Hey! This is Lane, 23y/o girl in my last year of med school
it all started on a november afternoon in 2025
| my pinterest | ko-fi
WIN LIKE A WINNER
only writting for F1 (MV, LN, OP, DR, GR, FC)
requests open✨! i only write x fem!reader or fem!OC 🌸
BE KIND <3
kinks ⭐ : size, marking, bj male/female, breeding, nipple play...
Also love pregnancy and domestic fluff bc i love lil kiddos
no-no's: minors, noncon, degradation kink, bdsm, anal, toys...
i'll try to specify the TW as best as I can!!
-> WHATS NEW?! EASTER UPDATE
the spanish sacrifice OP81
When It Gets Too Much LN1 (requested by anon)
Pushin' it MV3 (requested by anon)
🕷 SPIDE-F1 (NEW series)
FLUFF 💭
SMUT 🔥
MDNI or I'm calling your parents!
ANGST 💥
SERIES 🏁 (4)
🕷 SPIDE-F1: OSCAR PIASTRI (fem!reader) NEW !!
🧬 CHRONONAUT - Across Time
💃🏻 SPEED & SALSEO - The Spanish Effect (spanish!fem!reader)
⏲ A NOT SO SIMPLE PLAN (L.N4/1 + drivers)
❄ CANDY CANE LANE (drivers x fem!reader) xmas edition
🕷 READ BEFOREHAND: hi! i’m really excited to start this new series!!! i’ve watched the MCU movies and i love them, but don’t expect an exact copy since i’ll need to make some changes to adapt it to how i want to write the story.
He liked routines. Same seat. Same timetable. Same predictable, slightly boring life.
So naturally, the school decided to mess with all of that.
“Mate, I swear they changed the air in here” Lando said, walking through the entrance
“It’s literally the same building” Oscar replied.
“New semester, new classes,” Lando said, reading off his schedule with an offended look “This is a scam. I didn’t agree to this, Osc.”
Oscar skimmed his own. “…we’ve got physics together. And P.E too”
“Good. I need emotional support.” Lando said slinging an arm over Oscar’s shoulder.
“We always sit at the back.” Oscar moved, dropping his arm.
“Obviously.”
Oscar kept reading. Then paused.
“…and English.”
Lando looked up with hope. “Together?”
“Ugh…no.”
“Tragic.”
Oscar frowned slightly, scanning the halls.
You were by the lockers, leaning against them while two guys were talking to you. Or trying to. Oscar couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he saw how it went.
They spoke. You listened for a few seconds. Said something short.
One of them nodded awkwardly and left. The other followed.
Lando slowed slightly next to Oscar.
“Yeah, that’s not fair,” he said.
“What isn’t?” Oscar asked.
“That people just… fold like that.”
Lando glanced at you again. You were already on your phone like nothing had happened.
“She doesn’t even look like she’s trying,” Lando said.
Oscar looked briefly too. “Doesn’t seem like she needs to.”
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George Russell appeared in the hallway like he owned it.
“Piastri!” George said, falling into step beside them. “Same face as last year”
Oscar didn’t look at him. “Apparently.”
Lando laughed quietly.
George ignored him and looked ahead instead.
At you.
“Oh,” George said immediately, changing tone. “Hey.”
You looked up.
“Hi” you said with a flat tone.
George smiled, a hand near your locker. “We’ve got some classes together, right?”
“Maybe.”
George didn’t stop.
“We should—”
“I’ve got class, Russell” you said, already turning away.
And you just left.
George stayed there for a second like he expected something else to happen.
Nothing did.
Lando watched him. “She does that a lot, you know.”
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First period was Physics. Oscar liked Physics.
He and Lando sat at the back like always.
“Same seats again” Lando said, dropping into his chair and scanning for the gum he had left months ago under the table.
The teacher walked in.
“Small seating change this term.” Mr Webber announced
Lando groaned immediately resting his face on the desk. “I knew it.”
“Oscar Piastri, front row.”
Lando turned slowly. “That’s unlucky. Text me if it gets bad.”
Oscar stood up. “It’s fine. I’ll survive.”
“You say that now.”
Oscar walked forward. And stopped.
Because you were already there.
He sat down next to you.
You glanced over.
“You’re in this class?” you asked.
“Yeah,” Oscar said.
“Didn’t notice.”
“Most people don’t” he replied.
That made you pause for a second. “Sorry, didn't mean it like that.”
Oscar scanned the classroom for Lando, and when he found him, Lando was already looking at him with a cheeky grin. Oscar rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the teacher.
About ten minutes later, Oscar was lost.
He stared at the page, then the board, then back.
“…what page are we on?” he asked quietly.
“Forty-two” you said without looking up.
He flipped to it but still didn’t make sense.
“…this doesn’t help” he muttered.
You finally looked over. “You missed the instructions.”
Oscar stared at the page. “Can you explain it?”
You hesitated, then pointed at the exercise.
“It’s just Maths. You don’t need to overthink every number.”
You explained the basics of integrals, what the teacher had just explained. He followed it after that.
“…okay,” he said after a moment. “That’s actually simple. Thanks.”
“Yeah.”
And that was it.
No more conversation.
At lunch, Lando was already waiting.
“So” Lando said immediately when Oscar sat down. “Front row report.”
“It’s just Maths.”
“You sat next to her.”
“Yeah.”
“You talked.”
“A bit.”
“You talked.”
“A bit.”
“You asked for her Instagram?”
“No, of course not!”
Lando stared. “You’ve sat next to her for a whole class and didn’t ask?”
“We were working.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
Oscar shrugged, unbothered. “I’ll find out eventually.”
Lando pointed at him. “No. Tomorrow. You’re asking.”
“I’m not asking.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Oscar took a bite of his food, ignoring him.
“…we’ll see.”
Lando leaned back, satisfied. “This is going to be fun.”
Oscar shrugged and kept eating.
Across the cafeteria, George was talking again, with a group of younger students surrounding him like he was some kind of king, while he went on about how his parents had met with the city’s mayor about something Oscar couldn’t quite hear.
As he spoke something both Oscar and Lando were pretty sure was probably made up he kept throwing subtle glances your way, checking if you were watching or paying attention. He wasn’t getting any of it.
You were nearby, listening to someone else.
Lando watched for a second laughing. “She’s not really into any of it.”
Oscar glanced over. “Doesn’t seem like it.”
“Yeah,” Lando said. “Good for her, he's an asshole.”
Oscar didn’t answer.
He just went back to his food.
But he did look over once more before Lando changed the subject.
🕷 READ BEFOREHAND: hi! i’m really excited to start this new series!!! i’ve watched the MCU movies and i love them, but don’t expect an exact copy since i’ll need to make some changes to adapt it to how i want to write the story.
He liked routines. Same seat. Same timetable. Same predictable, slightly boring life.
So naturally, the school decided to mess with all of that.
“Mate, I swear they changed the air in here” Lando said, walking through the entrance
“It’s literally the same building” Oscar replied.
“New semester, new classes,” Lando said, reading off his schedule with an offended look “This is a scam. I didn’t agree to this, Osc.”
Oscar skimmed his own. “…we’ve got physics together. And P.E too”
“Good. I need emotional support.” Lando said slinging an arm over Oscar’s shoulder.
“We always sit at the back.” Oscar moved, dropping his arm.
“Obviously.”
Oscar kept reading. Then paused.
“…and English.”
Lando looked up with hope. “Together?”
“Ugh…no.”
“Tragic.”
Oscar frowned slightly, scanning the halls.
You were by the lockers, leaning against them while two guys were talking to you. Or trying to. Oscar couldn’t hear what they were saying, but he saw how it went.
They spoke. You listened for a few seconds. Said something short.
One of them nodded awkwardly and left. The other followed.
Lando slowed slightly next to Oscar.
“Yeah, that’s not fair,” he said.
“What isn’t?” Oscar asked.
“That people just… fold like that.”
Lando glanced at you again. You were already on your phone like nothing had happened.
“She doesn’t even look like she’s trying,” Lando said.
Oscar looked briefly too. “Doesn’t seem like she needs to.”
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George Russell appeared in the hallway like he owned it.
“Piastri!” George said, falling into step beside them. “Same face as last year”
Oscar didn’t look at him. “Apparently.”
Lando laughed quietly.
George ignored him and looked ahead instead.
At you.
“Oh,” George said immediately, changing tone. “Hey.”
You looked up.
“Hi” you said with a flat tone.
George smiled, a hand near your locker. “We’ve got some classes together, right?”
“Maybe.”
George didn’t stop.
“We should—”
“I’ve got class, Russell” you said, already turning away.
And you just left.
George stayed there for a second like he expected something else to happen.
Nothing did.
Lando watched him. “She does that a lot, you know.”
🕸🕷🕸🕷🕸🕷🕸🕷🕸🕷🕸🕷🕸🕷🕸🕷🕸🕷🕸🕷🕸🕷🕸🕷🕸🕷🕸🕷🕸🕷
First period was Physics. Oscar liked Physics.
He and Lando sat at the back like always.
“Same seats again” Lando said, dropping into his chair and scanning for the gum he had left months ago under the table.
The teacher walked in.
“Small seating change this term.” Mr Webber announced
Lando groaned immediately resting his face on the desk. “I knew it.”
“Oscar Piastri, front row.”
Lando turned slowly. “That’s unlucky. Text me if it gets bad.”
Oscar stood up. “It’s fine. I’ll survive.”
“You say that now.”
Oscar walked forward. And stopped.
Because you were already there.
He sat down next to you.
You glanced over.
“You’re in this class?” you asked.
“Yeah,” Oscar said.
“Didn’t notice.”
“Most people don’t” he replied.
That made you pause for a second. “Sorry, didn't mean it like that.”
Oscar scanned the classroom for Lando, and when he found him, Lando was already looking at him with a cheeky grin. Oscar rolled his eyes and turned his attention back to the teacher.
About ten minutes later, Oscar was lost.
He stared at the page, then the board, then back.
“…what page are we on?” he asked quietly.
“Forty-two” you said without looking up.
He flipped to it but still didn’t make sense.
“…this doesn’t help” he muttered.
You finally looked over. “You missed the instructions.”
Oscar stared at the page. “Can you explain it?”
You hesitated, then pointed at the exercise.
“It’s just Maths. You don’t need to overthink every number.”
You explained the basics of integrals, what the teacher had just explained. He followed it after that.
“…okay,” he said after a moment. “That’s actually simple. Thanks.”
“Yeah.”
And that was it.
No more conversation.
At lunch, Lando was already waiting.
“So” Lando said immediately when Oscar sat down. “Front row report.”
“It’s just Maths.”
“You sat next to her.”
“Yeah.”
“You talked.”
“A bit.”
“You talked.”
“A bit.”
“You asked for her Instagram?”
“No, of course not!”
Lando stared. “You’ve sat next to her for a whole class and didn’t ask?”
“We were working.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
Oscar shrugged, unbothered. “I’ll find out eventually.”
Lando pointed at him. “No. Tomorrow. You’re asking.”
“I’m not asking.”
“You are.”
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
Oscar took a bite of his food, ignoring him.
“…we’ll see.”
Lando leaned back, satisfied. “This is going to be fun.”
Oscar shrugged and kept eating.
Across the cafeteria, George was talking again, with a group of younger students surrounding him like he was some kind of king, while he went on about how his parents had met with the city’s mayor about something Oscar couldn’t quite hear.
As he spoke something both Oscar and Lando were pretty sure was probably made up he kept throwing subtle glances your way, checking if you were watching or paying attention. He wasn’t getting any of it.
You were nearby, listening to someone else.
Lando watched for a second laughing. “She’s not really into any of it.”
Oscar glanced over. “Doesn’t seem like it.”
“Yeah,” Lando said. “Good for her, he's an asshole.”
Oscar didn’t answer.
He just went back to his food.
But he did look over once more before Lando changed the subject.
Request from @sassytrailnymph - Could I request where lando is having protective sex with his girlfriend, and in the middle of having sex, he convinces his girlfriend to remove the condom and spills in her for the first time
Themes/warnings: Smut (protected then not - seriously though wrap it and keep it wrapped unless you're really trying then...good luck ig?)
Word count: 1.1k
Lando is big on protection when it comes to sex. But it's y/n who insisted on condoms and he thought it would just be till she was comfortable, but somehow 2 months into daily sex, usually more than once a day. Lando's putting more money into condoms than anything else right now.
He can't help but want to remove that barrier.
He wants to feel her, he wants nothing between them and while it's never mattered to him before. For some reason the thought of filling her with his cum and watch it leak out of her.
That thought unlocks some sort of feral animal in him that's been dormant.
He can't help it.
And now he's rolling yet another condom down his length, lust-filled eyes gliding over to y/n where she's lying, swollen lips, hickeys across her chest. He's already got her in a heat.
Admittedly teasing her the whole dinner and whispering filth in her ear at every opportunity got her exactly as riled up as he was aiming for.
"Ready for me baby?" Lando asks already knowing the answer, he can see her dripping in a wet patch on the sheets.
He loves when she gets too needy to form words that are anything less than begging. Her whimper and positioning herself from kneeling on her knees to dropping back onto her back with her legs spread, a true offering of herself open to him.
"Oh baby." Lando chuckles moving over her, not wasting time with anymore foreplay. He slides into her with only the tightness of him not having been inside her in the past 12 hours enveloping him as a form of making it harder to fuck her.
Their moans fill the air and Lando pulls her towards himself, his thrusts getting deeper and harder. Y/n moans and whines at him, his name reverbing off the walls before he whispers more filth into her ear. Promises of wrecking her, making her scream, leaving a permanent mark in her.
He builds himself up just as much as she does.
"Baby, I want to feel you. Properly." Lando states making her look at him, eyes already teary from the stimulation. "Fuck. Baby, I need to feel you. Let me take it off. It'll feel so good. So so good."
Y/n whines bucking her hips into his, one hand moving from gripping the sheets to his bicep and for a moment he thinks that's her stopping him from daring to take it off.
"Please. I wanna feel you." Y/n whimpers, nails cutting into his skin. Her actions betraying her words.
"You'll love this, baby." Lando promises, leaning down, kissing her neck as he slips out of her.
"Lando." Y/n huffs from the loss as he reaches down almost grimacing from the speed he pulls the condom off and tosses it aside without thought. He'll pick it up later.
He takes a couple heavy breaths, excitement of this moment making the air prickle with electricity that makes her breath hitch before he slides back into her, and while he's aware that it's more about what he feels that what she feels. But y/n shudders at the feeling.
Y/n can feel more of him, the veins, every ridge of his dick no longer smoothed by latex brushing through her walls making her moan, bearing down to try and feel more of him.
"Fuck. You feel incredible, baby. How have I waited this long?" Lando grunts not feeling like any word describes how y/n feels wrapped around him. "You were made for me. This pussy was made for me."
Y/n twitches around him, her orgasm nearing more.
"You going to let me fill you up, baby? Going to let me make you mine once and for all? No going back after this." Lando states since he's pretty sure hitting it raw is an addiction.
It's like heroin, one hit and he's already hooked on the feeling. He'll chase this high for the rest of his life and he'll keep getting his hits every time she lets him feel her pussy around him.
Y/n's orgasm hits with no more warning than that first twitch, she yanks him down onto her legs wrapping around him like she can't get enough of him. Lando spills into her without any control.
He actually gets dizzy feeling like he's never came so hard or so much in his life.
"Lando?" Y/n whispers making Lando blink a time. "Are you with me?"
"I think I might've died in your pussy and gone to heaven." Lando croaks then frowning. "Did I pass out?"
"Yeah...a bit." Y/n laughs then gently pushing back his sweaty head, her own face glittering with her. "I'll take it as a compliment...Are you ok?"
"I'm fine. I think I might just put blood into you from how hard I came."
"That's ok." Y/n giggles before kissing him. "We can stay like this a bit longer."
"Baby, we can stay like this forever. I'll quit F1 for good if you let me live with you pussy like this around me."
"I think we might wither away and die if I do that. We have to eat...and I'll have to pee at some point-and so will you. Cumming inside is one thing, if you piss in me I'll chop your dick off." Y/n warns playfully, though he thinks that she'd fully follow through on it. Her giggling with his dick still inside her short circuits his head though and he has to hide his face in her neck, shuddering as pleasure ripples through him.
"Fuck, baby. Don't do that unless you really want to kill me." Lando groans rutting into her despite being soft at this point and feeling her leaking out around him. "I'm going to clean you up. I promise. Just give me a bit more time."
"Take as long as you need. I'm enjoying this."
"Good. Because I'm burning any condoms in the vicinity. Never fucking you any other way but raw from here forward." Lando declares earning a smile as y/n sucks in a breath and holds him close. "I think your pussy has just changed my life in a way I didn't know what possible."
"You're welcome. If I knew it'd be so easy I never would've have you wear a condom in the first place."
She would've but he's too spent to argue and now he's taken off the condom, he is just grateful they both enjoyed the experience. Though he might need to make sure he's ok. Passing out after sex might not be the best sign of something.
i would love to see Toto Wolff x Wife!TeamPrincipalFerrari!Reader, toto jealous over something and ending in smut if you cannn ;)
They Heard Everything
🐺 main masterlist | Enemies on Track, Lovers at Home
Toto Wolff x Wife!TeamPrincipalFerrari!Reader
Lewis and Charles apperance
Summary: What was supposed to be a calm Ferrari peace dinner for you, Lewis and Charles quickly turns into chaos: tension, wine, PlayStation wars, and an unexpected return of a very jealous Toto… who later makes it very clear in private exactly who you belong to.
Warnings: 18+, jealous!Toto, married couple, chaotic dinner vibes, Ferrari vs Mercedes banter, Lewis being a menace, Charles enabling him, domestic fluff + smut, oral sex (f receiving), vaginal sex (doggy style), rough sex (light), creampie, loud sex (they definitely heard that),
Word count: 6.4k
Weekends in Italy were supposed to feel peaceful.
That had been the dream, at least. Warm evenings. Long dinners. Olive trees whispering in the breeze. Children running through the house. Wine breathing on the table. A version of life that felt slower, softer, saner than the constant insanity of Formula 1.
And yet, somehow, even here, in your beautiful house tucked away in the Italian countryside, you still found yourself managing two world-class racing drivers like an exhausted but fashionable school principal.
“This is ridiculous,” you muttered, standing in the hallway with your arms crossed while Toto adjusted his jacket by the door.
He looked up. “What is ridiculous?”
“The fact that I am spending my Sunday night hosting a private peace summit for two grown men because they forgot that crashing into each other is generally bad for team morale.”
Toto’s mouth twitched, “You chose Ferrari.”
“I chose challenge,” you corrected.
“You chose chaos.”
You opened your mouth to object, but he stepped closer before you could answer, his hands settling on your waist with irritating ease.
“You’ll survive,” he said.
“I know I’ll survive. I’m not worried about me.” You lifted an eyebrow. “I’m worried about Lewis deciding to provoke Charles for sport and Charles responding like an offended prince from Monaco.”
Toto gave you a deeply unimpressed look.
“So… exactly like every other week.”
You laughed despite yourself.
He leaned in and kissed you, slowly at first, then more deeply, more deliberately, one of those kisses that made it very difficult to remember what sentence you had just been saying.
When he finally pulled back, you blinked at him.
“Toto.”
“What?”
“You’re leaving for meetings to Brackley, not going to war.”
He smiled faintly, far too smug for your liking.
“I like to make an impression.”
“You’re impossible.”
“And you like me anyway.”
You snorted. “Debatable.”
“Liar.”
He kissed you again, shorter this time but just as warm, just as distracting, and when he stepped back there was that familiar look in his eyes — that mix of affection, amusement, and suspicion so unnecessary it almost became endearing.
“Be good and behave,” he said.
You stared at him. “Oh, for heaven’s sake.”
His expression remained perfectly serious. “I mean it.”
“Toto, Lewis and Charles are my drivers.”
“Yes,” he said dryly. “Very handsome, very charming drivers.”
You actually laughed then, reaching out to smack his backside lightly as he turned for the door.
“Maybe they are,” you said. “But I have a much more handsome and much more charming man at home.”
That did get him.
You saw it instantly, the little shift in his expression, the pleased arrogance, the infuriating male satisfaction.
“Also,” you added, “our children are here, and they already have plans to destroy Lewis and Charles on PlayStation.”
“Good,” Toto murmured. “As they should.”
He leaned down, kissed your forehead this time, softer, lingering.
“I love you, Liebling.”
Your face softened immediately. “I love you too.”
Then he was gone.
And you were left alone with the sound of the front door closing, the distant thundering footsteps of your twins upstairs, and the vague sense that the evening was about to become much more complicated than it had any right to be.
You were right. Of course you were right.
“Mama!”
Luca came flying down the stairs first, socks sliding over the polished floor, Luna right behind him with the expression of someone far too clever for eight years old.
“Uncle Lewis is really coming?” Luca asked, eyes wide.
“And Charles too?” Luna added, suspiciously calm.
“Yes,” you said. “And before either of you start planning crimes, remember that this dinner is for team business.”
The two of them looked at each other. That alone was worrying.
“We’re not planning crimes,” Luna said.
You narrowed your eyes. “That is exactly what someone planning crimes would say.”
Luca gasped in offense. “We’re just going to beat them.”
“At what?”
“Everything,” he said, as if the answer was obvious.
A car pulled into the driveway.
Luca practically vibrated, “That’s Lewis!”
He sprinted to the front door so fast that you barely had time to follow before it was already open and Lewis was stepping inside with a grin, sunglasses still on despite the fact that the sun had already begun to dip.
“Well,” Lewis said, opening his arms dramatically, “my favorite Ferrari household.”
“You say that like you haven’t defected from Mercedes to become everyone’s favorite uncle,” you replied.
He put a hand to his chest. “I contain multitudes.”
Luca launched himself at him. Luna followed with more dignity, but only slightly.
Lewis greeted them like a returning hero, which, to be fair, in their eyes he absolutely was.
“Do I smell victory?” he asked them.
“No,” Luna said coolly. “You smell dinner.”
Lewis looked at you, impressed. “That one is dangerous.”
“That one,” you said, pointing at her, “is absolutely her father’s child when it comes to dry sarcasm.”
“And the other?”
You watched Luca try to climb Lewis like a tree.
“Pure chaos. Just like me.”
Lewis laughed.
Then another car pulled in. And the mood shifted. Not badly. Just… noticeably.
Charles walked in a minute later looking elegant without trying, too pretty to be reasonable, and already slightly guarded the second he spotted Lewis standing in your hallway holding a child under each arm like trophies.
Lewis grinned immediately, “Ah,” he said. “The other half of our disaster.”
Charles gave him a flat look. “You say this as if you did not also crash.”
“I was invited first,” Lewis replied.
“That does not improve your case.”
You stepped in before either man could escalate into passive-aggressive Formula 1 foreplay.
“Good,” you said brightly. “You’re both here. Nobody is bleeding. Excellent start.”
Lewis snorted. Charles muttered something in French that was almost certainly unhelpful.
You smiled with all the menace of a woman who had run Ferrari strategy meetings and survived.
“Shoes off,” you said. “Wine later. Civilized behavior now.”
Lewis looked delighted. Charles, to his credit, looked mildly ashamed.
Progress.
Dinner started stiffly. Not awful. Not hostile. But definitely stiff.
Lewis sat to your left, Charles to your right, and for the first ten minutes you genuinely felt like you were mediating a summit between two countries with nuclear capabilities.
The twins, unfortunately, sensed tension the way sharks sensed blood.
“So,” Luca said with great innocence, while reaching for more bread, “which one of you crashed first?”
You closed your eyes briefly. Lewis nearly choked on his wine.
Charles looked betrayed. “That is not a question for dinner.”
“Why not?” Luna asked. “It already happened.”
Lewis set down his glass, grinning despite himself. “Honestly? I like her style.”
“Of course you do,” Charles said.
You stepped in quickly. “The point of tonight is not to rewatch the accident frame by frame.”
Lewis nodded solemnly. “That will happen later, then.”
Charles looked at him. “You are unbelievable.”
“No,” Lewis said, reaching for the bottle, “I’m very believable. You just don’t like what I say.”
And somehow, absurdly, that was the thing that started to thaw it. Not because the tension vanished. But because once they began bickering properly, it stopped sounding resentful and started sounding familiar.
Sharp remarks became teasing ones. Complaints turned into mock outrage. Charles accused Lewis of treating racing like street theatre. Lewis accused Charles of taking every wheel-to-wheel battle like a personal betrayal written by Shakespeare.
You sat there, sipping wine, watching the air gradually clear. By dessert they were arguing over sim settings. By coffee they were debating overtaking etiquette.
By the time the plates had been cleared, Lewis was sprawled back in his chair like he lived there, while Charles had relaxed enough to stop looking like a beautifully dressed hostage.
You leaned back and folded your arms.
“There,” you said. “See? Nobody died. We used our words. Ferrari remains intact.”
Lewis raised a finger. “Emotionally debatable.”
Charles pointed at him. “This is why she invited us privately. Because you do not know how to behave in public.”
“I behave perfectly in public.”
“You wore a knitted bucket hat to the paddock.”
“That was fashion.”
“That was a cry for help.”
You laughed so hard you nearly spilled your drink.
And just like that, the evening stretched. It turned out that when two Formula 1 drivers were no longer actively annoyed enough to pretend they despised each other, they became deeply competitive in every other possible context.
Especially when challenged by eight-year-old twins.
“Absolutely not,” Charles said, staring at the controller in disbelief. “This is unfair.”
Lewis was laughing so hard he could barely breathe.
Luca was bouncing on the sofa. “You lost!”
“I did not lose,” Charles protested. “The car glitched.”
“No,” Luna said calmly from the armchair, “you are just old.”
Lewis wheezed. “You cannot let children call you old,” he managed, barely coherent. “You’re twenty-eight.”
Charles pointed accusingly at him. “They learned this from you.”
“They learned excellence from me.”
“They learned disrespect from you.”
You stood in the doorway holding glass of water and watched the entire spectacle with the quiet, exhausted affection of someone who had accepted long ago that this was now somehow your life.
Ferrari peace talks had devolved into Lewis arguing with children over virtual racing lines while Charles defended his honor against a girl half his height.
Honestly?
It was going better than expected.
Eventually, mercifully, the twins were herded upstairs, bathed, negotiated with, read to, threatened lightly with consequences if they tried to sneak back down, and finally put to bed.
When you came back downstairs, Lewis and Charles were already outside on the terrace, each holding a glass of wine.
The night was warm, the air soft, the lights from the garden casting golden shadows over the stone.
You stepped out with your own glass and sat down across from them.
“You can stay, by the way,” you said. “Both of you. It’s late.”
Lewis immediately grinned. “See? Hospitality. Class. Vision.”
Charles lifted his glass. “Grazie.”
Lewis looked around theatrically. “Also, Toto is not here, so no one will complain about two Ferrari drivers contaminating the property.”
You laughed. “Oh, he’d definitely complain.”
“Exactly,” Lewis said. “That is why tonight is special.”
Charles leaned back, far more relaxed than when he had arrived. “I have to admit… this helped.”
You softened at once. “Good.”
He glanced at Lewis, then at you. “It was stupid. The whole thing. We both know that.”
Lewis nodded, more serious now. “Yeah. It was.”
The quiet that followed wasn’t uncomfortable. Just honest. And that was the point of tonight, after all. To clear the air. To remind them they were a team. To make room for irritation without letting it poison everything else.
You smiled faintly and lifted your glass, “To fewer crashes.”
Lewis lifted his own. “To better radio messages.”
Charles sighed. “To Lewis learning basic restraint.”
Lewis opened his mouth to answer...
And then the terrace doors opened behind you.
You turned. And there he was.
Toto.
Still in his jacket, looking like a man who had fought an airport and lost patience with civilization entirely.
For one brief second, nobody said anything.
Then you blinked, “Toto?”
He stood in the doorway with the kind of expression that could only be described as deeply, profoundly unamused.
“There were problems with the flight,” he said flatly. “I waited at the airport for two hours only to be told I leave tomorrow morning instead.”
You stared at him. “Why didn’t you call?”
His jaw tightened just slightly. “I assumed you were busy.”
There was something in the way he said it that made Lewis’s face light up instantly with wicked delight.
Because yes. There you all were. Late at night. On the terrace. Wine in hand. You in the middle. Lewis and Charles looking completely at home.
Toto’s gaze moved from you to Lewis to Charles and back again.
“I see,” he said, in the driest tone imaginable, “the dinner went well.”
Lewis actually barked a laugh.
“Oh, oh,” he said, setting his glass down. “Toto, don’t be jealous. Boss had to discipline us.”
Charles, to your absolute horror, looked like he was trying not to laugh too.
Toto remained motionless, “I am not jealous.”
Lewis grinned wider. “That is exactly what a jealous man says.”
“Toto,” you said, already laughing, “please.”
He stepped out onto the terrace, slowly removing his jacket with the stiff dignity of a man determined not to cause a scene while absolutely causing one anyway.
“The children?” he asked.
“Asleep,” you said.
“And these two are still here.”
Charles finally lost the battle and looked down, smiling into his glass.
Lewis, on the other hand, was having the time of his life.
“Yes,” he said cheerfully. “We thought we’d move in. Great wine, beautiful terrace, excellent company, emotionally intelligent management—”
“You already left Mercedes,” Toto cut in. “You cannot also steal my house.”
You covered your mouth, trying not to laugh.
Lewis placed a hand over his heart. “Your house? Wow. Listen to him. So possessive.”
Toto gave him a look of such cool Austrian irritation that it only made Lewis enjoy himself more.
Charles finally spoke, very mild, very dangerous, “To be fair, we were invited.”
Toto turned to him. “I am aware.”
“By your wife,” Lewis added helpfully.
“I am also aware of that.”
You stood up before this could spiral into a full midnight disaster.
“All right,” you said, pointing a warning finger at all three of them. “Enough. Nobody is fighting on my terrace. Not after I spent an entire evening fixing Ferrari.”
Lewis leaned back in his chair like a man watching premium entertainment.
“You should hear yourself,” he said. “You sound exactly like a tired headmistress.”
“She does,” Charles agreed.
Toto looked at you then, and despite the jealousy and the annoyance and the absurdity of the situation, something in his expression softened. Just a little. You saw it immediately.
You walked over to him, took his hand, and squeezed.
“They stayed because the dinner worked,” you said softly. “Not because I’m secretly collecting drivers.”
Lewis coughed into his drink.
Charles made a suspicious choking sound that was almost definitely laughter.
Toto looked over your head at both of them.
“That was not helpful,” he said.
“Neither was showing up like a barbarian husband returning from war,” Lewis replied.
At that, you fully laughed, the kind that made your shoulders shake. Even Charles gave up and laughed too.
Toto looked at all three of you with the expression of a man questioning every life choice that had led him here.
Then he exhaled through his nose and muttered, “Unbelievable.”
You stepped closer and kissed his cheek. “Come sit down,” you said. “You can glower properly with a glass of wine.”
He looked at you. Then at Lewis. Then at Charles.
Then back at you. “…One glass.”
Lewis lifted the bottle immediately. “That’s the spirit.”
“No,” Toto said, sitting down beside you at last, one arm settling firmly around the back of your chair. “This is surveillance.”
Lewis nearly fell over laughing. Charles hid his grin behind his glass.
Toto’s arm remained stretched along the back of your chair in that deceptively casual way of his, which in reality meant exactly one thing: territorial Austrian behavior in progress.
You took a sip of wine to hide your smile.
Lewis, unfortunately, noticed everything. He leaned back in his chair, looking entirely too pleased with himself, glass dangling lazily from his fingers.
“You know,” he said, glancing at you with that bright, innocent expression that never meant anything good, “I have to say— this evening was very impressive.”
You already knew this tone. You did not like this tone.
Charles, apparently, knew it too, because he lowered his glass slightly and looked at Lewis with the resigned expression of a man watching someone toss a lit match into a dry forest.
Toto turned his head just enough to look at Lewis.
“Dangerous start.”
Lewis ignored him beautifully.
“No, but really,” he went on, nodding toward you, “she handled everything perfectly. Calm, smart, diplomatic, firm when needed. Honestly? Exceptional leadership.”
You felt the warmth rise to your face just slightly and waved a hand.
“Oh, please—”
“No, no,” Lewis said, cutting you off. “I mean it. Charles and I came here still mildly annoyed with each other, and now look at us.”
Charles lifted one shoulder. “We are at least no longer considering murder.”
“That,” Lewis said solemnly, “is growth.”
You laughed.
Toto gave a slow nod, swirling his wine with far too much composure.
“Well,” he said, voice dry, “that is good. Ferrari finally has a competent team principal.”
You turned to look at him. There it was. That soft look. That little curve of his mouth as his eyes found yours again, warm and proud and quietly affectionate beneath all the sarcasm.
Your expression softened instantly. But then, because Lewis had apparently woken up today and chosen chaos with intent, he added, far too casually, “And on top of that, she’s beautiful.”
He winked at you.
You closed your eyes for one single second.
Oh no.
Beside you, Toto went very still. Not dramatically. That would have been easier.
No, Toto went still in the way powerful men did when they were pretending not to react while reacting very much.
Charles made a faint choking sound into his glass, which might have been laughter desperately fighting for survival.
You slowly lowered your wine.
Lewis, having sensed blood in the water, smiled wider.
“I’m just saying,” he continued, as if this were an ordinary and reasonable observation to make to your husband, “intelligent, competent, beautiful… Ferrari is really thriving.”
Toto turned his head and looked at him with terrifying politeness. “Lewis.”
“Yes?”
“Do you enjoy making poor decisions late at night, or is this a special occasion?”
Charles laughed into his hand. You pressed your lips together.
Lewis, monstrous man that he was, only leaned back farther and grinned. “I’m complimenting your wife.”
“I noticed.”
“And agreeing that she’s brilliant.”
“I also noticed.”
“And—”
Toto raised an eyebrow.
Lewis paused just enough to make it worse, “—very easy to talk to.”
You muttered into your glass, “For the love of God.”
Charles finally gave up and openly laughed.
Toto looked at him next. “You too?”
Charles held up one hand innocently. “No, no. I am merely an observer. I am learning.”
“Terrible habits,” Toto said flatly.
Lewis put a hand to his chest. “You wound me.”
“You survive.”
“Oh, I survive very well.” Lewis took another sip, then looked at you with theatrical sincerity. “You know, after all those years working with Toto, I can really appreciate the difference. Your management style is so much more— how do I put this—”
You stared at him.
He smiled sweetly, “Emotionally mature.”
That did it. Charles nearly dropped his glass laughing. You turned your face away entirely because if Toto saw your expression, you were finished.
Toto, meanwhile, remained silent for three dangerous seconds.
Then, “Interesting,” he said calmly. “And yet you won most of your championships under my emotionally immature management.”
Lewis pointed at him at once, “Ah, but see, that is because I had resilience.”
You made a strangled noise that was definitely not a laugh.
Toto looked at you. “You find this funny?”
You met his gaze over the rim of your glass, visibly failing to look innocent.
“A little.”
“A little,” he repeated, offended in the most elegant possible way.
Lewis lifted his glass toward you. “See? She’s honest too. Another quality.”
Toto gave a slow nod. “Yes. And she has exceptionally poor taste in dinner guests.”
That finally made you laugh outright.
“Oh, now he’s sulking,” Lewis said.
“I am not sulking.”
Charles, still visibly amused, murmured, “This is absolutely sulking.”
Toto turned to him. “You are in my house.”
Charles looked around the terrace. “This feels less like a threat and more like a geographic fact.”
Lewis slapped the table once, delighted.
You were almost crying with laughter now, shoulders shaking, wine forgotten in your hand.
Toto looked at you and, despite himself, that stubborn line of irritation around his mouth softened immediately. Because he could never hold the pose when you looked this happy.
You saw it happen. So did Lewis. Which meant, naturally, that he pounced.
“There,” Lewis said, pointing at Toto. “That. That face.”
Toto frowned. “What face?”
“That one,” Lewis said. “The one where you try to be terrifying but your wife smiles at you and suddenly you look like a man who would build her a small country if she asked.”
You covered your face with one hand.
Charles made a soft, scandalized sound of agreement. “Actually… yes.”
Toto blinked once, as if deeply offended by the idea. “I would not build her a country.”
Lewis tilted his head.
“No?”
Toto’s arm slid down from the back of your chair to settle around your waist, firm and instinctive. “I would buy her one.”
The silence lasted for half a second. Then Lewis burst out laughing so loudly that somewhere upstairs you were almost certain one of the twins turned in bed.
Charles bent forward, shaking with laughter into his glass.
You just stared at your husband.
“Toto.”
He looked at you, perfectly composed again. “What?”
“You are impossible.”
“And yet,” he said, the corner of his mouth lifting as he glanced at Lewis, “apparently still preferable.”
Lewis sighed dramatically. “Ah yes. The curse of being handsome, talented, and still somehow not the husband.”
“Tragic,” Toto said.
“Cruel, really.”
Charles, now fully enjoying himself, added, “Life is full of injustice.”
You pointed at all three of them.
“No. Absolutely not. I refuse to be trapped here while three grown men turn into theatre students after midnight.”
Lewis sat back, smiling. “You invited us.”
“I invited two Ferrari drivers,” you said. “I did not consent to this level of nonsense.”
“Same thing,” Charles murmured.
You set your glass down with a tiny click and stood up. That got everyone’s attention immediately.
“All right,” you said, in the tone that had ended more meetings, arguments, and strategy disputes than anyone in Formula 1 cared to count, “that is enough. I have had one successful reconciliation dinner, one airport-returning jealous husband, three glasses of wine, and approximately six years taken off my life by this conversation.”
Lewis was still smiling. “So… one more bottle?”
“No.”
Charles, to his credit, looked instantly obedient. “Understood.”
Lewis looked wounded. “You like him more right now.”
“I do.”
“Unfair.”
“You started this.”
“Worth it,” he said at once.
Toto muttered, “That is the problem.”
You folded your arms, “Time to sleep. Both of you.”
Lewis looked at Charles. “We’ve been dismissed.”
Charles stood, smoothing down his shirt with princely calm. “Honestly, fair.”
You pointed toward the hallway. “Guest rooms. No late-night scheming. No opening old race replays. No trying to steal food from my kitchen at two in the morning.”
Lewis raised a hand. “That last one feels targeted.”
“It is.”
Charles nodded politely to you, then looked at Toto. “Good night.”
Toto gave him a brief nod. “Good night.”
Lewis stood too, stretching like a cat and looking entirely too cheerful for a man who had spent the last twenty minutes provoking an Austrian billionaire for sport.
“Sleep well, Toto,” he said brightly. “Try not to dream of emotionally mature leadership.”
Toto stared at him.
You grabbed Lewis lightly by the sleeve and steered him toward the hallway before your husband decided that murder, in fact, remained an option.
“Move,” you said.
Lewis laughed all the way to the stairs, Charles beside him still shaking his head with quiet amusement.
At the foot of the staircase, Lewis turned once more and called softly, “Good night, boss!”
You narrowed your eyes. “Go to bed.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Charles disappeared first.
Lewis followed a second later, still grinning like the human embodiment of bad ideas.
And then, finally, silence. Real silence.
You exhaled.
Behind you, Toto rose from his chair. Slowly.
You turned.
He was watching the hallway with the expression of a man who had survived battle and was now reevaluating his friendships.
“Well,” you said lightly, stepping toward him, “that went well.”
He looked down at you, “Did it?”
You smiled, slipping your hands up his chest.
“No one fought. Charles and Lewis stopped sulking. The children adore them. The house is still standing. I’d call that a success.”
Toto’s hands found your waist at once.
“Yes,” he said. “And my reward for this success was listening to Lewis call my wife emotionally mature and beautiful while sitting on my terrace drinking my wine.”
You bit back a laugh.
“When you say it like that, it does sound a little dramatic.”
“A little?”
You rose onto your toes and kissed the corner of his mouth, “You were jealous.”
“I was observant.”
“You were jealous.”
He looked at you for a long second.
Then his hands tightened slightly on your waist, “…A little.”
You smiled in triumph, “Thought so.”
He sighed, but there was no real annoyance left in him now, only that familiar warmth, that helpless softness he reserved for you when no one else was looking.
“Come,” he murmured, brushing his thumb over your side. “Before one of them comes back for more wine and I decide friendship has limits.”
You laughed softly and let him guide you inside.
The terrace doors closed behind you with a soft click, and for a brief moment the house was quiet again, wrapped in warm darkness and the last fading hush of the evening.
You barely made it halfway down the corridor before Toto’s hand caught your wrist.
You turned, and he pulled you straight into him.
The kiss landed hard, immediate, full of everything he had been holding back since he had stepped onto that terrace and found you sitting there between Lewis and Charles with a glass of wine in your hand and that calm, composed smile of yours that always undid him a little faster than he would ever admit.
“Toto—” you murmured against his mouth, half breathless already, half laughing.
He didn’t answer right away. He just kissed you again. Deeper this time. Slower. Like he was making a point.
By the time you reached your bedroom, your pulse was already unsteady, your fingers curled into the front of his shirt, his hand firm at your waist as he pushed the door shut behind the two of you.
The sound of the lock sliding into place felt louder than it should have.
You looked up at him. There was something almost unfair in the way he watched you then—tie slightly loosened, hair not quite in place anymore, eyes dark with that familiar mixture of jealousy, love, and a kind of raw devotion he never managed to hide from you when the rest of the world finally fell away.
And then suddenly you were moving again.
He pulled you in, one arm around your waist, the other sliding up your back, and before you could even form a proper protest, he lifted you in one smooth motion like it was nothing at all.
You let out a startled little gasp, your hands flying to his shoulders.
“Toto— what are you doing?”
He pressed you gently but firmly against the wall beside the bedroom door, his body close, one thigh between yours, his face only inches from yours now.
“Proving a point,” he murmured.
His mouth brushed your jaw. Then your cheek. Then back to your lips.
Your breath caught, “What point?”
He leaned back just enough to look at you, one hand steady at your hip, the other cradling the back of your neck like something precious and entirely his.
“That you belong with me.”
The words should have sounded arrogant. And maybe from anyone else, they would have.
But from him, here, now, with his forehead resting briefly against yours and his breathing just as uneven as your own, they sounded less like a claim and more like a truth he felt all the way down to his bones.
You softened instantly. “Toto…”
His thumb brushed over your cheek.
“I know Lewis was teasing,” he said quietly. “I know Charles was just enjoying the show. I know all of it.”
You searched his face. “But?”
His mouth curved faintly, though there was still something vulnerable under it now.
“But I came home and found my wife looking beautiful in our house, laughing with two very charming Ferrari drivers, and I disliked it on principle.”
A laugh escaped you before you could stop it.
“On principle?”
“Yes.”
“That was the most ridiculous thing I’d ever heard.”
“I am aware.”
You smiled, your hands sliding up into his hair.
“And dramatic.”
“I am Austrian,” he said, as if that explained everything.
It did, unfortunately, explain quite a lot.
You kissed him then — slowly this time, with no laughter left in it, just warmth and affection and something deeper, something softer that always lived beneath the banter with the two of you.
When you pulled back, you rested your forehead against his.
“For the record,” you whispered, “I do belong with you.”
He closed his eyes for a second at that. Not because he was surprised. Because he felt it. The full weight of it.
When he looked at you again, all the sharpness in him had melted into something achingly tender.
“You are very bad for my peace of mind,” he murmured.
You grinned. “And yet you keep me.”
“Always.”
There was no teasing in that one. Just certainty.
And then, everything shifted again.
His hands slid down, firm, confident, grabbing your hips and then lower, your breath caught as his grip tightened on your ass and in one smooth motion he lifted you again, carrying you toward the bed like it was the most natural thing in the world.
“Toto—” you gasped softly as he laid you down, your body sinking into the mattress. But he didn’t give you time to think.
He was already over you, already pulling at your clothes, his touch urgent now, less patient, like something in him had finally snapped.
“Toto…” you whispered again, breath uneven, your fingers catching his wrist for just a second. “Not now… they are right behind the wall…”
He leaned down and kissed you — hard, deep, stealing the rest of your protest before it could fully form.
When he pulled back, his lips brushed yours as he murmured low, “Let them hear.”
Your heart skipped.
“I am in my house,” he added quietly, voice rougher now, darker, “with my wife.”
His hand slid over your stomach as if to emphasize every word.
“They are guests.”
Before you could answer, before you could even decide whether to argue or laugh or give in, he was already moving again.
His lips trailed down your body, slow at first, then more deliberate, more focused.
You inhaled sharply when he kissed your stomach, your body reacting instantly, instinctively, as one of his hands pushed your underwear down your thighs while the other found your breast, warm, steady, his thumb brushing over your nipple just enough to make you shiver.
“Oh God… Toto…” you breathed out, your voice already softer, weaker, giving in despite yourself.
Because that was the truth. It was always the truth. His touch did this to you. Always.
You felt the last piece of fabric slip away and suddenly you were exposed, vulnerable in a way that only ever felt safe with him.
Your hands moved on their own, fingers tangling in his hair as he lowered himself further, his breath warm against your skin, then he started slowly teasing your pussy and clit.
At first you tried to stay quiet. You really did.
Your lips pressed together, your breathing uneven, every sound caught somewhere in your throat as you clung to that last bit of control.
But it was pointless. Because Toto knew you.
He knew exactly how you reacted. Where to touch. How to move. When to be slower. When to press harder. Every motion deliberate. Every shift calculated to pull you deeper into it.
Your grip tightened in his hair, your body already responding before your mind could catch up, your back arching slightly as a soft sound escaped you despite your efforts.
You tried to stop it.
You failed. Because he didn’t rush. He didn’t need to.
He took his time — building, breaking, drawing it out just enough that you started to forget where you were, who might hear, what you had even been trying to hold back in the first place.
And slowly, inevitably, you lost yourself in it.
Just when you felt yourself getting close, right there, right on the edge... Toto suddenly stopped.
A frustrated, breathless sound escaped your lips, your body still tense, still aching for him, every nerve ending lit up and waiting.
And instead of giving you what you needed, he leaned in and pressed slow, deliberate kisses along the inside of your thighs.
Your breath stuttered instantly.
You looked down at him, and there it was. That look. Dark. Hungry. Knowing exactly what he was doing to you.
He smiled, slow, predatory, completely in control.
“Turn over,” he murmured.
Your mind protested immediately.
Oh no… no, no—
But your body? Your body reacted before you could think.
A soft, needy sound slipped from your lips as you moved, turning onto your stomach, your breath uneven, your heart racing.
And without even realizing it, you arched. Your hips lifted, pressing back toward him, inviting him, offering yourself without hesitation.
You heard him shift behind you. Felt the mattress dip. Felt him closer.
And then, he was inside you. One deep, powerful thrust that stole the air from your lungs, a broken sound tearing from your throat as your entire body reacted at once.
You didn’t think anymore. You couldn’t. Everything faded except him, the way his cock filled you, the way he moved, the way every inch of him felt impossibly deep, overwhelming, consuming.
This position — he knew. He knew exactly what it did to you. How it made everything sharper. Stronger. How every movement hit deeper, more intense, impossible to ignore.
Your sounds grew louder, slipping past any control you had tried to keep, each thrust pulling another reaction from you, your body giving in completely.
His hand gripped your hip, firm, possessive, fingers pressing into your skin, holding you steady while the other slid between your legs, finding your clit instantly. Exactly where you needed him.
Your whole body jolted.
A gasp, then a softer moan, your grip on the sheets tightening as the sensation built again — faster this time, stronger, overwhelming.
Your breathing broke apart, your body tightening, reacting before your mind could catch up.
Behind you, Toto felt it. Of course he did. He always knew.
His movements became faster, deeper, more urgent, chasing that same edge with you, his breath rough, uneven, close to your ear now.
“That’s it, Liebling…”
Your name for him slipped from your lips, broken, breathless.
“Don’t—” you tried, but it fell apart immediately.
“Come for me,” he murmured, voice low, commanding, sending a shiver straight through you.
A pause, just enough to make it worse.
“I want to feel it.”
That was it. The last thread snapped.
The tension inside you broke all at once, your body tightening, arching, a louder, uncontrollable sound escaping you as everything hit at once, strong. Overwhelming.
“oh God, Toto— yes… yes—”
Your voice broke, rising without control as the orgasm crashed through you, your whole body trembling with the force of it.
Your pussy pulsed around his cock, your body reacting without restraint, completely lost in the sensation.
And he followed you immediately. You felt it, in the way his grip tightened, in the way he pressed deeper, closer, like he needed to be fully there, fully inside you as he let go too.
His forehead dropped against your shoulder, his breath rough, uneven, his control slipping completely for those few seconds.
He leaned down, his teeth grazing your shoulder in a sharp, instinctive bite, his voice low, almost growled, “Mine.”
And then, everything slowed.
The intensity faded into something softer, heavier, your bodies still pressed together as your breathing gradually steadied.
You both collapsed onto the bed, warm, flushed, completely spent.
You could feel his heartbeat against your back — fast, strong, still racing. Yours matched it.
For a moment, neither of you moved. Just breathing. Just existing in the aftermath of it.
A soft, breathless laugh escaped you. “Oh my God, Toto… what was that?”
He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he pressed a slow, gentle kiss to the place he had just marked, softer now, almost tender. Then another kiss.
And finally, quieter, “That…” he murmured, his voice still low but no longer rough,
“…was me reminding you how much I love you.”
You smiled softly at his words, still catching your breath, your body warm and heavy beneath him.
“You did that on purpose,” you murmured, voice quiet but amused. “I’m sure Lewis and Charles heard everything.”
You huffed out a small laugh. “My voice could wake the dead… and there is a reason the kids’ rooms are on the other side of the house.”
Toto didn’t stop. His lips were still at your neck, slow, unhurried, brushing soft kisses along your skin that sent small shivers down your spine, completely different now—gentle, grounding, almost lazy.
His hand drifted over your stomach, warm and steady, fingers tracing absent patterns as if he needed to keep touching you just to remind himself you were still there.
For a moment, he didn’t answer.
Then, quietly, “Well,” he murmured against your skin, “they knew what they were signing up for when they decided to stay the night.”
You let out a soft laugh, turning your head slightly to look at him.
“Tomorrow morning is going to be awkward.”
He hummed, unconcerned, pressing another kiss just below your ear.
“Good,” he said simply.
You blinked. “Good?”
“Maybe they will disappear before breakfast.”
That made you laugh properly then, the sound light, unrestrained, your hand coming up to brush through his hair.
“You are impossible.”
He lifted his head just enough to look at you, that familiar, quiet confidence back in his eye, but softer now, warmer.
september 2024 : when you and lando started dating, you loved interacting with fans and fans loved interacting with you. but then one incident — one person — had to ruin it. and it scared lando more than it did you.
lando norris x f!reader | word count : 1.8k | warnings : language, fans crossing boundaries | notes : if you enjoyed it don't forget to reblog / comment, it would mean a lot 🥹 | requested : yes!
a part of the lando’s heart series.
you've walked this path before. it’s your third time attending the italian grand prix – your first grand prix was here back when you first met lando. before the two of you were even dating yet, still in the talking phase. this race truly has a special place in your heart.
this place felt familiar. you knew how everything worked. even when you were by yourself – like right now – you were confident in being able to walk the paddock by yourself. lando was busy doing some media stuff which is what led you to be by yourself, not that you minded. sometimes it felt nice to be able to walk around by yourself before the real craziness of the weekend began to pick up.
you didn't think anything about it.
fans nearby called out your name as you walked by and you happily smiled and waved at them. some of them held flags, caps, anything they think they would get signed – waving them in your direction. phones out everywhere and recording it all.
you've signed stuff before, that also wasn't new and you loved interacting with fans. so you happily made your way over to the barrier and took a marker from a fan and began signing things. you also managed to take some quick pictures as well. you trying your best to talk to fans as they shouted over top of each other to speak to you.
"no need to shout! i'm right here," you say with a smile as you sign a mclaren cap with the number 4 on it.
you hand the marker back to whoever it belonged too before you reached forward to grab a phone. your hand mixing in with the crowds, you standing on your tiptoes slightly as your other hand gripped the barrier.
right as you grabbed the phone that's when it happened. a hand tightly gripping your wrist and tugging on you. your heart immediately jumped to your throat, eye wide in surprise as you let out a gasp as the sudden contact. the grip is hard and tight as you try to pull away, but they only tug you forward.
it all happens so fast that you can't even fully comprehend that its happening. the person who is gripping you is shouting something you can't understand as the other fans also shout. chaos. that's the only way to describe it.
security nearby immediately reacts.
"hey! let go!" they shout, rushing forward and the grip quickly loosens. the two guards manage to get you away from the barrier before you could accidentally fall over it.
the moment probably lasts all but three seconds. three very confusing seconds as you are still trying to wrap your head around what just happened. heart pounding in your ears as you make eye contact with a fan directly across from you. their stare mirroring yours.
"are you alright?" one of the guards ask and you turn to nod, a bright smile forcing its way onto your lips.
"i'm fine!" you say, trying your best to let out a lighthearted laugh as you take a step back. you give the crowd one more look, smiling and waving cheerfully – like always, before continuing to walk down the path.
the fans who had just witnessed the whole thing are left talking amongst themselves. still in disbelief over the whole thing, some even shouting towards you, apologies more than anything.
it’s not until a few hours later, when lando is sitting at one of the many outside tables during a break between his schedule that he sees it.
people tagging him across different platforms, he's confused on what people are tagging him in. then he sees that you are also being tagged, mentioned continuously and something inside him twists ugly. like whatever he's about to watch is not going to be good.
his eyes fall on the caption first as the clip plays out on his phone.
caption: someone grabbed yn’s arm while she was interacting with fans… completely scared the shit out of me
the camera angle is messy, filmed through shoulders and heads and things being shoved in your direction.
it then focuses on you, smiling brightly and laughing as a fan says something to you.
you then reach forward to grab the phone when it happens– your wrist suddenly being grabbed and your whole body jerked forward.
the person filming it gasps along with some others who notice you being grabbed.
security immediately rushed forward and the clip cuts abruptly.
lando feels like he's about to be sick. heart hammering in his chest like he's never felt before. a million things going through his mind, but the main thing being:
someone grabbed you. someone fucking touched you.
he sees another clip that shows you afterwards, smiling and trying to remain calm despite the very not calm situation you were just put through.
it makes him even sicker to realize that you were still willing to try and remain happy. lando can't even begin to describe the amount of emotions rushing over him.
he looks through the comments because of course he does.
👤 : why are people grabbing her like that?? that's insane.
👤 : security stepped in so fast, thank god
👤 : the way she tried to play it off afterwards... you can tell she was clearly startled poor thing
👤 : fans need to learn boundaries
👤 : imagine how pissed lando is going to be when he sees this
yeah, lando is beyond pissed. the clip autoplays again and again. his jaw clenching each time he sees you being yanked forward. if any more force had been used then you would have completely fell over the barrier and–
fuck, lando can't even begin to imagine what would have happened. he doesn't want to even think about that possible scenario.
"hey, you okay?" oscar's voice snaps lando out of his thoughts. eyes shooting up to met the younger male's slightly concerned eyes.
the britain puts his phone down with a sigh as he rubs his hands over his face. trying to find the words, if he can, to answer his teammate. when he meets oscar's eyes again, the frustration that was original there had been replaced with something else.
something far more closer to fear.
lando finds you not too long after in the mclaren hospitality. sitting at one of the tables with your laptop in front of you.
he doesn't say anything at first. just stands there watching you, taking your form in. you finally notice him after a few seconds, eyes looking up from your laptop to his eyes.
at first you smile at him, warmly like how you always look at him. with love. but then you take in his expression and your smile falls.
"what's wrong, lan?" he doesn't say anything as he walks over to you, standing over you as you crane your neck to look up at him.
"why didn't you tell me?" his voice is almost dangerously calm.
you lick your lips, "tell you what?" you ask softly as you feel your stomach drop a little.
he pulls out his phone and easily pulls up one of the many, many videos he's had sent to him. screen facing you as the video autoplays and you watch the clip.
of you getting grabbed. security stepping in. of your startled expression after being let go.
you feel a heat rush over your body as you look down at your hands, embarrassment rushing over you. "it was nothing..." you say quietly.
lando stares at you, "it was nothing?" he repeats.
"i'm fine," you try to reassure him quickly, "it lasted like... two seconds!"
"that's not the point, y/n," his voice is tight. you can tell he's trying his best to control his tone. he's trying hard not to get angry. "you shouldn't have been that close to the barrier in the first place."
you can't help but furrow your eyebrows as you look at him, arms crossing, "i've done it a hundred times before."
"and one of those times you almost got dragged over the barrier – someone fucking grabbed you."
"security handled it," you try again to assure him you're fine. trying to keep the mood light.
"that's not the point," he repeats, and that's when you finally see it. the way his shoulders are tense. the way his hands keep flexing like he doesn't know what to do with them.
"you're overreacting, lando," you say softly. he looks at you like that sentence physically hurt him.
"i watched someone pull you towards a crowd," he says quietly. "while i wasn't even there."
you don't know what to say to that really. the air around you both has grown extremely quiet. it makes you feel uneasy and guilty. lando exhales slowly as he runs a hand through his curls.
"i should have been there."
"you were working."
"doesn't matter."
you finally stand up from your seat, taking a step closer to him as you both looked at each other. "i'm okay."
you can see he's really looking at you this time, eyes moving over you like he's double checking that there's no bruises, no injuries on you. double checking that you're safe.
"you're playing it off," he says.
"because it wasn't a big deal."
"it scared me," the words come out before he can stop them. you feel your chest tighten and for a moment neither of you speak. then, he's reaching forward and pulling you into a hug. not gentle, not casual.
tight.
like he's trying to assure himself that you're still standing in front of him. your arms automatically wrap around him. "i'm sorry," you murmur.
"you didn't do anything wrong," he says, voice muffled as he buries his face into your hair. slowly taking in your scent in hopes that it calms down. "but we're not doing that again."
you pull away just enough to look at him, "what?"
"getting that close to crowds without me there."
"lando–
"i mean it," he cuts you off and there's something different about his expression now. he's not angry. no, its resolve – he's made up his mind and there's nothing that can change it. "i don't care if people think i'm being overprotective."
"you don't have to–
"i do," he cuts you off once more as his hands comes up to cup your face gently. "you might not think it's a big deal," he adds, "but i'm not watching that happen again."
you study him for a second, the worry still evident in his eyes. you realize it probably won't leave for a while. so instead of arguing, you lean your forehead against his.
"i'm still here," you whisper, and lando sighs slowly before pulling you into another hug. and you let him hold onto you just a little longer than usual.
new header for the masterlist fully inspired by @foumevie and their amazing banners/headers that they make for their series 💕💕💕 please check them out if you can!!
summary: after a tough week, you come back to oscar with a mouthful of apologies, expecting him to want something a little more from you during this unplanned break. but oscar's willing to talk you through just how much he expects from you.
warnings: fluff, poor humour, established relationship, 18+ (minors dni), unprotected sex, fingering, breastplay, teasing, p in v, mutual orgasms, indirect overstimulation (f. receiving), reassurance, just sweet oscar taking care of you and talking you through it, no aftercare soz // poorly proof read as usual
word count: 3.2k
a/n: combined this request with this one (can't find it ugh) to make something so sweet and beautiful.
Oscar had clocked it the moment you walked back into the apartment. Your eyes a bit more hooded than usual. Your gait slower. The barely audible sigh from your lips as you washed your face after dinner. And the fact you hadn’t already pounced on him or Basil already, attacking them with hugs and kisses all over.
You were tired.
But that hadn't stopped the apologies from slipping past your pretty lips as you crawled to your bed, finding Oscar softly staring at you with his arms open and inviting. The concern in those honey brown eyes could have been seen for miles.
"I'm sorry, Osc," you murmured, hands travelling up his bare arms, relishing the heat of his skin as you pressed a light kiss on his cheek. "I know you were probably expecting something from me, but it’s been a long week," you whispered.
With the extended break after Suzuka, it was a rare moment where you and Oscar could spend some extensive time together. But this week... it had not been kind to you. Your patience had been tested and your kindness toyed with. Every day seemed to drag on and on while you were just waiting to get back home to Oscar.
A small frown made its way onto Oscar's face. He watched you quietly curl up in his arms, back flushed to his chest, tired head resting against his shoulder. "Hey," he mumbled, tilting your face so he could see you better. He blinked at the pout on your face as he moved the stranded pieces of your hair behind your ears. "Don't apologise. I don’t expect you to do anything,” he muttered like the word itself was dirty. “This, just us here, is more than enough."
You stared at him softly, corners of your mouth tugging upwards quietly. You turned your head, nose just brushing the side of his jaw before you pressed a lingering kiss to his neck. "You're so sweet," you hummed.
You could feel him laugh lightly underneath you before he sucked in a sharp breath, thumb grazing the side of your cheek. "Besides, give me some credit," he teased, brown eyes flickering over your face. "I can do all the work too."
You raised a brow at his words; body intrigued at his proposition despite the looming fatigue. "Would you now?" You grinned.
Oscar shrugged, returning the same grin. "Only if you want to, baby," he mumbled, kissing the top of your forehead. "You just sit there and let me take care of you, hmm?"
You nodded. "Yes, please."
"Well... since you asked so nicely," he mused, hand darting to tilt your chin up to him. His warm breath only lingered for a few seconds before he dipped his head down and placed his lips on yours.
He was soft. Not holding you with the frantic urgency you usually had during times like these. For a second, you wondered whether he was holding out on you. But the purposeful slow pull away and the push deeper to taste you told you about that the thoughts running through his head.
It didn't take long for the quiet moans to escape your lips, muffled and stuttered with the feel of his tongue mapping out every crevice of your mouth like he hadn't memorised it already. Like he was tasting something else other than the traces of minty toothpaste.
You could feel his hand gliding down your skin, not in any hurry. Down your neck and over your shirt, stopping at the swell of your chest. Your breath caught at the press of his fingers into your clothed breast, pad of his thumb rubbing the pebbled mound in firm, teasing circles.
"So pretty, aren't you?" He sighed against your lips, heart whirring at every uneven breath lodged in your throat. He smiled at your already clouded eyes, tired yet so needy. The small shift between your thighs was all but telling. And he loved it.
"Come here." Oscar moved you against his lap, throat bobbing at the sweep of your ass against the growing tent in his boxers. He tucked his chin into your shoulder, seating you between his legs. He took a second, hands roaming your bare thighs and the edges of your shirt, fingers running over the waistband of your panties. His shirt, actually. It was his. But you looked much better in it.
"Lift these hips for me, baby," he murmured against your ears while his fingers hooked into the elastic, slightly helping you up to pull your panties down your legs. He could hear you suck in a sharp breath as the cold air hit your skin. "That's it. I promise that's all you have to do. Let me take care of you."
Oscar's hand dipped between your thighs, other hand keeping your legs open against the mattress. The ghost of his smile could be felt on your shoulder as he felt warm slick almost instantly on the tips of his fingers. Your throat tightened upon the feel of him smearing your arousal through your soft folds, playing and teasing as he marvelled over you for the umpteenth time.
"So wet for me," he mumbled, lips grazing your ear, feeling your body jerk as his fingers skimmed past your clit. His chest swelled with a proud warmth. He swallowed the saliva forming in his mouth, moving his fingers around the bundle of nerves, slow and firm. Everything about his tease deliberate.
You shuddered against Oscar's body, eyes fluttering at the heat swirling in the pit of your stomach. "Oh, Osc," you mewled, hips grinding forward for more.
"Feels good, doesn't it, baby?" Oscar hummed, feeling your clit harden with every passing second. He smiled, fingers prodding every crevice meticulously. "I know it does. I'm gonna make it feel even better. Put my fingers in you, hmm?"
A choked gasp fell from your mouth as he pushed one finger into your cunt. His free hand moved from your thigh, digging into your waist while your back arched into him. He cursed under his breath, barely enough for you to hear. God, you felt so warm around him, walls clinging to him. Taking him so fucking well.
His rhythm was slow and deep. Teasing against your walls. Heat swarmed your body, telling it to writhe against him at every swipe of his thumb on your clit. You take him deep, middle finger sucked in, flushed past the knuckle, leaving him soaking. Just when you thought it couldn't get any better, your hand darted out to his thigh, nails scrapping his skin as he sneakily pushed another finger inside.
"F-Fuck," you stuttered, eyes rolling.
Oscar grinned against your skin, curling his fingers with every drag, rubbing that spot good for you. "You feel that? Every time I do that, your pretty pussy squeezes around me," he moaned lowly, feeling your walls contract at his words. "Your body knows me so well," he praised, kissing the side of your neck. "You deserve everything good, baby."
The whimpers falling from your lips became deeper. He didn't fasten his fingers nor did he pry any deeper. He was right. Your body knew him well. And so did he. Coaxing that perfect ridge in your cunt, making you feel so goddamn good.
"Oscar," you breathed tightly, brows tirelessly mending.
He swallowed, flushed face tucking into your shoulder deeper with every shift against him. You probably weren't too aware of the mess behind you. It didn't matter. This was about you. Not him.
"You close, baby? Yeah?" He murmured, hearing your deeper, sparser gasps while your hips threatened to chase that electrifying sliver of heat. He cleared his throat as you nodded slowly. "Go on. Cum me for me, pretty girl."
You blinked with the long flashes of white taking over your vision. Your body convulsed quietly against him, hoarding the striking waves of pleasure rolling over you one after another, leaving you breathless and speechless.
"That's it," he coaxed, fingers slowly moving out before rubbing those sensitive nerves gently. He kissed the side of your head. "Did so well, baby."
Oscar watched you tilt your head, hazed eyes flickering to his, making his stomach churn. You were beautiful. He searched your gaze, heartbeat matching your softened breaths. He raised a brow, not judging nor teasing. Just genuine. "Want another one? Yeah?" He murmured, taking in the small tip of your head.
"I'll give you another one, baby."
You weren't sure when Oscar had moved you. It was fast and effortless, resting you against the pillows, making sure to keep one tucked underneath your body. You swallowed quietly as you felt those pillow lips press on the inside of your thigh, kisses soft and lingering.
"My beautiful, beautiful girl," Oscar hummed, hands running over your thighs as he propped his head on the mattress, between your legs.
Your heart quickened at the sight of those honey brown eyes staring back at you, sweet, boyish smile stretched onto his face. They stayed on you for a beat. And the another. Watching. Admiring.
After the week you had had, it was hard to feel like anything. But the way Oscar looked at you right now... you felt like the most beautiful woman in the universe.
You pursed your lips, heat quickly crawling up your face. You nudged him with your knee, embarrassed. "Osc," you mumbled, giving him a pointed look.
You could feel his chuckle against your bare skin. "I mean it," he stated with no trace of humour. Just warmth. He kissed your inner thigh one more time, inching closer and closer to where you wanted him. "Beautiful," he whispered, flickering his eyes to you.
Your lips parted to reprimand him but before you knew it, his mouth had latched onto your cunt. You gasped, fingers curling at your sides. You were still a bit sensitive. But fuck, the feel of his tongue lapping up the mix of your arousal and cum always made you insane. Your brows furrowed tightly as your back arched, feeling the hum from his chest reverberate through you. Christ...
Oscar had closed his eyes briefly, devoting himself to savour the fine taste of you. To him, it was sweet. Addictive. A meal designed by him.
It was lewd how he could hear himself. Every lick and slurp echoing through the quiet night. But he much preferred your soft moans. You were tired and yet, you were making all this noise for him. And fuck, if it didn't make him hard.
Maybe it was pathetic. The way he was rubbing up against the mattress as he ate you out like he hadn't just eaten dinner. But you always seemed to bring out to the worst in him. Had him here, rutting against the bed out of sheer desperation. And the sudden feel of your hand through his brown locks didn't make it any easier. He grunted at the tug, hands tightening around your thighs, bringing you closer if it was possible, stopping your squirming hips.
"Shit, Osc," you mewled, choked gasps when his lips attached to your clit, firmly sucking before his tongue travelled in circles.
Oh. My. God.
"So good," he grunted against your cunt, nose bucking against the bundle of nerves. "Do so well for me, baby. I'm so proud of you."
Your thighs tightened around his head, clamping his hands to your skin. His words made your stomach churn. It was useless to lie. You were close already. The heat already climbing and looming when his tongue hooked itself under your clit, rubbing the spot in between that made you whine.
"Come on, baby. Give me another," Oscar moaned, brown eyes watching your flushed face carefully with every lick. The thin sheet of sweat on your face... mended brows... bitten lips... an absolute piece of art.
He watched.
He watched your jaw slack, lips parted and wrapped around an incomplete gasp as it hit you. Your thighs and hips shake around him and yet he doesn't stop. He was a bit greedy like that. He liked watching your body squirm, angle higher for even more. The heave of your chest like he made you forget how to breathe.
He loved all of it.
Oscar swallowed hard as your hips came crashing down, body limp against the bed as your uneven breaths filled the air. He kissed the side of your thigh, a trail going up before he found your lips and kissed them deeply, hand sinking into your hair.
You hummed quietly, taking the time to consume the taste of you on him. It always tasted better like that.
He breathed loudly, pulling away for some air. He smiled, tucking the tresses that had escaped again behind your ears. "Did so well, baby."
You stared at him for a moment. "Osc," you called softly, capturing his attention. "I want to feel you."
You could see the obvious struggle in his boxers. Even the small damp circle where his precum stained the front.
Oscar sucked in a sharp breath. He could’ve sworn he felt his cock twitch at your words. He shook his head. "It's okay. I don't want to tire you—"
"Please, baby," you whispered, hand reaching out to caress his cheek. "I'm okay. I'm sure."
His tongue travelled over his bottom lip as he drew in another quick breath. He swallowed thickly. It was your eyes. He swore. That glint that always got him in the end. Always driving him crazy. You might as well have been holding him by the balls.
"Okay, baby," he mumbled, hand moving to push down the waistband of his boxers, too lazy... too desperate to fully undress himself. He didn't care. He just wanted to feel you. The air felt cold against the heat of him, eliciting a hiss from his throat.
He leaned down closer to you, pressing a long kiss to your lips. "Tell me if it's too much, hmm? You know how it is. Just two taps. A word. That’s all it'll take and I'll stop," he reminded, ensuring he captured the nod of understanding from you.
He smiled to himself. His pretty girl. So good for him. He sunk his fingers between your lips, coating them in your saliva. His cock stood straight and hard, taut muscles quivering as he fisted himself, covering the aching thing with your wetness.
Your cunt throbbed at his small eye roll. God, he looked so good like this. Brown hair all dishevelled. Mole-dotted skin flushed. Such a pretty sight.
Oscar lined himself up. He wanted to stay true to his promise. All you had to do was just stay there. Let him do all the work like you deserved.
He pushed himself inside, just an inch. Enough to make you both groan loudly. He swallowed the sound, feeling your nails sink into his forearms as his forehead dropped to yours. "I know, I know—fuck," he gasped. "You feel so fucking good, baby. Oh my God," his voice cracked as he dragged himself out and back in, deeper.
Your whimpers curled in your throat as he bottomed out and stopped, letting the both of you still. Letting you adjust for a moment while his breath, hot and uneven, wavered over you. "Doing so good for me, pretty girl. Taking me so well," he praised, lips briefly pressing against your forehead.
Your voices strained as you spoke, "Fuck, Osc. Please... move."
"I will," he confirmed, smiling at the desperation swirling in your eyes. "Just keep your eyes on me. Don't look away, hmm?"
You nodded, breath catching as he began to move slowly. The first few drags teasing and purposeful before he pushed deeper, each push flushed against you in a way you could feel it for days on end. Your nails sunk harder into his forearms, eyes still locked on him, lips parted around a moan with every swivel of his hips.
"Tell me you feel that," Oscar grunted, skin prickled with heat. "Me inside you. How you take every single inch so fucking perfectly. Letting me take care of you," he rasped, watching your face contort with pleasure.
"I feel that, baby. So good," you whimpered.
He moved again. Faster. A control on the brink of something so messy. The sound, skin on skin, echoed throughout the quiet night air. Dim lights of your room painted across your faces so he could see your pretty face without any obstacles.
The exhaustion of the week had faded in your eyes. The only fatigue present was the one he had created. The one you both knew would put you right asleep the moment you both finished.
The look alone made his chest swarm with warmth. That was what he wanted. What he had promised. And he had succeeded.
You swallowed hard, almost sobbing when Oscar pulled one of his tricks, thumb dipping between the mess you were both making and found your clit. "Fuck—ngh! Oscar, I can't. Not when you do that," you breathed, sounds of the bed creaking underneath you filling your ears.
"Then don't," Oscar panted, feeling the coil in his stomach tighten, threatening to unravel in a moment's time. He leaned down, lips just inches away from yours. "Let go for me, baby. Let me make you feel good and come on my cock," he murmured sweetly before taking you into his mouth.
It happened again. The ripple of sharp heat rolling over you as your body locked up against his. Your moans swallowed and tasted by Oscar. Toes curling while he gently continued, own hips beginning to fasten with urgency.
You could feel his muffled moans in your mouth, his fingers digging into to your waist. It was like he was trying to bring you closer. You weren't sure it was possible when you could feel everything. Even the tug of your lips caught in his teeth as he stilled, spilling himself into you, leaving you warm and full.
You breathed hard through your nose as Oscar collapsed lightly against you, chin tucked back into your shoulder like it belonged there. You wondered if he could feel your hammering heart while you raked your fingers through his hair.
You pressed a kiss to his ear before he gently peeled away from you, pulling out cautiously. It took only seconds for him to bundle the both of you up under the blanket, either of you too tired to clean yourselves up. That was tomorrow's problem.
You quietly stared at him, curled up in his arms, legs intertwined, looking over those brown constellations you had memorised. You blinked as his eyes fell to yours. You wanted to say thank you. But for some reason, it was far more difficult than you anticipated. Oscar had kept his promise. And you were grateful.
You took a deep breath in. "I—"
"I swear to God, if you apologise again, I'll make you cum over and over again till you beg me to stop," Oscar mumbled, stroking your hair as you rested against his chest. He grinned at the shake of your body, your quiet giggle music to his ears. “Shut up and go to sleep, you muppet," he teased.
"You didn't even know what I was going to say," you muttered to yourself with a pout. You peeked an eye at him. "Pancakes in the morning? Oscar? Osc!" You whined at his silence, poking his cheek.
An amused sigh fell from his lips, honey brown eyes opening to see you. He smiled at the peer of your eyes, heart whirring again. "Yes, I promise. Now come on. Let’s sleep."
the inevitable match - part one (oscar piastri x reader)
🏁pairing: oscar piastri x norris!reader.
🏁 word count: 47.1k total. this part: 15.6k
🏁 genres/warnings: brothers best friend trope, friends to lovers. romantic tension, emotional restraint, lots of yearning and almost touches. mutual pining and social pressure. jealous and refusal of feelings. it is a slow burn. max verstappen is a menace and lando is a very overprotective brother. charles is very sweet. reader insert but no use of y/n, no descriptions of reader but they are referred to as feminine and miss norris.
🏁summary: he has always been within reach. always just beyond permission. as the season unfolds, restraint becomes increasingly difficult to maintain — because some affections are too constant to be coincidence, and too inevitable to remain unspoken.
🏁 author notes: i am apologising for the word count and the fact this is in 3 parts, i tried all i could but tumblr's block limit will be the death of me. this is the first fic in the series and the word building just ran away from me. anyway, i hope you enjoy! <3
PART TWO. PART THREE.
This is part of the ton’s most eligible riders series. To read more, click here.
The gentleman’s club was intolerably full, though this had never once prevented any of them here from attending. If anything, the congestion only encouraged it. Reputation thrived where witnesses were plentiful, and no Season ever truly began until the room hummed with wagers, rumours, and the quiet calculation of men determined not to be forgotten.
The air was warm with conversation and tobacco, the low murmur of competing voices blending with the clink of crystal and the occasional burst of laughter too loud to be entirely sincere. Everywhere one looked there were polished boots and confident smiles, ambition disguised as leisure.
At a corner table sufficiently removed from the loudest of the card games, Lando Norris sat comfortably sprawled in his chair, entirely at ease in surroundings that rewarded reputation as much as coin. “If you had arrived any later,” Lando drawled, not bothering to rise as the final chair at their table was claimed, “I would have given your seat away.”
Max Verstappen shrugged off his coat, handing it carelessly to a passing attendant before dropping into the chair opposite as though the room itself had arranged around him. “You would not,” Max replied easily. “You have no other friends.”
Lando smiled pleasantly, lifting his glass but not yet drinking. “I have many. I simply choose not to drink with them.”
“A wise decision,” came the quieter addition. Both of them glanced toward Oscar Piastri, who had already been seated, already halfway through his drink, as though he had always been there and simply allowed the rest of the world to catch up.
Max snorted softly, leaning back in his chair. “You see? Even he agrees.”
Oscar did not look up. “I did not say that,” he replied mildly.
Max gestured vaguely with his glass. “You implied it.”
“I did not.”
Lando waved a dismissive hand, uninterested in adjudicating semantics. “It hardly matters. The conclusion is correct.”
Max stretched his legs out beneath the table, entirely unbothered by the lack of available space. “And yet you continue to invite me.”
“I enjoy competition,” Lando said lazily. “Even in conversation.”
Max’s mouth tilted. “You lose at both.”
“Consistently,” Oscar added, still studying the amber in his glass as though the conversation did not require his full participation.
Lando looked between them slowly. “You are both insufferable.”
“And yet,” Max said, lifting his glass as a server appeared precisely when required to refill it, “here we are.”
Lando huffed, though there was no real heat in it, and raised his own drink in a lazy toast. “To poor decisions.”
“To your many,” Max returned.
“To yours,” Lando shot back.
Oscar lifted his glass last, expression unreadable, voice level. “To the Season.”
Crystal touched crystal. They drank. It settled into something easy after that — familiar, practiced. Years of shared history smoothing over rivalry even as it sharpened it elsewhere. They had been riding against one another since they were boys, long before titles and reputation had turned competition into spectacle.
Now, it was something the whole of society watched. And wagered on. And whispered about in drawing rooms where scandal travelled faster than fact.
Max glanced around the crowded room, observing with the particular focus of someone who enjoyed noticing weaknesses in others. “You realise,” he said after a moment, “that half the men here intend to ruin themselves before the Season has properly begun.”
Lando followed his gaze briefly toward a nearby table where laughter had grown increasingly reckless. “Half the men here ruin themselves every Season,” he replied. “It has never stopped them.”
Max tipped his glass idly between his fingers. “Perhaps this year they will try something new.”
“Unlikely.”
Max’s attention returned sharply. “And what will you ruin this year?”
Lando smiled slowly, clearly pleased with himself. “I was thinking of taking a break.”
Max blinked, then laughed once in disbelief. “From what?”
“Everything.”
Oscar finally looked up at that. Max leaned forward slightly. “You? Take a break? From racing or from scandal?”
“Maybe both.”
“That is the least convincing thing you have ever said.”
“I am a man of restraint.”
“You are a man of very little restraint,” Max corrected, entirely unconvinced.
Oscar took another slow sip of his drink. “Historically, that is accurate.”
Lando rolled his eyes. “You are both missing the point.”
Max rested one elbow against the table. “Then explain it.”
Lando set his glass down, leaning forward slightly, forearms resting against the polished table as though the statement required careful placement. “My sister returns tomorrow.” The shift was subtle — but immediate.
Max’s interest sharpened visibly. “Ah.”
Oscar’s gaze dropped back to his glass. Lando noticed. Of course he did. “She has been away a year,” Lando continued, tone deliberately casual. “My aunt insisted it would refine her accomplishments.”
Max hummed thoughtfully. “Did it?”
“I suppose we shall see.”
“And this is her debut?” Max asked.
“Yes.”
Max leaned back again, clearly entertained now. “Then you are about to have a very tedious Season.”
“I am already having one,” Lando said dryly. “This will simply make it worse.”
Max tilted his head. “Because?”
Lando gave him a look. “Because every man with a title, a fortune, or an inflated sense of his own charm will suddenly discover an interest in my family.”
Max grinned openly. “How unfortunate.”
“Yes,” Lando agreed mildly. “Particularly for them.”
Oscar said nothing. He had not asked a single question. Had not reacted beyond that brief downward glance. If Lando had not known him for years, he might have missed it entirely.
Max, however, had not. “Do not look so concerned,” Max said lightly, eyes sliding toward Oscar. “I am sure she will be very popular.”
Oscar’s response was immediate — and entirely unhelpful. “I have no doubt,” he said. Flat. Polite. Detached. Nothing more. Lando’s eyes narrowed slightly.
Max’s smile sharpened. “And you?” Max asked casually, turning fully toward Oscar now. “Do you intend to contribute to that popularity?”
Oscar did not look at him. “No.”
“Not even out of curiosity?”
“No.”
Max tilted his head thoughtfully. “How dull.”
“I am not interested.” The answer came too easily. Too cleanly. Lando watched him carefully. Because it was wrong. Not the words — the delivery. Oscar never dismissed something that directly. Not without reason.
“Careful,” Lando said lightly, though his gaze remained fixed on him, “you may offend her before you have even met her again.”
Oscar’s expression did not change. “I am sure she will recover.”
Max let out a short laugh. “Cold.”
“Practical,” Oscar corrected.
Lando leaned back slowly, studying him now. “You have met her, years ago” he said. It was not a question.
Oscar finally looked up. “Yes.”
“And you have no interest whatsoever in renewing the acquaintance?”
“No.”
Max’s grin widened. “Now I am interested.”
Lando shot him a look. “You are always interested when you should not be.”
Max shrugged comfortably. “It is one of my better qualities.”
“It is your worst.”
Max ignored him, eyes still on Oscar. “You will not mind, then, if I take the opportunity myself?”
Oscar’s gaze returned to his glass. “Do as you like.” Too quick. Too indifferent. Too—
Lando smiled slowly, something sharper beneath the ease. “Well,” he said, picking up his drink again, “anyone who wishes to do as they like would do well to remember something.”
Max glanced at him. “And what is that?”
Lando’s tone remained easy. Casual. Almost careless. “That they will have to go through me first.” The words landed softly. But the meaning did not.
Max huffed out a laugh. “Possessive.”
“Protective,” Lando corrected.
“Controlling,” Max offered.
“Selective.”
Max’s grin did not fade. “You cannot possibly expect that to stop anyone.”
“No,” Lando agreed. “But it will make things more interesting.”
Max’s gaze flicked briefly to Oscar again, something knowing in it now. “Oh, I think it already has.”
Oscar said nothing. Did nothing. He simply took another measured sip of his drink, as though the entire conversation had nothing at all to do with him. As though it did not matter. As though you did not matter.
And if Lando had not known better— he might have believed it.
The first time he noticed you, you were not meant to be there.
Late afternoon light stretched long and golden across the training fields, the air thick with the warm, living scent of grass and leather and horses that had not yet learned patience.
Oscar had been focused. He always was. Even then. He sat astride a restless mare, her muscles shifting beneath him in quiet resistance, her ears flicking back as though testing his authority. His hands were steady on the reins, posture composed despite the unpredictable energy beneath him. He listened — half to the instructor, half to the rhythm of the horse.
He did not notice you at first. Why would he? You were not part of this. You were meant to be elsewhere — inside, with tutors, attendants, embroidery frames and polite accomplishments designed to prepare young ladies for futures determined largely by others. Not here. Not at the edge of the field, half-hidden behind the fence, watching.
It was Max who saw you first. He always noticed everything. "Someone’s staring,” he said, not bothering to lower his voice.
Lando glanced over, following his gaze — and immediately frowned. “You are not supposed to be here,” he called.
You did not move. Oscar looked then. Really looked. And— That was it. No moment of realisation. No sudden shift. Just— stillness. You stood there, entirely unimpressed by Lando’s disapproval, your attention fixed not on him, not on Max — but on the horses. On the riding. On Oscar. It should not have mattered. It did anyway.
“Go inside,” Lando said again, sharper now.
You did not. Instead, you stepped closer. Just slightly. Curious. Unbothered. Unimpressed. Max snorted. “She is not afraid of you.”
“She should be,” Lando muttered.
Oscar said nothing. He just watched. You tilted your head slightly, studying the mare beneath him with open interest, gaze direct in a way that felt unfamiliar and strangely disarming.
“Does she bite?” you asked.
The question caught him off guard. Not because of what you asked. Because you had asked him. Not Lando. Not Max. Him.
“No,” he said after a moment. “Not unless you give her reason.”
You considered that. Then nodded, as though that was entirely reasonable. Lando was still speaking — something about rules, about not being allowed near the track — but it faded into the background. Because you were still looking at him. And he— He found that he did not mind. Not at all. And that was the problem.
He had not minded then. He did not mind now. He had never stopped.
You barely make it down the final carriage step before he reaches you. Gravel shifts beneath polished boots as Lando closes the distance with unnecessary urgency, ignoring entirely the footman who has been waiting dutifully beside the open carriage door, gloved hand still half-extended in polite assistance you no longer require.
“Let me look at you.” There is no greeting, no preamble. Lando simply stops in front of you, hands already finding your shoulders as though he must confirm you are entirely real and properly returned, as though the year apart has left some possibility that you might prove altered beyond recognition.
You laugh softly, steadying yourself after the journey, gloved fingers briefly adjusting your sleeve where the fabric has shifted during travel. “I assure you, I have not changed so drastically in a year.”
“You have,” he says immediately.
His gaze moves across your face with quiet concentration, taking in the careful arrangement of your hair, the precise tailoring of your travelling dress, the composure you practiced for months beneath your aunt’s exacting supervision. His attention lingers in the way of someone cataloguing differences he does not yet entirely trust.
“You stand differently.”
“That is because I am older.”
“You are intolerable,” he corrects.
“And you are staring.”
“I am assessing.”
“You are hovering,” you cross your arms, entirely unimpressed with your older brother’s usual enthusiasm, though the familiar absurdity of it settles something in your chest that the journey itself had left unsettled.
“I am ensuring no damage has occurred in my absence.”
You smile despite yourself, unable to maintain the pretence of irritation for long. “I am not a porcelain figurine.”
“You bruise like one.”
“That was one time,” you argued.
“You fell out of a tree.”
“I was pushed,” you narrow a finger at him, entirely unapologetic even now.
“You climbed the tree in the first place.”
“And survived,” you remind him. He exhales quietly, thumb brushing briefly against the sleeve of your pelisse as though confirming once more that you are whole, solid, unchanged in all the ways that matter.
“I preferred it when the greatest danger to your wellbeing was poor judgment regarding tree branches.”
“And now?”
“Now the dangers are far less visible.”
You tilt your head slightly, studying him with exaggerated patience. “You are being dramatic.”
“I am being realistic.”
“You are being unbearable.”
“And yet,” he says softly, “you came home anyway.”
Something warm settles briefly in your chest at that — the quiet admission beneath the teasing, the unspoken acknowledgement that your absence had been felt more sharply than either of you would admit directly. You reach for his sleeve, squeezing lightly through the fine wool of his coat. “I missed you.”
His expression softens — only for a moment, but long enough for you to recognise the familiar gentleness he rarely allows others to see. “I know, I missed you too. You did not write nearly enough.”
“I was occupied.”
“With what?”
“Becoming respectable.”
Lando grimaces faintly, the reaction immediate and entirely sincere. “I had hoped that was only a rumour.”
You laugh, the sound coming more easily now. The tension of arrival fades beneath the comfort of familiar argument, the ease of speaking without calculation for the first time since leaving your aunt’s carefully ordered household. “I am still myself,” you assure him.
“That remains to be seen.”
“And if I am not?”
“Then I shall send you back immediately.”
You nudge him lightly with your shoulder as the footman retrieves your travelling case. “You would not survive the boredom without me, you would be unbearable to everyone else instead of just me.”
“That is a sacrifice I am willing to make.”
You roll your eyes, though the fondness remains unmistakable. “And yet,” you say, more gently now, “you came to collect me yourself.”
“I did not trust anyone else to do it properly.”
You shake your head. He is impossible. He has always been impossible. The familiar façade of your family home rises behind him, tall windows reflecting the pale afternoon light. The brass knocker has been polished to a shine that suggests someone expected your arrival to matter. It does. A maid hurries discreetly past inside the vestibule, clearly alerted well in advance of your arrival.
“I am allowed to have a Season,” you say finally as you wrap your arm through his and begin to walk towards your family home, gravel crunching softly beneath your feet in measured rhythm.
His jaw tightens slightly. “I am aware.”
“I am allowed to meet people.”
“Yes.”
“I am allowed to form my own opinions.”
“I did not say otherwise.”
“You implied otherwise.”
“I implied caution.”
“You implied supervision.”
“I implied standards.”
A passing maid dips her head respectfully as the door is opened ahead of you, the familiar scent of polished wood and lavender drifting faintly from inside, the house unchanged in ways that feel unexpectedly reassuring. You cross your arms, unwilling to let the matter pass entirely. “I do not require supervision.”
“I disagree.”
“I require trust.”
“You have it.”
“This does not feel like it.” His expression shifts — just slightly. Because he hears what you are not saying. Because you are not a child anymore. Because he is struggling to reconcile that fact with the instinct that has governed him for most of your life.
“I am not attempting to control you,” he says carefully, lowering his voice as a servant passes nearby.
“You are.”
“I am attempting to prevent regret.”
“I would prefer to regret something of my own choosing.”
His mouth presses into a thin line. “You say that now.”
“I have always said that.”
“You have always been stubborn.”
“You encouraged it.”
“I encouraged independence.”
“And now you are surprised that I possess it?”
Lando exhales slowly, tension leaving his shoulders in quiet acknowledgement of the truth he cannot reasonably dispute. “No,” he admits quietly. “Only concerned.”
“Concerned about what?”
“About everyone else.” You soften slightly. Because you know what he means. Your family name carries weight. It always has. With it comes attention. Expectation. Judgment. Opportunity. Risk.
You turn on your heel just before the door to your home, looking Lando softly in the eye, the distance between you narrowing into something honest rather than argumentative. “You cannot interrogate every gentleman who speaks to me,” you say gently.
“I can try.”
“You will fail.”
“I rarely do.”
“You will, in this.”
His gaze sharpens slightly, competitive instinct flickering through familiar protectiveness. “We shall see.”
You sigh, though affection lingers beneath the exasperation. “You will make enemies.”
“I already have enemies.”
You pause, one brow lifting. “Max?” you ask, knowingly. He nods in return. “Oscar?” A flicker. Subtle. Fast. Almost imperceptible.
“Yes.”
Your expression settles into something thoughtful. “If they are your rivals,” you say carefully, “then they are not likely to be my friends.”
Lando studies you for a moment longer than the conversation strictly requires. “You need not inherit my rivalries or my friendships.”
You tilt your head slightly. “And yet, I suspect you would prefer if I did.”
His mouth twitches faintly. “I would prefer you exercised good judgment.”
“That sounds remarkably similar.”
“It is not.”
“You are impossible.”
“You missed me.”
“…a little.”
The door opens fully then, your parents appearing in the entrance hall as though unable to remain patient a moment longer. Your mother’s hands are already outstretched. Your father smiling with quiet pride. And for a moment, the Season feels far away. Still approaching. But not yet begun.
“Even father says you don’t have to interrogate every man who speaks to me.”
“I do not interrogate,” Lando says mildly, adjusting the cuff of his glove with unnecessary precision.
“You absolutely interrogate," you exhale slowly, the breath misting faintly against the glass as you turn your attention to the blur of lanternlight passing beyond the carriage window. The city glows in soft intervals of gold and shadow, wheels rattling over cobblestones polished by years of identical journeys — daughters arriving, daughters returning, daughters presented.
The entire evening stretches ahead of you. This is the first ball of the Season. Your first appearance since returning. Your debut. The word has followed you for months — whispered by your aunt, repeated by dressmakers, embroidered into every careful instruction regarding posture, conversation, composure.
Tonight, you are no longer merely Lando Norris’s sister. You are a young lady presented to society. And society has come prepared to notice. Rooms full of strangers. Polite smiles that mean too much or nothing at all. Expectations you cannot quite name but feel pressing inward from every direction like the tightening of laces drawn too firm.
It is too late to reconsider.
“I only want one evening,” you say carefully, fingers smoothing invisible creases from your gloves, “where you are simply my brother.”
“I am always your brother.”
“Yes, but tonight you are also determined to be a barricade.”
“If necessary.”
“Lando,” your voice softens despite your frustration, the name less argument than quiet plea. He looks at you then, properly, the lamplight catching briefly in the familiar warmth of his expression before something protective immediately settles over it, instinctive as breath.
“I know how this works,” he says quietly. “I know what they will want.”
“They will want conversation.”
“They will want advantage.”
“That is not the same thing.”
“It is exactly the same thing.” The carriage slows, turning onto the long approach, and already you can hear the distant swell of strings drifting faintly through the open night air.
You shake your head slightly, watching silhouettes move past the carriage windows. “I have spent a year being told I am ready for this.”
“Our aunt is overly optimistic.”
“Our aunt thinks very highly of you, shockingly.”
“She has clearly been misinformed.”
Despite yourself, you smile faintly, the familiarity of his irreverence loosening some of the tension wound tightly between your shoulders. “You cannot hover over every conversation.”
“I can try.”
“You will exhaust yourself.”
“I rarely tire.”
“That is deeply concerning.”
“I am surrounded by poor influences.”
“You chose your friends.”
“I was young.”
“And now?”
“Now I know better.”
You glance at him, one brow lifting. “And yet you still spend time with them.”
He sighs, just slightly, gaze flickering briefly toward the carriage door as though already anticipating the evening ahead. “You will see them tonight.”
“Max?” you ask.
“Yes.”
You pause, the smallest hesitation catching unexpectedly in your chest. “And Oscar?”
“Yes,” Lando says.
Your attention returns to the window. Oscar. You had not thought about him in months. Not properly. Only occasionally, when Lando wrote to you with a race result described with suspicious brevity, or mentioned a rivalry that sounded almost personal in ways he did not elaborate upon. He had never said much more than that. You had assumed indifference. It had seemed mutual.
“They are still insufferable?” you ask lightly.
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“And you will be polite.”
“I am always polite.”
“You are argumentative.”
“You encouraged that.”
“I regret it deeply,” a small pause settles between you as the carriage slows further. Then, quieter— “I only want to know that you are comfortable,” Lando says.
“I will be.”
“And if you are not?”
“I will handle it.”
His gaze lingers on you for a moment longer than the conversation strictly requires. “You do not have to handle everything alone.”
“I am not alone,” you remind him.
“I know,” a beat. Then, softly but firmly— “Let me be your brother tonight.” He studies you. Something eases. Not entirely. But enough.
“We will see,” you say, resisting the urge to roll your eyes.
The Wolff residence glows like something conjured rather than built. Light spills from every window in steady golden warmth, illuminating pale stone and tall glass that reflect the approaching line of carriages like a procession of moving lanterns. Footmen in immaculate livery move with practised efficiency, opening doors, offering hands, directing arrivals with quiet precision born of long familiarity with importance. Music drifts outward through the open entrance, violins threading elegantly through the cool evening air.
Inside— the ballroom is breathtaking. Crystal chandeliers scatter light across mirrored walls, multiplying every flicker of candlelight until the entire room seems suspended in liquid gold. Silk skirts whisper across polished floors. Jewels glint at throats and wrists. Conversation hums in layered waves — admiration, calculation, curiosity. Everything gleams. Everything watches. Everything feels just slightly too bright.
Word of your return has travelled quickly. Debuts always do. Introductions are made with particular enthusiasm when a family is well-regarded, when alliances are considered promising, when curiosity has had an entire year to grow. It becomes clear almost immediately that you are not simply attending this evening. You are being observed. Presented. Considered.
At the far end of the room, elevated subtly above the gathering, sits the Queen herself, presence composed and immovable as marble. Her attention moves across the crowd with measured patience, and every movement within the room seems fractionally sharper beneath that quiet scrutiny. Debuts rarely pass unnoticed when royalty attends. Approval may not be spoken aloud, but attention alone can alter a Season’s course. Every introduction suddenly feels more significant beneath her gaze.
Lord and Lady Wolff move easily through the crowd, welcoming guests with practised warmth, their home clearly accustomed to hosting half of society at once. Their smiles are gracious. Their hospitality effortless. Their influence unmistakable.
You become aware of it almost immediately. The attention gathers slowly at first — curious glances, murmured introductions. Then all at once.
“You must allow me to introduce—”
“I had hoped I might—”
“Your brother speaks very highly—”
You smile. You nod. You answer carefully. Every conversation feels rehearsed. Every compliment feels measured. Every gentleman seems already certain of what they want from you before you have spoken a word. Your name has preceded you into the room. Interest is immediate.
Lando remains close. Too close. Subtly stepping forward before anyone lingers too long. Redirecting conversation. Interrupting when he deems necessary. Debut evenings are notoriously unpredictable. Too much attention may be as dangerous as too little. And Lando, it seems, intends to control at least one variable. You endure several introductions before finally murmuring— “I am capable of declining invitations myself.”
“I am aware.”
“You are not behaving as though you are aware.”
“I am ensuring quality control.”
“I am not a horse.”
“Debatable.”
You resist the urge to step on his shoe. Another gentleman approaches. Lando’s expression settles into polite neutrality that is somehow more intimidating than open hostility. You attempt conversation. It lasts less than a minute before Lando smoothly redirects him elsewhere.
You exhale quietly. “I did not even dislike that one.”
“You did not like him either.”
“I had not decided yet.”
“I decided for you.”
“That is precisely the problem.” He does not respond.
Across the room— movement catches your attention. Two figures standing together. Familiar even after a year. Max looks exactly as you remember — self-assured, faintly amused by everything, posture relaxed in a way that suggests he finds society entertaining rather than intimidating.
Beside him— Oscar. Stillness. Composure. Distance. As though nothing in the room could reach him if he did not permit it. As though he exists slightly apart from everything around him, observing rather than participating. Your gaze meets his— briefly. You look away first. You are not sure why.
The music begins. Your dance card fills faster than expected. Each set feels longer than the last. Too many questions. Too many polite smiles. Too many expectations pressed into conversation that never quite feels genuine.
You begin to feel— observed. Evaluated. Chosen. Lando hovers at the edge of the floor. Max appears once to greet you, polite but unmistakably entertained by Lando’s visible discomfort. Oscar does not approach. Does not speak. Does not even seem particularly interested. And yet— more than once— you feel it. His attention. Quiet. Unavoidable. Unsettling.
By the third dance, the room feels too warm. By the fourth, the air feels too thin. By the fifth— “I need some air,” you murmur.
Lando frowns immediately. “I will come with you.”
“No.”
“I insist.”
“I will return shortly,” his hesitation is immediate. You soften your tone. “Please.”
Reluctantly— he allows it.
The quiet feels like relief. Cool air settles against overheated skin, the night scented faintly with damp stone and distant roses from carefully arranged terraces below. The distant music softens behind thick walls.
You exhale slowly. Alone— for only a moment.
“You are escaping.” You turn. Oscar stands partially in shadow near one of the stone columns, posture composed, hands loosely clasped behind his back as though he has been standing there long enough for stillness to become natural. As though he has always belonged there. Watching. You do not know how long he has been there.
“I am taking a moment,” you reply.
“You have had many moments already this evening.”
“You are observing me?”
“I observe most things.”
“That is not comforting,” silence settles. Not awkward. Not comfortable either. Something else entirely. Measured. You step closer to the balustrade, fingers brushing lightly across cool carved stone. “You used to speak more,” you say lightly.
“I had less reason to be quiet then.”
“You were kinder.”
“I was younger.”
“And now?” He does not answer immediately. Something shifts behind his composure. Subtle. Guarded. His gaze lowers briefly to where your hand rests against the stone before returning carefully to your face.
“Now,” he says carefully, “things are different.” It feels like more than that. It feels like something he has chosen not to say.
You look away first. “I had not expected it to feel like this.”
“Like being assessed?" You nod, "Well, you are.”
“That is reassuring.”
“You wanted a Season.”
“I wanted conversation.”
“That is not what this is?”
“No,” a small pause. “I would quite like one dance that is not a negotiation.”
He watches you. Still. Then— “I could ask you to dance,” the words sound unfamiliar even as he says them. As though he had not entirely intended to say them aloud. As though speaking them required more effort than expected.
You blink. Because this— this is the most direct thing he has said all evening.
Before you can respond— “Well,” says a familiar voice smoothly, “that sounds dangerously like an offer,” Max steps into the lamplight. Entirely unsurprised. Entirely entertained. “If you require rescue,” he adds lightly, offering you his hand, “I am an excellent rescuer.”
You hesitate only briefly. "You want to help me?"
“Yes.”
“And?”
“And irritating your brother is one of my greatest joys,” he says with a grin. You laugh. Genuinely this time. It feels good. Easy. Max glances briefly toward Oscar— and something unspoken passes between them. Something knowing. Something deliberate.
“You could do worse than an overprotective brother,” Max murmurs quietly as you take his hand and he leads you inside. “There are far less attentive guardians in the world.”
“I do not require guarding.”
“No,” he agrees. “But it is not the worst problem to have someone who wishes to ensure you are happy.”
You glance at him. “You sound almost sympathetic.”
“I contain multitudes.”
“You contain trouble.”
“Yes,” a beat. “And occasionally good advice.”
The music carries you easily into step. Max dances well — confident without arrogance, precise without stiffness, guiding rather than directing. “You have unsettled the room,” he says conversationally.
“I have spoken to people politely.”
“Yes,” he agrees. “That is enough.”
“And you?”
“I am helping.”
“And antagonising.”
“Always.” You smile faintly. Across the room— you feel it again. You look. Oscar is watching. Still. Unmoving. Lando says something to him— clearly disapproving. Oscar does not respond. Does not look away.
You turn slightly as Max guides you through the next step. “You are being watched,” he notes quietly.
“So are you.”
“I am accustomed to it.”
“And I am not.”
“You will be.”
“I am not sure I wish to be.”
“You may not have a choice.” Your gaze drifts again. Oscar is still looking. Expression unreadable. Almost distant. Almost not. You cannot tell. And that— that unsettles you more than anything else tonight. Because you cannot decide whether he dislikes you— or simply wishes to appear as though he does.
And somehow— you suspect there is a difference. You just do not yet know what it is.
The air smells like grass and leather and summer. Warmth lingers low in the afternoon, sunlight resting golden against the far hedgerows where insects hum lazily in the tall grass. Dust lifts in slow drifting clouds each time hooves strike the earth, the sound carrying easily across open ground where the world feels wider, less structured, less determined to instruct you where you ought to stand.
You are not supposed to be here. That much has been made very clear. The training grounds are not considered an appropriate place for young ladies, particularly not when horses are involved and certainly not when those horses are being ridden far too fast by boys who already behave as though they are immortal.
Your mother has said so repeatedly. Your governess has said so more severely. Lando has said so most frequently of all. Which is precisely why you are standing at the fence. Watching.
The wooden rail is warm beneath your hands, sun-softened and faintly rough beneath your fingertips. The lowest rung presses against the sole of your shoe as you balance carefully for a better view, skirts gathered just enough to avoid the dust kicked up by careless speed.
The sound of hooves carries across the field in uneven rhythm, punctuated by shouted instructions and the occasional laugh when someone pushes their luck slightly too far. They are older now. Old enough to be taken seriously. Old enough that no one stops them from riding at full speed across open ground simply to see who reaches the far hedge first.
You lean slightly further against the fence rail, attention narrowing as three riders slow near the far marker.
“Careful,” your mother says gently behind you. You turn. Cisca watches with a patient sort of amusement, parasol angled lazily against the sun, as though she has long accepted that preventing this particular curiosity would be impossible.
“I am careful,” you say.
“You are balanced on a fence.”
“I am steady.”
“You are stubborn like your brother.”
“I am observant,” you correct.
She smiles faintly, the expression soft with recognition rather than reprimand. “You are supposed to be inside preparing for your lessons.”
“I learn more here.” You adjust your grip on the fence rail as another thunder of hooves cuts across the far side of the field, rhythm gathering speed as the riders prepare for another run.
“I am certain your governess would be very interested to hear that opinion.”
“I do not think she would agree.”
“No,” your mother says dryly. “She would not.”
Across the field— three riders circle back toward the starting point, slowing only enough to exchange commentary that is almost certainly unnecessary and almost certainly competitive. Even at this distance, you can tell who is who. Max sits forward slightly in the saddle, restless even when still, as though stillness itself is merely an inconvenience he intends to overcome. Lando gestures animatedly as he speaks, reins loose in one hand as though entirely convinced both horse and conversation will bend to his preference.
And Oscar— Oscar is quieter. More precise. Every movement deliberate, posture balanced without visible effort, hands steady in a way that suggests control rather than force. As though the horse beneath him is something to be reasoned with rather than conquered. He rides differently. Even now, you can see that. More stillness. More patience. Less noise.
“They are becoming quite serious about this,” your mother observes.
You shift slightly for a clearer view. “They think they are very impressive.”
“They are,” she says gently.
“They are very loud.”
“They are thirteen.”
“That is not an excuse.”
“It is very much an explanation.”
A breeze lifts the loose ribbon at your sleeve as the riders prepare for another run, positioning themselves with exaggerated confidence that suggests none of them intends to concede advantage willingly.
Max says something that makes Lando scoff loudly enough to be heard even from here. Oscar does not respond. He simply adjusts his grip on the reins, expression already settled into focus, attention narrowing into the kind of quiet concentration that seems older than the rest of him.
They start again. Hooves strike the earth in quick rhythm, cutting a clear line across the field as speed gathers quickly, competition sharpening instinct into urgency. Max pulls slightly ahead at first. Lando attempts to close the distance, urging his horse forward with visible determination. Oscar— Oscar hesitates just slightly at the turn.
Not enough to fall far behind. But enough that Max notices immediately. “You are distracted,” Max calls back over his shoulder, laughter already colouring the accusation.
“I am not,” Oscar replies.
“You missed the turn.”
“I chose a wider line.”
“That is a slower line.”
Lando laughs, breathless with effort as he attempts to regain ground. “You are both insufferable.”
“You are behind,” Max informs him helpfully, glancing back only briefly.
“I am conserving energy.”
“You are losing conservatively.”
Oscar says nothing. He adjusts the reins again, posture still composed, expression giving nothing away. They circle back.
Max glances toward the fence. Then grins. “Well,” he says, loud enough to carry, “that explains it.”
Lando follows his gaze. You immediately pretend to be extremely interested in the wood grain of the fence post, tracing an entirely fascinating knot with intense concentration. “She is not staring,” Lando says automatically.
Max raises a brow. “She absolutely is.”
“I am observing,” you call back before you can stop yourself.
Lando groans, dragging a hand briefly down his face. “You are not supposed to be here.”
“I am just standing,” you whine.
“You are distracting them.”
“I am doing nothing.”
Max smirks. “She is doing quite a lot, actually.”
Lando folds his arms, clearly unwilling to encourage the conversation further. “She is loyal to her brother.”
“Obviously,” Max looks unconvinced.
Oscar looks anywhere but at you. “I am not distracted,” he says calmly.
“You are very distracted,” Max replies.
“I am not.”
“You missed the turn.”
“I will not miss the next one.”
Max’s grin sharpens. “We shall see.”
They ride again. This time— Oscar does not hesitate. The difference is immediate. Cleaner line. Sharper turn. Faster recovery. He overtakes Lando with minimal effort, posture unchanged, reins steady, attention entirely forward.
Max only just holds his lead. “Well,” Max says, slowing slightly as they reach the end, breath visible in short bursts of exertion, “look at that.”
“I told you,” Oscar replies evenly.
“You ride better when you are being watched.”
“I ride well regardless.”
“You ride better.”
Lando glances between them, unimpressed, brushing dust from his sleeve with unnecessary irritation. “You are both impossible.”
“You are slower,” Max reminds him.
“You are insufferable.”
Oscar dismounts smoothly, handing the reins off with quiet efficiency, movements economical and practiced in a way that suggests preference for action over commentary. He does not look toward the fence. Not once. You notice anyway. Your mother does too.
“You should not linger,” she says gently, lowering her parasol slightly as though signalling the moment has ended.
“I am not lingering.”
“You are, you are meant to be learning different skills now.”
You frown slightly, gaze drifting back across the field where the boys speak with animated confidence about matters that seem to concern them greatly. “Such as?”
“Music. Language. Presentation.”
“I would prefer riding.”
“That is not considered appropriate.”
“Why?”
“Because society expects different things of ladies.”
“That seems unfair.”
“It is not always fair.”
“I do not see why I cannot learn the same things.”
She studies you carefully before answering, tone measured with care. “You may learn many things,” she says carefully. “But you must also learn how to move within the world as it is.”
You watch the riders again, dust settling slowly where hooves have disturbed the earth. “I do not think the world is arranged very sensibly.”
She laughs softly. “No,” she agrees. “It is not.”
You hesitate. Then— “Do they have to learn how to behave?” you ask.
“They do.”
“They do not seem to.”
“That does not mean they are not expected to.” You consider that. It does not feel convincing.
You sigh quietly, adjusting your grip on the fence rail as the breeze lifts the edge of your sleeve. “I do not wish to be decorative.”
“You will never be only decorative.”
“That sounds suspicious.”
“That is because you are suspicious.”
“No, I am observant.”
“Yes,” your mother says warmly. “You are.”
Across the field— Oscar finally glances toward the fence. Just briefly. Just long enough to confirm you are still there. Then he looks away again. As though he had not meant to look at all. As though he had not noticed you watching him from the very beginning.
Breakfast is quieter than usual. Sunlight spills across the table in long pale strips, catching the silverware, the porcelain, the thin curl of steam rising from tea that no one quite remembers pouring. The morning room is orderly in the particular way of houses accustomed to routine, yet something in the air feels slightly unsettled — as though the previous evening still lingers faintly between the clink of cutlery and the rustle of newspaper pages.
You have been staring at the same piece of toast for several minutes.
“Three dances with titled gentlemen on the very first evening,” your mother says warmly, pleased in a way she does not attempt to conceal. Cisca looks genuinely delighted, fingers lightly adjusting the ribbon at her wrist as though the memory itself gives satisfaction. “I think we may safely call the debut a success.”
You shift the knife slightly across the plate without cutting anything at all. “I would not call anything involving Lord Lawson's conversation about estate drainage a success,” you reply faintly.
“He is very well regarded,” she says.
“He is very interested in soil.”
“Land is important.”
“He described irrigation for twelve minutes.”
Your father looks amused over the edge of his newspaper, lowering it just enough to observe the exchange without fully abandoning the illusion of detachment. Adam Norris has always had a talent for observing without intervening too quickly. “I am sure his enthusiasm will be very useful to someone,” he says mildly.
“I suspect that someone will not be me,” you reply mindlessly, turning the toast slightly as though the angle may improve it.
Lando, who has been suspiciously quiet, sets down his teacup with a soft click that feels louder than the motion requires. Porcelain meeting saucer draws just enough attention that everyone at the table becomes aware of the shift before he even speaks. “You need not speak to him again,” he says calmly.
You look up immediately, brows lifting. “I did not say that.”
Lando’s fingers rest lightly on the rim of the cup, as though steadying the conversation before it begins. “You did not need to.”
You fold your hands in your lap, posture carefully composed. “I am capable of deciding who I speak to.”
“Yes,” Lando replies. He pauses just long enough that the agreement feels suspicious.
“You do not need to pre-emptively dismiss half of society on my behalf,” you continue, a thread of frustration slipping through despite your effort at composure.
Lando tilts his head slightly. “It is not half.”
You give him a flat look. “It is at least a quarter.”
He considers this with inappropriate seriousness. “It is a carefully selected quarter.”
“You barely allowed me to complete a sentence with some of them,” you point out.
“You looked trapped,” Lando counters.
“I was pausing.”
“You were signalling distress,” he insists.
“I was blinking.”
Lando does not hesitate. “You blinked very deliberately.”
You press your lips together, resisting the entirely reasonable urge to throw the toast at him. Across the table, your father folds the newspaper slowly. The careful alignment of its edges suggests the conversation has reached the threshold of parental involvement.
“Lando,” your father says mildly.
“I am calm,” Lando replies at once.
“You are alarming perfectly respectable young men.”
Lando reaches for his tea again, entirely unrepentant. “I am evaluating perfectly questionable young men.”
“You are behaving as though your sister is incapable of making her own assessments,” Adam continues.
“I am behaving as though I have met men,” Lando replies evenly.
You stare at him. “I have also met men.”
Lando’s expression remains completely serious. “Yes. That is the problem.”
Your father hides a smile behind his cup, poorly. “You survived society for many years without your sister’s assistance,” he points out mildly.
“I did not enjoy it,” Lando replies.
“That was largely your own fault.”
“I was surrounded by idiots.”
Your father raises a brow. “And now?”
Lando glances briefly around the breakfast table. “I am still surrounded by idiots.”
You lower your gaze to your tea, stirring it unnecessarily though it requires no further stirring. “You cannot frighten everyone away,” you say quietly.
“I do not intend to frighten everyone,” Lando replies.
“You are doing an excellent impression of it.”
“I am filtering.”
Your father leans back slightly in his chair, steepling his fingers with the air of a man prepared to allow the conversation to resolve itself. “Let your sister breathe,” he says calmly.
“I am allowing breathing,” Lando replies.
“You are supervising breathing.”
“I am observing breathing.”
“Lando.” The single word lands with more weight than the entire conversation preceding it. Lando exhales, fingers tapping once against the side of his cup before stilling.
“I simply wish to avoid regret,” he says more softly.
You meet his gaze properly now. “I would prefer to experience my own regrets,” you reply.
The words land more seriously than you intended. A subtle shift settles across the table. Lando studies you more carefully then, something thoughtful flickering briefly across his expression. You look away, adjusting the edge of your napkin unnecessarily.
“You did well,” your mother says gently, stepping smoothly into the quiet space the conversation has created. She offers you a reassuring smile. “You were composed. Engaging. Several very suitable families were quite attentive.”
You nod slightly. “Yes.”
“You were very quiet on the drive home,” she adds gently.
“I was tired,” you reply.
“That is understandable.”
The conversation shifts, but the earlier exchange lingers quietly beneath the surface — unresolved, but no longer unspoken. You lift your tea. It has gone cold. You do not remember pouring it.
The park is busy by late morning. Carriages pass slowly along the gravel drive, wheels crunching softly as coachmen guide their routes with deliberate leisure designed as much for display as transportation. Conversation drifts between walking groups. Parasols tilt at careful angles to protect complexions from the sun. Every bench seems occupied by someone determined to observe everyone else without appearing to do so.
The promenade functions as both stage and audience. Silk rustles. Gloves brush lightly against sleeves. Introductions are made, repeated, remembered. Reputations travel faster here than any carriage.
Lando matches your pace easily. Too easily. You can feel his attention without looking, the familiar awareness of being carefully monitored disguised as casual companionship. Gravel shifts softly beneath your shoes as the promenade curves ahead, clusters of society drifting in both directions like carefully arranged constellations.
“You are quiet,” Lando says eventually.
You keep your gaze ahead, adjusting your hold lightly on his arm. “I am walking.”
Lando’s mouth shifts faintly. “You are thinking.”
“I am always thinking,” you reply, tightening your grip slightly as a group passes in the opposite direction, each greeting accompanied by the polite inclination of heads expected by society.
“You are thinking more than usual,” Lando continues. “You barely touched breakfast.”
“I was not hungry.”
“You did not insult anyone particularly creatively,” he adds mildly.
You glance at him briefly. “I am conserving energy.”
“You are not telling me something.”
“I am not required to tell you everything.”
Lando nods once. “No. But you usually do.”
You say nothing. A lady passing in the opposite direction glances at you briefly, curiosity softened by etiquette but not entirely concealed. Conversation continues around you, the low murmur of society never fully silent. Lando slows slightly, forcing you to slow with him. The shift is subtle. Deliberate. “Was someone unkind to you?” he asks more gently.
“No.”
“Did someone say something inappropriate?”
“No.”
“Did someone offend you?”
“No.”
He watches you more closely now. “Did someone confuse you?”
You hesitate. Only briefly. “Yes,” you say finally.
Lando glances sideways. “Who?”
“No one.”
“That is not an answer.”
“It is the only answer I am giving.”
He studies you carefully, searching for something he suspects exists just beyond what you are willing to explain. Then, quieter— “You know you can tell me anything.”
“I know.”
“You are choosing not to.”
“Yes.”
Lando exhales slowly, gaze shifting briefly toward the passing crowd as though recalibrating expectations. “That is inconvenient,” he murmurs.
“I imagine so.”
Ahead, three gentlemen approach along the path. Recognisable. Predictable. Lords Carlos Sainz, George Russell, and Charles Leclerc have already developed reputations for being both charming and persistent — a combination society tends to reward.
“Miss Norris,” Lord Sainz says pleasantly, bowing.
“Good morning,” Lord Russell adds with careful politeness.
Charles’ smile is warm but measured. “Walking without proper escort?”
“She is perfectly well escorted,” Lando replies before you can answer. You resist the urge to sigh.
The conversation lasts precisely as long as Lando allows it to. Which is not long. Polite smiles are exchanged. Neutral pleasantries offered. Nothing offensive. Nothing revealing. Nothing permitted to develop. As the gentlemen depart, you allow your gaze to return to the path ahead— And stop.
Two figures further along the promenade. Familiar even at a distance. Max gestures animatedly about something, one hand describing wide shapes in the air as though conversation itself requires physical emphasis. Beside him— stillness. Oscar.
You stiffen before you can stop yourself. Lando notices. He does not comment. But you feel the subtle shift in his attention. Sharper now. More observant.
Max spots you first. Of course he does. His smile is immediate. Oscar looks up a moment later. Your eyes meet— Only briefly. Long enough. Long enough to confirm something neither of you is ready to name aloud. Then both of you look away.
“Convenient,” Max says as you approach.
“For whom?” Lando asks dryly.
“For me,” Max nods politely toward you. “Recovering from your triumph?”
“I survived,” you reply.
“A modest assessment,” Max says.
“An accurate one.”
Oscar says nothing. Not even greeting. And somehow— that silence feels louder than anything he might have said. You are not sure whether that irritates you— or relieves you.
That evening, the familiar corner table in the gentleman’s club is occupied once more. Low candlelight casts uneven shadows across polished wood already marked by years of identical arguments, the faint rings of forgotten glasses forming quiet evidence of countless late-night debates. The atmosphere is comfortably familiar. Which makes the tension feel sharper.
“You are intolerable,” Lando informs Max flatly, lowering himself into the chair opposite.
Max leans back with easy satisfaction, one ankle resting over the opposite knee. “I danced,” he replies calmly.
Lando’s expression does not soften. “You did it deliberately.”
“Yes.”
“You did it to irritate me.”
Max’s mouth curves. “Also yes.”
“You are deeply annoying,” Lando mutters.
“I am very entertaining.”
“You encouraged half the room to speculate.”
Max lifts his glass, studying the amber liquid as though it might defend him. “I discouraged half the room from approaching, is that not what you wanted?.”
“You enjoyed it.”
“I enjoyed helping.”
“You enjoyed provoking.”
Max inclines his head graciously. “I contain multitudes.”
Lando sighs, dragging a hand briefly across his jaw before letting it fall back to the table. “You are aware that my sister is not a strategic opportunity.”
Max’s expression remains mild, but his gaze sharpens slightly. “I am aware your sister is a person,” he replies evenly. “Which is why I danced with her rather than speaking about her as though she were a racehorse.”
Lando’s posture straightens slightly at that. “I am not doing that.”
“You are evaluating everyone as though they are attempting theft.”
“They are attempting theft.”
“They are attempting courtship.”
“Same thing.”
Max takes a slow sip of his drink, entirely unbothered by the accusation. “You cannot frighten every man away.”
“I can attempt it.”
Max sets his glass down deliberately. “You might also frighten away the ones she might actually like.”
Lando pauses. Just briefly. “That seems unlikely.”
Max raises a brow, studying him more closely now. “You are very certain for someone who has not asked her.”
Beside them, Oscar remains very still. Listening. Not speaking. The faint flicker of candlelight shifts across the side of his glass, untouched. Max glances toward him briefly, curiosity sharpening into something more deliberate. “You are unusually quiet,” he observes.
Oscar does not look up. “I am always quiet.”
Max tilts his head slightly. “Not like this.”
Oscar’s fingers rest loosely against the stem of his glass. “I am listening.”
Max studies him for a moment longer, gaze lingering with unmistakable interest. Then, carefully, he returns his attention to Lando. “You cannot decide everything for her,” Max says.
Lando exhales through his nose. “I am not deciding.”
“You are making assumptions.”
“I am making observations.”
Max leans forward slightly, resting his forearms on the table. “You are missing something.”
Lando’s jaw tightens. “And what exactly am I missing?”
Max’s gaze flicks briefly toward Oscar. Then away again. “What she might want.”
Silence settles across the table. Oscar keeps his expression neutral. Careful. Unreadable. But his stillness feels deliberate now. As though even the absence of reaction might reveal too much.
His thoughts are anything but. He had expected it to fade. Distance usually helped. Time usually helped. A year should have helped. It had not.
Seeing you again had felt— unexpectedly disorienting. Not because you had changed. Because you had not changed as much as he had hoped. Still observant. Still sharper than most people realise. Still looking at the world as though you are trying to understand its rules rather than accept them.
Still— impossible to ignore.
He tells himself it is familiarity. History. Habit. Something unfinished in memory rather than anything present. He tells himself it is simply that he has known you a long time. That he has known Lando a long time. That everything feels slightly out of place because time has passed.
He tells himself many things. None of them are convincing. He should not notice when you enter a room. He should not notice when you leave one. He should not notice when you laugh. He definitely should not notice when someone else causes it.
He had assumed distance would correct whatever this is. It has not. He does not examine the thought too closely. He does not name it. He does not need to. It is enough to know that something is not where it should be. And that it does not appear to be moving. At all.
“I thought you might like to ride.” You look up from the book you have not been reading, your finger still marking the same page it has rested on for several minutes. The morning light has shifted slightly across the carpet, unnoticed until now.
In the doorway, Lando leans one shoulder against the frame, posture casual but expression carefully neutral in the way it always becomes when he is attempting not to appear concerned.
“You are asking?” you say carefully, closing the book without bothering to remember where you were.
Lando’s brow lifts faintly. “I am offering.”
“You are rarely so generous,” you reply, setting the book aside.
“I am capable of growth,” Lando says.
“That is new.”
“You seemed—” he hesitates, gaze flicking briefly toward the window before returning to you, as though searching for language that does not sound like concern, “—restless.”
You rise slowly, smoothing unnecessary creases from your sleeve. “I am always restless.”
Lando pushes away from the doorframe, folding his arms loosely. “You are more restless than usual.”
“That sounds suspiciously like observation.”
A brief pause. “I am trying not to hover,” he says.
“You are failing.”
“I am improving.”
You tilt your head slightly, studying him with open suspicion. “And this improvement involves horses?” he nods. “I am suddenly very supportive of your self-improvement.”
A flicker of a smile crosses Lando’s face and disappears just as quickly. “You used to enjoy riding.”
You reach for your gloves, turning them over in your hands thoughtfully. “I still enjoy riding.”
“You have not done so in some time.”
You study him a moment longer. Suspicious. Softening despite yourself. “You feel guilty,” you say finally.
Lando exhales once, quiet but honest. “I do not feel guilty.”
“You feel slightly guilty.”
“I feel,” he pauses, searching for language that will not immediately be used against him. “willing to negotiate.”
You stand, already reaching for your coat with more enthusiasm than you intend to show. “Well,” you say lightly, “if you intend to negotiate, I intend to ride.”
Lando nods once, relief carefully disguised as composure. “Good,” he says simply.
The training grounds smell exactly the same. Grass warmed by sun. Worn leather. Damp earth pressed flat by hooves that have cut the same paths for years. The air carries the quiet, steady industry of grooms moving between stables, the low murmur of conversation drifting across open space where reputation is measured not in titles but in precision and nerve.
Something in your chest loosens the moment you step from the carriage. “I had forgotten how much I missed this,” you admit, fingers brushing absently along the familiar wooden fence rail. The sun-warmed grain feels reassuring beneath your fingertips, steady in a way society rarely is.
Lando watches you from beside the gate, arms loosely folded. “I had not.”
“You could have reminded me sooner,” you reply, glancing toward the open field.
“You have been occupied.”
“With embroidery?”
A corner of Lando’s mouth twitches. “You said you were improving!”
“I am deteriorating.”
He almost laughs. Almost. “You may ride as often as you like,” he says, tone carefully casual.
“That is a dangerous promise.”
“I am capable of managing danger.”
“You say that often.”
Voices carry from across the field. Familiar ones. Of course. Max spots you first. He always does. “Well,” Max calls easily, resting one hand loosely on the pommel of his saddle as though he has nowhere more important to be, “this explains the improvement in weather.”
“You are not responsible for the weather,” you reply dryly.
“I improve most environments.”
“You deteriorate most environments.”
“I add character.”
“You add problems and you are very proud of that.”
“I work hard at it.” Beside him, already mounted, Oscar adjusts his grip on the reins. Stillness again. Composure. Control. The horse beneath him shifts impatiently, but Oscar’s posture remains effortlessly balanced, as though tension simply does not reach him unless invited.
His gaze lifts briefly when you approach. Holds. Just long enough to register. Then lowers again. As though the moment did not exist. As though the air had not shifted at all.
“You ride?” Max asks, though his tone suggests he already knows the answer.
“She rides,” Lando says before you can respond.
“She used to ride,” Max corrects mildly.
“I ride,” you say calmly.
Max’s grin sharpens. “Excellent.”
“This sounds dangerous,” Lando mutters under his breath.
“This sounds entertaining,” Max corrects cheerfully.
Oscar says nothing. But when you are handed the reins of a familiar mare, steady and intelligent, you feel his attention. Even without looking. Even without proof.
“You are certain?” Lando asks quietly as you mount. His hand hovers unnecessarily near the stirrup, as though prepared to intervene despite knowing intervention is unnecessary.
“I am not fragile,” you reply.
“I did not say you were.”
Ignoring him, you adjust your seat, leather warm beneath your palms. The mare shifts comfortably beneath you, weight settling instinctively into the rhythm you remember without effort. “I have missed this,” you say softly.
Across from you, Oscar finally speaks. “You remember how to manage the left turn?” The words are neutral. Practical. But something about the question feels pointed. As though he remembers the exact moment you learned. As though he remembers watching.
“I remember how to manage most things,” you reply lightly.
Max looks delighted. “Well,” he declares, “we cannot allow this to become sentimental.”
“We are not sentimental,” Lando says flatly.
“We are extremely sentimental,” you counter.
“We are extremely competitive,” Max adds, gesturing broadly between the four of you.
“You are exhausting,” you sigh.
“I am winning,” Max replies immediately.
“You are absolutely not about to win.”
Max gestures toward the track. “Shall we confirm that?”
The first run feels like returning to yourself. Muscle memory settles quickly. Balance returns. Control sharpens. The rhythm of the horse beneath you feels remembered rather than learned, posture adjusting instinctively with each shift of movement.
Max pulls ahead immediately. Of course he does. Lando attempts to match pace. Oscar— Oscar does not rush. He never rushes. His movements are precise, measured, almost deceptively calm, allowing others to expend energy while he conserves it.
Halfway through the turn— you overtake Lando. “You are not pacing yourself,” Lando calls, half amused, half concerned.
“I am correcting your pace,” you call back.
Max laughs, the sound carrying easily across open air. Oscar adjusts his line slightly. Cleaner. Closer. Faster. The second run is closer. By the third— you are ahead of both Lando and Oscar. Max remains just beyond reach. Barely. You finish second. Breathless. Alive. Entirely pleased with yourself.
“Well,” Max says, slowing his horse, expression openly impressed, “this complicates matters.”
“I enjoy complicating matters,” you reply.
“You should,” Max says easily. “You are very good at it.”
Lando exhales sharply, dragging a hand across his jaw as though recalculating every decision that led to this moment. “I should never have agreed to this.”
“You did not agree,” Max reminds him mildly. “You simply allowed it.”
“That was clearly an error.”
“That was clearly entertaining.”
Oscar dismounts smoothly, boots landing softly against packed earth. “You held the inside line too long,” he says quietly.
“I won,” you reply.
“You came second.”
“I beat you.”
“Yes,” a pause. Then, softer— “You improved the turn.” Something warm settles unexpectedly low in your chest. Max looks between you both, deeply entertained.
“Well,” Max announces brightly, swinging down from the saddle with theatrical satisfaction, “I suppose I must now marry her.”
Lando stiffens immediately, posture tightening as though physically bracing against the suggestion. “You absolutely will not.”
Max looks thoughtful, as though genuinely weighing the proposal. “She rides well.”
“You will not marry my sister because she rides well,” Lando replies flatly.
Max dusts an imaginary speck from his sleeve. “I marry for many reasons.”
“You will not marry my sister for any reason.”
Max tilts his head slightly, studying Lando with open curiosity. “You sound concerned.”
“I am not concerned.”
“You are territorial,” Max says lightly. His gaze flicks briefly toward Oscar. Oscar is very still. Very composed. His attention fixed on removing his gloves with unnecessary precision, fingers working slowly along the leather as though the task requires his full concentration.
“You are both being ridiculous,” you say lightly, attempting to cut through the absurdity before Lando escalates further.
“I am rarely ridiculous,” Max replies smoothly.
“You are almost always ridiculous.”
“I am extremely charming.”
“You are extremely irritating.”
Max places a hand lightly against his chest in mock injury. “I inspire strong emotion.”
“I do not feel strongly about you.”
“You feel mildly strongly about me.”
Beside you, Lando pinches the bridge of his nose, eyes closing briefly as though appealing to patience that has long since abandoned him. “I regret everything,” he mutters.
The stables are quieter. Cooler. Dim light filters between wooden beams, dust drifting lazily through narrow shafts of sun that fall across well-worn stone floors. Horses shift softly in their stalls, the steady rhythm of breath and movement creating a calm entirely absent from the polished performance of the ballroom. You loosen the saddle strap carefully, fingers working familiar buckles with steady ease.
“You did not forget,” Oscar says from the next stall. His voice is different here. Less guarded. Lower. Warmer. As though the quiet allows honesty to exist more comfortably.
“I told you I would not.”
“You have not ridden in some time.”
“I have not been permitted to ride.”
“You could have insisted.”
“I did insist.”
“And?”
“I was told it was unsuitable.” A pause.
“That seems inefficient,” Oscar says quietly.
“I am told many things are unsuitable.”
“You rarely seem inclined to listen.”
“I listen,” you reply lightly, adjusting the leather strap, acutely aware of how close he stands even without looking. “I simply do not always agree.”
That almost earns a smile. Almost. “You held the turn longer than I expected,” he says.
“You underestimated me.”
“I did.”
“That was unwise.”
“I am adjusting my expectations.”
You glance at him. Really look this time. Up close— he seems different here. Less distant. More present. More like the boy you remember watching from the fence line. Except the boy you remember has become quietly, devastatingly handsome. The same stillness remains, but sharpened now, steadied by time into something far more compelling.
His face is familiar in a way that feels dangerous, every small shift of expression drawing your attention before you can stop yourself. You know these features, and yet you do not know them like this — older, more certain, composed in a way that makes the rare softness in his eyes feel almost intimate. You should look away. You do not. Something in your chest tightens at the realisation that you could study his face far longer than would ever be considered appropriate — and still not feel finished.
“You ride better than I remember” he says.
“I had an excellent teacher.”
“I do not remember teaching you.”
“You did not realise you were teaching me.”
His gaze flicks briefly toward you. Something shifts. Subtle. Almost unguarded. “You wish to ride more often?” he says.
“I would like to.”
“You could.”
“I am not always permitted to choose my schedule.”
“You should choose it more often.”
“That is easy for you to say.”
“It is.”
Silence settles. Comfortable. Unexpectedly comfortable. The quiet filled only by the soft shift of horses and the distant murmur of voices beyond the stable doors. “I had forgotten you were like this,” you say before thinking.
“Like what?”
“Almost pleasant,” that does earn a reaction. Small. Quick. Gone. “You seemed determined not to like me last night,” you say carefully.
“I was tired.”
“You were dismissive.”
“I was careful.”
“You were cold,” a pause. “Why?”
Something unreadable shifts in his expression. “Things are different now,” he says. That again. Always that.
“I am aware,” you reply. Another pause. Longer this time.
“You do not seem particularly fond of society,” he says.
“Society is not always honest and I prefer honesty.”
“Most people do not offer honesty immediately.”
“Then I will require patience.”
“You may find patience limited.”
“I am accustomed to that.”
“You should not be.” Something about the way he says it— low, deliberate— feels too close to something else.
Footsteps approach. Lando’s voice. Oscar steps back almost immediately. Expression resetting. Distance returning. Composure sliding neatly back into place. “I trust she did not defeat you too severely,” Lando says.
“Not severely,” Oscar replies evenly. The warmth is gone. The ease gone with it. As though it never existed at all. You frown slightly. Because you did not imagine it. Did you?
Max appears behind Lando, already smiling. “I still believe marriage is the logical outcome.”
“You will do no such thing,” Lando says.
“You cannot stop me.”
“I absolutely can.”
Max looks toward you. “You see what I endure.”
“I see what you encourage.”
“I encourage nothing.”
“You encourage everything.”
Oscar does not look at you again as you leave the stables. And yet— you feel it anyway. Awareness. Attention. Something restrained so tightly it almost feels deliberate.
You are no closer to understanding whether he dislikes you. But you are no longer entirely certain that he does.
The drawing room feels smaller tonight. Not physically — it is as elegant as ever, lit warmly by carefully placed candles and softened by low conversation — but because there are more people in it than there have been in years.
Too many voices layered over one another. Too many histories quietly reintroduced. Families that once spent every summer together. Families that once filled entire afternoons with easy familiarity, laughter drifting across lawns and through open windows without anyone remarking upon it. Now gathered again as though nothing has changed. As though everything has not.
The furniture has been arranged to encourage intimacy: chairs drawn closer than usual, small tables placed strategically between conversational clusters, candlelight reflected in tall mirrors that make the room appear deeper than it is. The air carries orange blossom and polished wood. Expectation settles invisibly in every corner.
Your mother moves easily between guests, pleased in a quiet way she does not attempt to hide. She has always enjoyed hosting, and tonight she seems particularly content to see familiar faces in familiar chairs, her hand resting lightly on shoulders as she guides conversation into comfortable patterns.
Your father is deep in conversation with Lord Sainz Snr near the fireplace, both men gesturing occasionally toward diagrams imagined in the air between them, entirely absorbed in something mechanical and important and deeply uninteresting to anyone not directly involved.
Across the room, Lady Sainz smiles warmly as you greet her son. Carlos bows politely, posture relaxed but attentive.
“I hope your morning ride did not discourage you from appearing in society again.”
“It did not,” you assure him, folding your hands lightly in front of you to prevent yourself from fidgeting.
“I am relieved. I had hoped for another opportunity to speak with you.”
“That is very persistent of you.”
“I am very persistent.” His smile is easy. Comfortable. Practised without appearing rehearsed. You find yourself grateful for conversation that feels uncomplicated. Predictable. Manageable. At least for a moment.
Because across the room — laughter. Low. Unexpected. Your gaze lifts involuntarily. Oscar is smiling. Not politely. Not distantly. Actually smiling. The expression transforms him entirely. Warmer. Younger. Less carefully contained. Something unguarded flickers briefly across his face, visible only because he has momentarily forgotten to conceal it.
For a moment, you almost forget to look away. Then you remember yourself. Carlos is still speaking. You force your attention back, aware you have missed something. “You must find the Season somewhat overwhelming,” he says kindly.
“I am told I will become accustomed to it.”
“I suspect you will improve it.”
“That seems unlikely.”
“You underestimate your influence.”
“That is generous.”
Across the room, Max is already watching. Of course he is. Max notices everything. Particularly reactions. Particularly expressions. Particularly anything that might become interesting later.
“Well,” Max says loudly enough to interrupt three separate conversations, lifting one brow as though the evening itself has personally amused him, “this is remarkably civil.”
Lando does not look up from his glass. “Do not ruin it.”
“I never ruin anything,” Max replies smoothly. "In fact, I improve most things.”
“You complicate most things.”
“I clarify most things,” Max gestures lazily toward the pianoforte positioned near the far wall, its polished surface reflecting candlelight in soft gold streaks. Guests nearby glance over with polite curiosity, as though half-expecting him to produce a performer out of thin air. “Surely someone intends to play something.”
“I had not realised you were musically inclined,” Lando replies dryly.
“I am not.”
“Then why suggest it?”
“I introduce opportunity for discomfort.”
“You are exhausting.”
A few of the older guests exchange knowing smiles over their glasses, long accustomed to this particular form of bickering. There is unmistakable fondness in the indulgent patience with which they allow the exchange to continue — as though Max and Lando’s rivalry has become as much a fixture of society as the Season itself.
While they argue lightly, your attention shifts despite yourself. Across the room, Oscar is no longer standing alone. Miss Alcott has joined his side. Quiet. Well-spoken. Observant in a way that suggests she notices more than she reveals.
Her manner is composed without stiffness, posture perfectly correct without appearing rigid. She greets Oscar politely. Oscar responds with the same careful courtesy he offers everyone. Measured. Controlled. Distant. And yet — he listens attentively when she speaks. He asks questions. He does not interrupt. He does not appear impatient.
You tell yourself you are not watching. You are absolutely watching.
“You do not approve?” Carlos asks gently beside you.
You blink, returning abruptly to the conversation in front of you. “I am sorry?”
Carlos’s expression remains mild, perceptive rather than intrusive. “You looked thoughtful.”
“I was considering the music,” you say smoothly.
“There is no music yet.”
“I was anticipating the music.”
Carlos’s mouth curves faintly. “That is very forward thinking.”
Across the room, Max catches Oscar’s eye. Glances briefly toward you. Then back again. Oscar does not react outwardly. But something in his posture stills. Just slightly. A fractional tightening of composure. Barely visible. Entirely noticeable once seen.
Later — the conversation separates naturally into smaller groups. The rhythm of the evening softens as formal politeness relaxes into familiarity. Chairs shift closer together. Gloves are removed. Someone laughs too loudly and then apologises unnecessarily.
Your mother encourages someone toward the pianoforte. Someone else suggests cards. Candles burn lower, shadows growing softer along the edges of the room.
Max appears beside you without warning, materialising with the ease of someone entirely comfortable inserting himself into conversations that did not previously include him. One moment you are alone with your thoughts, the next his presence settles easily at your side, as though he has always been part of the exchange. “You are being courted very competently,” Max observes, tone conversational but eyes sharp with interest.
“I am being spoken to politely,” you correct, keeping your voice measured.
Max inclines his head slightly. “That is how it begins.”
“You sound resigned,” you note, studying him.
“I am realistic.”
“You are alarmingly philosophical this evening.”
“I am very perceptive this evening,” Max agrees easily. A pause. Then, more quietly, his voice lowering just enough that the shift feels deliberate— “You are observing him.”
You do not answer. Max’s mouth curves faintly, clearly satisfied with your silence. The distant murmur of conversation continues around you, but the space between words feels more precise now.
“I would be careful,” he adds lightly.
You glance at him. “Of what?”
“Of forming conclusions too quickly.”
“I have not formed any conclusions.”
“That is rarely true.”
“And what conclusion have you formed?” you ask carefully.
Max’s gaze drifts briefly across the room. Oscar is speaking with Miss Alcott again. Still composed. Still attentive. Still careful in that way that suggests he is thinking far more than he allows anyone to see.
“Not entirely predictable,” Max says at last.
“And Lando?” you ask.
Max’s expression shifts with quiet amusement. “That Lando is about to become extremely irritating.”
“He is already extremely irritating.”
“Yes,” Max agrees easily. “But he is irritating in predictable ways.”
“And Oscar is not predictable?”
Max’s gaze lingers a moment longer across the room before returning to you. “Not entirely,” he repeats. Before you can ask anything further, Lando’s voice carries clearly from across the room.
“Max.”
Max exhales softly through his nose, as though interrupted mid-observation. “Inconvenient,” he murmurs.
Then, without elaborating further, he inclines his head politely and moves away, leaving the thought unfinished — and therefore far more noticeable.
You find yourself alone near the open doors leading toward the terrace. Cool evening air slips through the narrow opening, carrying the faint scent of night flowers and damp stone. Beyond, the garden rests in soft shadow, lanterns placed along the gravel paths casting diffused pools of golden light that tremble faintly in the breeze.
The quiet feels like relief. Space feels like relief.
“You seem to prefer this part of the evening.” You turn. Oscar stands beside you. Close enough that you can hear him clearly. Far enough that no one could call it improper. And yet — closer than he has stood all evening.
“You observe a great deal,” you say lightly, fingers resting against the carved wood of the doorframe.
Oscar’s gaze shifts briefly toward the terrace before returning to you. “I try to.”
You glance out toward the garden, allowing the cool air to steady the sudden awareness of proximity. “I had forgotten how many people feel entitled to conversation.”
“You invited conversation,” Oscar replies evenly.
“I invited music.”
“You accepted invitations.”
“I accepted several.”
“You accepted many.” The faintest shift touches his expression, almost imperceptible, as though the distinction matters more than he intends to show. Candlelight catches briefly along the line of his jaw as he turns his head slightly toward you.
You tilt your head in response, studying him. “You sound critical.”
“I am observational.”
Your smile comes more easily than expected, the rhythm of the exchange settling into something familiar — something that feels almost private despite the distant hum of conversation behind you. “I thought you disliked society,” you hum.
“I dislike inefficiency.”
“You consider conversation inefficient?”
“I consider repetition inefficient.”
“You disapprove of repetition?”
“I disapprove of unnecessary repetition.”
“You have repeated yourself three times.”
“Yes.” The single word lands quietly between you. You look at him then. Really look. His gaze meets yours fully this time. Steady. Unflinching. Unusually unguarded. For a moment, neither of you speaks. You become aware of the quiet stretch of breath between words, of how still he stands, of how deliberate the absence of movement feels.
“You are different when you are not pretending not to like me.”
He stills almost imperceptibly. The smallest pause before answering. “I am not pretending.”
“You are, you are very bad at pretending.”
“I am very good at pretending.”
“You are not convincing.”
“You are biased.” A faint tightening touches the corner of his mouth, as though resisting the impulse to respond more openly than he should.
“You used to be kinder,” you continue.
“You used to be younger.”
“You say that as though kindness expires.”
“It becomes more complicated.”
“Why?” The question lingers between you. Not rhetorical. Not careless. He does not answer immediately. Instead, his hand shifts slightly, resting lightly against the same section of doorframe your fingers occupy.
Close enough that the warmth of his skin becomes noticeable. Not touching. Almost. The air feels suddenly narrower. More deliberate. Something almost unguarded flickers briefly across his expression — a hesitation that feels dangerously close to honesty.
“Because people notice things they did not notice before,” he says quietly.
You study him more carefully now. Close enough to see the subtle tension held behind his composure. Close enough to notice the controlled steadiness of his breathing. Close enough to realise he is aware of the proximity too.
“And what do they notice?”
He does not answer immediately. His fingers shift slightly. The smallest movement. Close enough that your knuckles brush accidentally against his hand. The contact is brief. Unintentional. And yet — neither of you moves away immediately. Your breath catches before you can prevent it. He notices. Of course he notices.
“They just notice more,” he says finally. His voice is lower now. Quieter.
“That sounds inconvenient, I preferred when things were simpler.”
“So did I.” The admission settles heavily between you. Unexpectedly honest. Unexpectedly shared.
You laugh softly, though the sound feels quieter than usual, absorbed by the open air beyond the doorway. The sound seems to draw his attention more fully, as though even small expressions of ease feel significant here.
“Everything feels negotiated now,” you say after a moment.
“Everything is negotiated.”
“I do not wish to negotiate everything.”
“You will not have to,” the certainty in his reply feels almost too steady.
“You are surprisingly reassuring.”
“I am rarely reassuring.”
“You are currently reassuring.”
A brief pause. Long enough to feel deliberate. “That is unusual.”
You lean slightly more fully against the open doorframe, aware now of the proximity rather than pretending not to notice it. “I feel more comfortable when I am riding.”
“I noticed.”
“You were watching?”
“I observe most things.”
“You say that often.”
“I am consistent.”
“You are predictable.”
Oscar’s gaze shifts briefly to your hand still resting near his. “I am rarely predictable.”
“You are predictable when you pretend not to care.”
A small sound behind you. Footsteps approaching. Oscar’s posture changes almost instantly. Distance returns. His hand shifts away first. Expression settles. Voice cools.
“You will become accustomed to the Season,” he says evenly.
The shift is immediate. Noticeable. Confusing. You straighten slightly, the absence of warmth more distinct than the presence had been. “I am not sure I wish to become accustomed to it.”
“You will.”
“That is not always possible.”
“There are many things that are not possible.”
“Yes.”
The warmth is gone. Again. As though it never existed at all. Max appears moments later, followed by Miss Alcott and Lando. The conversation resumes. Normal. Polite. Unremarkable.
And yet — later that evening — you find yourself replaying that conversation. The brief brush of his hand. The way he did not move immediately. The way he looked at you as though the answer to something rested just out of reach. Trying to understand why he feels different when no one else is near. Trying to decide whether he dislikes you — or simply does not wish anyone to realise that he might not.
And across the room — more than once — you catch him looking at you again. Only briefly. Never long enough.
Always long enough.
Race mornings begin long before the crowd arrives. The air is still cool when the first carriages appear along the distant road, wheels crunching softly over gravel as grooms, stablehands, and trainers move with quiet urgency through the grounds. Even from a distance, the energy feels different from the ballrooms and drawing rooms that have occupied so much of the Season so far.
Here, society does not simply gather. It anticipates.
The racecourse stretches wide and green beneath pale morning light, the track carved into the land through years of repetition — a precise curve of packed earth bordered by fresh grass, white fencing marking the line between order and risk. Temporary stands rise in tiers overlooking the final stretch, decorated in banners displaying family colours and crests. Silk canopies ripple in the soft wind, their shadows shifting slowly across the viewing lawns.
“It is not too late to remain in the carriage,” Lando says mildly, offering his hand as the footman lowers the step.
The distant thunder of hooves carries faintly across the grounds, a rhythmic tremor beneath the polite murmur of arriving guests. You place your gloved hand in his, allowing him to steady you as you descend.
“You have suggested that several times already,” you reply, adjusting the fall of your sleeve once you reach the gravel.
The air smells faintly of trampled grass and damp earth, the sharp brightness of morning softened by low cloud gathering in the distance.
“You may find the noise overwhelming,” Lando continues, his hand lingering at your elbow a moment longer than necessary as another carriage pulls in behind yours.
“I survived Lady Pin’s harp recital.”
A faint sound of reluctant amusement escapes him. “This is louder.”
“I prefer louder.”
“I prefer controlled environments.”
“You prefer environments you can supervise.”
Lando glances toward the track, where attendants guide restless horses into position, the contained energy of the morning already palpable. “I prefer environments where you are not trampled.”
“I do not intend to stand directly in front of the horses.”
“That is reassuring.”
You begin walking beside him toward the viewing enclosure, boots pressing softly into gravel. “You are behaving as though I have never attended a race before.”
“You have not attended this one.”
“I attended many others.”
“You were younger.”
You tilt your chin slightly, allowing a trace of challenge into your voice. “I remain capable of standing upright.”
“That has always been questionable.”
You smile faintly despite yourself, the familiar cadence of the exchange easing some of the tension he is clearly attempting not to show. “I like it here,” you admit, glancing toward the track as the early riders begin their warm circuits, the sound of hooves settling into steady rhythm.
Lando follows your gaze. “You always did,” he says quietly.
The first two races of the Season had come and gone without you. One lost to obligations deemed essential to your introduction into society. The second discouraged by Lando, who had suggested that the crowds would prove inconvenient when half the Ton seemed suddenly determined to make your acquaintance.
You had suspected the inconvenience would not have been the race itself. This time, however, even he had relented.
The scent of grass and leather carries on the breeze, familiar and grounding in a way that formal rooms never quite are. Crowds gather slowly, colour building as guests arrive in coordinated silks and coats representing family allegiances. Racing families recognise one another easily. Nods exchanged. Quiet wagers placed. Rivalries politely disguised as conversation.
Further along the paddock, the riders prepare. You can see them moving between the stables and the track, checking tack, adjusting gloves, speaking with trainers. Focused. Contained. Entirely different from their social personas.
“They are early,” you observe, watching the first riders circle the track, hooves striking damp earth in steady rhythm.
“They are always early,” Lando replies, gaze already scanning the paddock with practiced focus.
“You are early.”
“I am always early.”
You glance sideways at him, noting the set of his shoulders, the quiet restlessness in the way his fingers tap once against the leather of his gloves. “You are impossible.”
“I am winning.”
“You are not yet racing, you are preparing to boast.”
“I am preparing to be correct.”
The morning air carries the low murmur of preparation across the paddock. Across the enclosure — Max stands beside his horse, listening with only partial patience as someone explains something he already understands, one brow lifted in polite tolerance. Nearby, Lord Russell adjusts his gloves with careful precision, each movement exact, controlled.
Lord Sainz appears deep in discussion with his trainer, expression thoughtful, attention entirely absorbed in strategy. Lord Leclerc laughs easily at something said nearby, the sound carrying lightly through the cool air.
And then — Oscar. Oscar runs a hand slowly along his horse’s neck, murmuring something low and steady. The horse settles almost immediately, tension easing beneath the quiet reassurance of familiar contact. You find yourself watching the small exchange longer than intended. There is something deeply reassuring in the way he rides. No unnecessary force. No wasted movement. Everything deliberate. Everything considered. A steadiness that feels instinctive rather than performed.
“You are staring,” Lando says quietly beside you.
“I am observing.”
“You are observing very intently.”
You draw your gaze away with composed reluctance. “I am appreciating good technique.”
Lando’s mouth shifts faintly. “You sound like Max.”
“That is concerning.”
“That is very concerning.”
You fold your hands lightly before you, attempting composure. “I appreciate competence.”
Lando’s voice lowers slightly, tone more deliberate now. “I appreciate loyalty.”
You glance at him, surprised by the quiet weight in the words. “I am loyal.”
He nods once. “Good.”
The crowd thickens as the race approaches. Conversation rises. Wagers increase. Excitement sharpens. The Queen herself sits in the central viewing pavilion, her presence lending weight to the occasion. This race matters. Not simply for reputation. For standing. For future invitations. For everything unspoken that society measures quietly and remembers indefinitely.
The riders take their places. Six horses aligned at the starting line. Muscle coiled. Energy barely contained. Lando sits forward slightly in the saddle, entirely focused. Max looks almost relaxed. George composed. Carlos steady. Charles confident. Oscar — very still.
The signal sounds. They move at once. The first stretch is tight. Position shifts quickly as each rider attempts to secure advantage without sacrificing control. Max pushes early. Of course he does. Lando follows closely. George maintains measured pace. Carlos holds steady. Charles attempts a bold outside line.
Oscar waits. He always waits.
The first turn compresses the field. Hooves strike earth in rapid rhythm, dirt scattering in controlled arcs as the riders adjust position. Max takes the inside line cleanly. Lando presses closer than advisable. George remains patient. Oscar begins to advance.
Not aggressively. Not dramatically. Just— steadily. He does not fight for position. He allows space to appear. Then takes it.
By the second turn, he is already level with Charles. By the third, he overtakes George. Max notices. Of course he does. He always does. Lando pushes harder. The crowd grows louder. You do not realise you are gripping the railing until your knuckles pale beneath your gloves.
“You are very invested,” your mother observes gently.
“I am supporting my brother.”
“You are watching someone else.”
The final stretch approaches. Max still leads. Barely. Lando presses close. Oscar moves outside. The line is narrow. The margin smaller still. For a moment it seems impossible —
Then suddenly — it isn’t. Oscar takes the turn with remarkable precision. Cleaner. Sharper. Faster. He pulls ahead. Just enough. Just in time.
The finish line passes in a blur of motion and noise. Applause erupts. Voices rise. Announcements echo across the stands.
Oscar slows gradually, allowing the horse to settle. Max follows second. Lando third. The rest close behind. Only then does Oscar look up. His gaze moves instinctively toward the stands. Toward the crowd. Toward — you.
The moment is brief. Almost accidental. Almost. You feel it anyway. Unexpected. Unsettling. Impossible to misinterpret. He looks away first.
After the race, the paddock fills quickly with congratulatory greetings and polite congratulations.
Lando and Max are already speaking animatedly with one of the stewards when you approach with your parents. Conversation shifts easily as greetings are exchanged, polite acknowledgements overlapping with the lingering excitement of the race just concluded.
Oscar stands beside them, posture composed, attention fixed on removing his gloves with unhurried precision. He appears calmer than expected for someone who has just won, as though victory alters little in his internal landscape.
“Well,” Max says easily, turning as he notices your approach, one brow lifting with theatrical resignation, “that was inconvenient.”
“You were second,” Lando replies flatly, arms folding loosely as though the outcome has personally offended him.
“I dislike being second,” Max says.
“You are frequently second.”
“I am selectively second.”
“You are annoyingly competitive.”
“I am correctly competitive.”
Oscar finishes removing his gloves, folding them once before responding to your father’s greeting. “You rode well,” your father tells him, approval evident in the measured warmth of his tone.
“Thank you,” Oscar replies simply.
“You have always ridden well,” your mother adds kindly, her observation gentle but unmistakably deliberate.
Oscar inclines his head politely, acknowledging the compliment without embellishment. Max looks between the three of you, expression sharpening with interest, as though suddenly presented with a detail he finds far more entertaining than the race result itself.
“You know,” he says thoughtfully, tapping one gloved finger lightly against the side of his face, “the last time he won here was several years ago.” Oscar does not look at him.
“Was it?” Lando says flatly.
“Yes,” Max continues lightly, tone deliberately casual. “I believe you were present then as well.” He nods towards you.
You glance at Oscar. He is still not looking at Max.
“That is coincidence,” Lando says.
“I enjoy coincidence,” Max replies easily.
“You encourage coincidence.”
Oscar exhales slowly, the faintest hint of restraint slipping into his voice. “You encourage unnecessary commentary.”
Max does not appear discouraged. “I encourage accuracy.”
“I regret speaking to you,” Oscar says evenly.
Max smiles, entirely unrepentant. “You speak to me often.”
“I regret it often.”
A soft ripple of laughter passes through the group, smoothing the exchange back into polite company. But the tension lingers. Subtle. Persistent. Noticeable only if one already knows where to look.
Later, as the others move ahead toward the carriages, conversation drifting easily into the fading light of late afternoon, you linger briefly near the stable doors.
You are not entirely certain why. Lando has already gone ahead with Max, their voices still audible somewhere beyond the courtyard. Your parents walk only a short distance ahead, expecting you to follow shortly. And yet — you remain.
The stable air is cooler now, the warmth of the day settling into quiet stillness. Leather creaks softly as horses shift within their stalls, the scent of hay grounding the moment in something calmer than the restless energy of the race.
Oscar steps aside to allow a groom to pass through the narrow doorway. You move at the same moment. Too close. Your hands brush. Just briefly. Barely contact. Still — enough.
You both pause. Look at each other. Not long. Just long enough to notice.
“You rode well,” you say quietly, voice softer than intended.
Oscar’s gaze lingers a fraction longer than politeness strictly requires. “You observed well.”
A faint warmth rises unexpectedly. “I always observe well.”
“I noticed.”
The words feel deliberate. Measured. “You were watching?” you ask, attempting lightness that does not quite settle.
Oscar’s expression remains composed, but something almost thoughtful shifts behind it. “I observe most things.”
“You repeat yourself.”
“I am consistent.”
You draw a breath, aware suddenly of how still the space feels around you, how distant the sound of departing carriages has become. “You were very fast in the final turn.”
“You were very focused in the stands.” The reply lands more directly than expected.
You hesitate. “I always support my brother.”
“Yes.”
A pause settles between you. Quieter now. More deliberate.
“You ride better when you are watched,” the words surprise you as they fall from your mouth. Honest before careful.
Oscar’s gaze sharpens slightly, as though recalculating something previously kept at safe distance. “I ride better when the conditions are favourable.”
“That is not what Max says.”
“Max says many things.”
“Max is often correct.” For a moment, neither of you moves. The quiet stretches. Not uncomfortable. Simply aware.
Then somewhere beyond the stable doors, Lando’s voice carries faintly across the courtyard. Reality returning. Choice returning. Distance returning. But the awareness lingers — as though something small has shifted, even if neither of you has yet named it.
“Congratulations,” you say politely.
“Thank you.” He inclines his head. Controlled once more. But as you leave — you feel his attention again. Just briefly. Just enough.
And for the first time — you are not entirely certain you imagined it.
