels every second of them.
Neither of them turns out quite the way he would’ve liked. In one, both he and Lando end up with DNFs. In the other, he drags home a hard-earned P5 in the rain after starting P9, in what had already been one of the worst qualifying sessions imaginable — helped along by three DNFs ahead of him and an overtake dramatic enough to earn its own replay. The whole thing is such complete chaos that Oscar isn’t entirely sure how he makes it out alive.
In the middle of all that, though, even knowing he’s exhausted from briefings, late-night team meetings, and complaints that never seem to go anywhere, Oscar still finds one way or another to reply to you.
He loves the voice notes you send him, especially the ones where you tell him that one wet corner he took nearly sent your heart straight out of your chest. And then, naturally, you decide to drop a bomb in his lap.
A photo.
You’re wearing a McLaren shirt you bought, one exactly like his. His number on the front. His number on the back. Big enough to leave absolutely no room for interpretation. The “fuck” that slips out of Oscar is so loud that half the garage turns to look at him. He actually has to apologise.
And when he finally gets back home, you call him and ask if he wants to celebrate.
“I’d love to,” he says, setting his suitcase down by the wall. “What exactly are we celebrating?”
“Your marriage to P5,” you reply. “I saw people on Twitter saying you’re very attached to that position. Apparently you only cheat on it with the occasional P7.”
Oscar shakes his head, but a helpless laugh escapes him anyway.
“That’s ridiculous,” he says. “People should mind their own business.”
You hum.
“Rude. Your fans won’t like hearing that you’re this badly behaved.”
“And are you planning to tell them?”
“Only if you don’t agree to go out and celebrate with me,” you say. “I’ve got an idea, and I’d hate for it to go to waste.”
Oscar goes soft immediately. He still has no idea how to say no to you.
“Alright,” he says. “Let’s do it.”
“Yay.”
With a small smile still tugging at his mouth, he hangs up and goes to get ready.
“When you talked to me for the first time at the club, what was your first thought?” you ask, peering at him over the enormous witch-hat-shaped cotton candy in your hands.
Oscar pretends to think about it, but he already knows the answer. He reaches over to tear off a piece of your cotton candy, and when you immediately protest with an indignant, “Hey!”, he says,
“I thought, who’s this lunatic asking me for drink recommendations?”
“Lunatic?!” you gasp. “My God. You’re so rude.”
A quiet little laugh slips out of him, and by then the two of you are already making your way toward the shooting stall, because apparently that’s the next attraction you’ve decided you need to learn how to play.
Oscar hadn’t even known there was a festival in town with a fairground attached. It had been a long time since he’d been to one of these.
“Do you realise you’ve called me rude twice today?” he asks, clearly amused as he hands the tokens over to the guy at the stall.
You set your cotton candy down on the little ledge, take your toy gun, and shrug.
“Maybe you should reflect on that.”
“Me?” he asks, picking up his own.
“Yes, you. You’re the one being rude.”
Oscar laughs and ducks his head, squinting through the sight. You copy him, bending down a little beside him. When you fire your first shot, one of the bottles topples over immediately. Oscar misses by half an inch.
“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, straightening up to see what went wrong.
“Ha! Okay. Again,” you say, already adjusting your stance for the next shot.
In the end, Oscar gets two strikes, and you only manage one.
You decide immediately that this is so, so unfair and inform him that, as compensation for the absolute tragedy of your performance, he’s going to have to give you the giant dolphin he won. Oscar complains, obviously, but somehow still ends up carrying two absurdly oversized stuffed animals — one enormous heart and, of course, the dolphin you’d already claimed for yourself — while you tug him along by the elbow toward the photo booth.
Oscar loves seeing you like this. All bright-eyed and happy, wandering around the fair like an overexcited little kid.
You slide onto the bench inside the booth, pull the stuffed animals in between the two of you, and then reach for Oscar’s hand to get him to sit down beside you.
“Do a good pose,” you warn him before pressing the start button. “And none of that thumbs-up thing you always do.”
“What’s wrong with—”
“Look!”
You grab his cheek and squish it, forcing his mouth into a pout while you do one of your own.
The next photo catches Oscar mid-laugh, with you wearing the most delightfully mischievous little smile. Then there’s one of both of you looking straight at the camera, and another where each of you is hugging one of the stuffed animals.
In the end, the two of you somehow end up at the top of the Ferris wheel, entirely because it was Oscar’s idea. Nothing could be more cliché than this, he’d thought. But then you were leaning over to look at the city below, pointing off into the distance with a bright little, “I can see my house from here!” and Oscar decided he didn’t care even a little bit.
At some point during the ride, though, things get a little out of hand. Because you turn to him with a look that means absolutely no good, then lean in close to his ear and whisper an idea so scandalous that the only thing Oscar manages in response is biting down on his own lip before kissing you hard and letting his hand drift somewhere very, very dangerous.
Oscar doesn’t do things like this. And, if you’re being honest, neither do you.
But when your mouth falls open and you have to hide your face in the curve of his neck to muffle the sound trying to escape, you find yourself thinking that maybe — yes — you could get used to doing things like this.
Of course you fuck that night. And the night after that. And the one after that, and the one after that too. What started as a one-night thing after the club — no strings, no expectations — turned into a second night with no strings attached, and then into weeks of no strings attached, until suddenly you have no idea what’s going on anymore.
Because now you’re lying in Oscar’s bed, and tomorrow he has to leave for a race week, and all you can think about is how much you don’t want to be here without him.
His eyes are closed, and he looks peaceful in that way only Oscar ever seems to manage. In that way you’ve somehow learned to recognise, and—
Oh, fuck.
You’d rather not think about it, so instead you just close your eyes, curl your arms around him, and breathe in the soft scent of the cologne he wears — the one that, somewhere along the way, became your favourite.
When you wake up, it’s to the sound of Oscar moving around the room, gathering his things and carrying them out to the living room.
And you can tell he’s doing it as slowly as humanly possible so he won’t wake you, because the room is still dark and he’s trying to see everything by the light of his phone torch alone.
“Morning?” you mumble, rubbing one eye with the back of your hand.
Oscar stops mid-step, looks over at you with his head tilted slightly to one side, and smiles.
“Morning,” he says. “Did I wake you?”
There’s a faint note of guilt in his voice.
You shake your head and yawn, reaching out to tug him closer by the hand.
“You’re leaving already?”
He nods and comes back to sit in the empty space beside you. Your hand curls around his forearm.
“And you weren’t even going to say goodbye.”
Oscar wrinkles his nose.
“I didn’t want to interrupt your sleep.”
“You were going to leave me lying here in your bed while you went off travelling,” you say. “Don’t you protect your belongings?”
A quiet laugh slips out of him as he glances down at the fingers absently stroking his arm.
“Of course I do. But half of them are already at your place, so…”
You hum.
“Fair enough.”
Your eyes are still heavy with sleep, and your grip on his arm loosens a little, but you lift a finger and tap your forehead.
“I want a kiss here.”
Oscar smiles like an absolute fool and leans in. Honestly, how can someone be this needy? He presses a kiss right where you pointed.
“Here?” he asks, and then drops one onto your cheek. “I’ll leave one here…” Then the other. “And one here too.” The tip of your nose. “Here.” And finally, your lips. “And one here.”
You’re smiling by then, one hand curled around the back of his neck, and when you open your eyes properly, you tilt your head to the side and nod.
“That’s better,” you say. “Now you can go.”
He leaves one last kiss on your forehead before getting to his feet.
“But I’ll be back,” he says. “You won’t even have time to miss me.”
Oh, but you will. You definitely will.
“Okay,” you murmur.
And when Oscar finally leaves, you let yourself go limp against the bed, staring at nothing as you wonder what the hell you’re supposed to do with your life now that you’ve somehow managed to ruin everything.
He’s absolutely brilliant that weekend.
You watch Oscar cross the finish line from pole position with the giant stuffed dolphin hugged to your chest, and the very first thing you do afterwards is grab your phone and text him:
DIVORCE FROM P5!!!!!!!!! 🎉🎉🎉🎉
Watching the podium celebration is a little harder. Mostly because, honestly, how is he allowed to look like that while the Australian anthem is playing?
Half an hour later, he replies with a simple:
celebration?
And you send back whatever you want! before promptly dropping onto the rug on your back and staring up at the ceiling.
You’ve been doing that a lot lately.
As if the ceiling might suddenly decide to give you some kind of answer. It never does. Not even one.
Outside the restaurant, the one he promised he’d take you to, tucked into the middle of the city and glowing softly with candlelight, Oscar takes your hand.
He’s wearing a suit. He hates suits, but he told you he put one on because, once, you mentioned seeing a photo of him in one and thinking he looked really handsome. So now he’s standing there in a suit he doesn’t even like, his fingers threaded through yours like this is the easiest thing in the world.
Like it doesn’t pull at something deep in your chest.
He reaches for your chair and waits until you sit so he can gently push it in, then takes the seat beside you, not across from you, beside you, and orders for both of you, wine included, because tonight is a real celebration, isn’t it?
“Pole position,” you say, propping your head up on one hand as you look at him. “That deserves a proper celebration.”
Oscar has so much to say about it.
About the race weekend, about the way the team helped him get there, answering every question you ask mostly because you like listening to him explain things. He talks and talks, and all you can think is that you have no idea how people still insist he’s quiet, or reserved, or hard to read, because no one gets this version of him. Not like you do.
And in the end, when he finally runs out of things to say, he just looks down with a small, lovely smile and says,
“Yeah. Pole position. Pretty cool, huh?”
A soft laugh slips out of you as you look at him. Honestly, he’s unbelievable.
“Yeah,” you say, all fondness. “Pole position is very cool.”
He lifts his eyes to you and squints a little.
“You’re making fun of me.”
“Am I?” you ask, and he leans in closer.
“I don’t care,” he says, and steals a quick little kiss that makes your stomach turn over.
The food arrives, and the conversation keeps going.
It’s the same easy rhythm that always leaves you warm all over, full of butterflies, the same dry little jokes that make you laugh far more than they probably should, day after day after day, and it’s… perfect. Everything about it is perfect.
Then his hand disappears beneath the table and finds yours again, threading your fingers together like it’s second nature by now, and you look at him as you swallow hard.
Defeated. Ruined. Your heart in pieces.
He looks back at you, and you… You wish that look could stay forever. You wish it meant exactly what yours does.
By the time the two of you step back outside, the whole thing feels almost cinematic: a street in Monaco at night, all soft yellow lights and a couple dressed far too well for their own good.
“Osc?” you call, turning to look at him.
“Hm?” he says, stopping immediately so he can listen.
How are you supposed to say this without making a complete disaster of yourself in the process? Your eyes are already threatening to spill over, and you have to blink hard and tip your chin up just to keep the tears where they are.
“I—I…” you start, your voice already trembling as it fights to stay steady. “I don’t think we can keep doing… this.”
Oscar blinks, and you watch his shoulders drop.
“What?” he asks, patient, waiting.
But you don’t want to explain. You don’t want to talk. Your mouth is already wobbling into a cry, one tear slipping free despite your best efforts, and you’re lifting your fist to wipe at the corner of your eye while Oscar is about two seconds away from panicking.
“This,” you say helplessly. “Casual. I don’t want to force anything, but I can’t… I can’t—” You swallow hard, trying to breathe through it. “I can’t keep doing this casual thing with you. Going to your place, wearing your clothes, walking around holding your hand and seeing you wear… wear something just because you know I like it…” Your voice drops, smaller now, barely holding together. “And keep pretending that…”
His chest rises and falls, quick and shallow. Oscar is still waiting.
You lower your voice until it’s almost a whisper.
“Keep pretending I’m not in love with you.”
Oscar goes completely still, like his whole body is rebooting in real time.
He lifts a hand, asking for a second, and you — who were quite literally crying a moment ago — sniffle and stare at him, suddenly very confused by the reaction. He scratches the top of his head.
“Can you…” he starts, clearing his throat. “Can you say that again?”
Your arms fall uselessly to your sides. You blink once. Then again.
“I…” Your voice comes out small and uncertain. “I can’t keep pretending I’m not… in love with you?”
His eyes widen. He clears his throat again, bites at the tip of his thumb like he’s trying very hard to hide a smile, and says,
“You know, this is actually kind of funny…”
What?
“Because I—” He swallows hard. And then he looks at you, all soft around the edges. “Oh, my God…”
He lets the breath out of him slowly, tucks his hands behind his back because they’re shaking, and then finally…
Finally.
“I’m in love with you too.”
And now it’s your turn to stop functioning entirely.
“W-What?” you ask, blinking at him as you try, and fail, to make sense of any of it.
Oscar just shakes his head.
His hand comes to rest at your waist, and right before he kisses you — right before his mouth finds yours in a way that says far more than either of you has managed all night — he murmurs softly,
“I’m in love with you. Like a complete idiot.”
And somehow, all at once, everything falls into place. You hold onto him as you kiss him back, your knees going weak beneath you.
“Fuck casual,” he whispers when he pulls away just enough to speak.
A soft laugh slips out of you.
“Oscar…”
“My God,” he murmurs, smiling so helplessly it nearly does you in.
You’re grinning by then, all warmth and relief and something so fond it almost hurts, and you kiss him again. And again. And one more time, just because you can.
“My Oscar?” you whisper back.
He rests his forehead against yours, looking for all the world like a man who’s lost a battle and doesn’t mind one bit.
“Your Oscar.”
“OSCAR PIASTRI NEW GIRLFRIEND?”
That’s the giant headline currently making you smile so hard your cheeks hurt. Oscar notices immediately and, naturally, becomes suspicious.
“What are you looking at?” he asks, eyes still on the television as his fingers drift lazily through your hair, now that you’re stretched out with your head in his lap.
You don’t answer. You just turn your phone around so he can see the screen.
Oscar glances at it, lifts an eyebrow in a very poor attempt at pretending not to care, and then — about two seconds later — a little smile appears at the corner of his mouth.
“You like that,” you say, thoroughly entertained.
He looks down at you, still absentmindedly playing with your hair.
“You would too,” he says, far too pleased with himself, “if you had a girlfriend like mine.”
You let out an offended little huff and drop your phone onto the couch before lifting your face to glare at him, though it’s hard to look very irritated when your heart is trying to melt out of your body.
“I can’t make fun of you when you’re being all cute like that.”
A second passes. He doesn’t say anything.
Then another.
“I think we should do a hard launch.”
You go still.
“Since when do you know what a hard launch is?”
Oscar shrugs like this is a perfectly normal thing for him to say.
“Do you want to?” you ask, suddenly a little shy. “Tell everyone, I mean.”
He nods.
Your smile sneaks back immediately, and you hide your face against his stomach before he can see too much of it.
“You get shy too, you know,” he murmurs.
“Shut up.”
Oscar laughs softly and bends down to steal a kiss from you anyway.
discoholicmusic
2087
tangentwithtanner
amandla
areudirty
pixelskylines
gamechangershow
