Hiya! It's Laura, below is a very very long list of all my newer writing (most of them- I am still adding some along the way as theres sooooo many lewis fics!) Sadly for the older ones there might need to be some digging haha! Hope you enjoy :)
Lewis Hamilton
Safe with you- Dealing with narcolepsy is hard enough in normal day-to-day life nevermind when your dating a 7 time world champion... when a serious situation occurs during a race lewis does everything in his power to ensure that your safe while supporting him!
My number one- It's your first time in the paddock supporting your boyfriend, however when he introduces you not only to your favourite driver but also his teammate, he can't help but feel a tiny bit jealous...
Only exception- You and Lewis has been together now for a few years, to the disbelief of fans and the media. However when asked about children in a press conference, his answers not only disappoints you but also the little hamilton you have been secretly growing...
Fearless- A young McLaren driver and Lewis Hamilton hide their relationship to protect her reputation. When a devastating crash forces them to confront what truly matters, fear gives way to love.
no labels, all love- You and lewis have been exclusively seeing each other for 4 months but due to you having trust issues after an abusive ex you don't want any labels. However after you attend a friends wedding were your ex so happens to be there, lewis shows that he is nothing like your ex... he'll always put you first!
Absofuckinglutely- Through the years, Lewis always said he wasn't ready to get married but when he has a brutal conversation with his teammate, he realises just whats is important leading to your dream proposal based off your favourite disney film!!!
The purpose- After your father dies, you move to monaco where you stumble across a curious dog and the man your father idolised... even tho the lewis hamilton doesn't date he cant help but feel drawn towards you, like its his purpose...
Love through the lens- A professional Formula 1 photographer finds herself caught between love and career when she begins a secret relationship with Lewis Hamilton. What starts as stolen moments and hidden glances evolves into something deeper, but their carefully guarded secret becomes a source of tension when Lewis's insecurities about her motives threaten to destroy everything they've built.
Finally mine- After his start at Ferrari doesn't go the way he was expecting, Lewis heads to a quiet beach town to clear his head from distractions. But after meeting a (y/n) a shy nursery teacher & her sassy stick loving dog Otis, he leaves even more confused about his future.
Sports car- Since joining Ferrari, Lewis has grown close to all members of the Leclerc family including Charles's sister. Despite knowing she's forbidden, he offers to take her to the gala where the tensions begin to rise in his sports car...
Paddock angel- When (y/n) spots Alex struggling with press and 'fans' she makes sure that your boyfriends future teammates girlfriend has someone in her corner... leaving Lewis to watch in awe!
Our city of love-After you miss the Italian Grand Prix due to an unexpected illness, with a little help from the hotel staff, Lewis still makes it a trip to remember...
Pumpkin patch- when you and Lewis have a rare night together, you set up a scavenger hunt to surprise your husband with your upcoming member of the patch…
Arthur Leclerc
My rock-When you overhear that ferrari are making staff redundant, you, charles PR assistant is worried that your on the cut list.... However Arthur Leclerc, charles's younger and clingy brother makes sure that his favourite member of ferrari doesn't leave, especially because he is yet to confess his feelings !
When we're ready- Despite being together for 8 years, you and arthur are the only couple in the leclerc family who haven't tied the knot... when online comments and teasing from his family get to much, Arthur is quick to show what his priority is!
Now we're Ready- 6 months after his families teasing went wrong, Arthur finally gives you the dream proposal you deserve... with a bit of help from his family and a trip down memory lane!!
Ruin the friendship - Being a rookie driver and arthur leclercs best friend has always had it pros and cons, from the countless rumours to his excessive love life. However when a horror crash happens, they final decide it's the right time to ruin the friendship...
8 Letters- Being Landos little sister always has it ups and downs, but the biggest up is your evergrowing friendship with Arthur Leclerc....
golden hour- An early morning with Arthur includes passionate sex, him taking aftercare to a new extreme and a morning walk with your favourite dachshund (and charles & Alex)
in law crash- Can I request an arthur x f1 driver fem reader who has been racing for a few seasons in f1 with a well-known team (Mercedes, willams, etc, your pick) and her and charles are fighting for a position and they both crash, both are 100% ok no harm done. I can picture "there goes leclerc, oh and l/n, the in-laws crash at turn 6"
My man on will power- After 8 months dating, you notice Arthur slipping away from you and despite your best efforts to stop it.. you fear it's to late
drive safe- When you finally leave a toxic and abusive relationship after a sour argument, Arthur, your childhood friend helps you with getting your old self back!
Lando Norris
changed for good- Being Landos has never been easy from people telling you your to shy, to that you've changed him for worst! However when you have an idea to be more independent in the paddock, yours and lando's worst nightmare comes true!
cute aggression- When everyone mistakes your affection as clingyness, you start to pull back, leaving your boyfriend confused...
two lines- After lando wins the WDC everything is perfect however when his mum suggests your new morning symptoms sound a lot like pregnancy, you can't help but to feel like you are gonna ruin everything 🤍
Mrs Norris- After Lando accidentally spoiled your engagement after winnng the WDC, he swears to secrecy that he won't tell anyone you got married in the winter break! (Lando x female f1!driver)
the risk- Being charle's twin sister was always hard growing up in the racing word... but the hardest part is hiding your relationship with his new rival! (CONTAINS SMUT) Request- Hey, Your writing is so good!! Can I send you a request with Lando Norris x Leclerc sister reader?
Kimi Antonelli
Home straight- When you were 7 years old you made the decision to ask a boy to play with his cars- flash forward many years later he's a formula one grand prix winner, and you... are the first person he goes to!
Ok, I had posted this but then deleted it a minute later cause I'm kinda exhausted from feeling so negative about all this. But I feel like it needs to be said;
there was ONE mercedes engineer who actually showed up for George's podium. Four Merc staff showed up to Parc Ferme, took pictures of Lewis with Kimi and George before the interviews, and left.
Only the guy with the headphones stayed to watch the podium ceremony alone.
🇪🇸 13.06.2026 | F1 Grand Prix of Barcelona-Catalunya: Qualifying (P7)
BARCELONA, SPAIN - JUNE 13: Oscar Piastri of Australia and McLaren Mastercard F1 Team walks in parc ferme during qualifying ahead of the F1 Grand Prix of Barcelona-Catalunya at Circuit de Barcelona-Catalunya on June 13, 2026 in Barcelona, Spain. (Photo by Kym Illman/Getty Images)
Alex didn’t say anything else—just laughed, shaking her head slightly, dark hair moving softly around her face as she did. Leo padded happily ahead of you, completely unaware of the emotional landmines trailing behind his owners best friend as the three of you crossed into the hotel lobby.
The space was quieter than the paddock. Softer. Dimmer. The kind of silence that made your thoughts louder whether you wanted them to be or not.
Charles was still stuck in debriefing and final marketing duties after his win. And Oscar—probably still there too. You hadn’t heard from him yet; you just had to assume.
Last race weekend, it had been the same. And other times too. He was never the first one back—still in debriefing stretching far longer than they probably needed. So this assumption had become routine by now, almost rehearsed. A quiet mental script you kept repeating in your head today forcing your nervous system to understand.
“Typical, Arth—”
Alex was about to respond to your recounting on how Arthur went fully Arthur on Oscar in the recent days, when you two were suddenly interrupted by a soft warm voice.
“Alex?” the voice called, slightly shy and surprised in equal measure.
Your heads snapped in the direction instantly.
A petite brunette stood a few steps away, dressed casually—effortlessly so, like she hadn’t had to think about it. Deep blue eyes, steady but gentle, framed by long curls that fell past her waist and caught the lobby light in a way that made her look almost unreal for a second. Not attention-seeking. Just… noticed anyway.
You recognized her immediately.
“Lily,” Alex smiled back, her expression shifting instantly into something softer, more personal. Her eyes flicked to you for half a second—silent acknowledgment—before returning to the girl in front of her.
“Haven’t seen you in a while,” your best friend added, already stepping forward.
They hugged briefly, familiar in the way people only are when they’ve crossed paths often enough for warmth to replace formality.
“Right back at you,” Lily laughed lightly as they pulled apart. “You look amazing.”
Alex only smiled, a quiet thank you slipping out before her gaze drifted between Lily and you. “Do you still remember Y/N?” she asked softly.
That made Lily’s gaze shift in your direction immediately.
Not startled. Just… focused.
Like she was searching a mental archive and finding you already there.
Then, warmer—easier:
“Yes,” she said after a beat, smile softening just slightly as her gaze flicked to you. “We’ve met before… through the paddock.”
A pause—small, controlled.
“A while ago.”
“Hi.”
“Hi,” you replied, lifting a hand in a small wave, not quite sure what to do with yourself.
Because this was the thing no one ever told you about meeting someone you already kind of knew.
You didn’t actually know them.
Just fragments. Moments. Names attached to context.
Lily Zneimer.
You had met her once or twice in passing in the paddock—once maybe at the end of 2023 season, and probably twice at the Monaco GPs in 2024 and 2025. But else, the timing somehow had always been wrong. Never in the Paddock at the same time. Never long enough to become familiar. Always just long enough to remember.
And yet her reputation filled the gaps anyway.
Kind. Brilliant. Grounded. Quietly magnetic in a way that didn’t demand attention but still received it.
And—
beautiful in a way that didn’t feel constructed.
“How have you been?” she asked, but her gaze stayed mostly on Alex, comfortable in their history. Still, she angled herself just enough to include you in the question without making it feel like an obligation.
“Good,” Alex answered easily. “Married now,” she added with a grin that softened the entire sentence. “And I can’t be unhappy when my best friend is basically glued to my life most of the time.”
Lily laughed at that, genuine and light. “That sounds like a good problem to have.”
“It is,” Alex agreed immediately.
Then, without ceremony, she hooked her arm through yours and pulled you slightly closer into the circle—not forcing you in, just placing you there like you belonged.
Trying to stabilize you—and especially your thoughts—wiith her grip,
Still, your thoughts didn’t settle.
They rarely did when they didn’t have somewhere obvious to land on.
Did she know—about you and Oscar?
Not just know, like a name attached to a rumour or a passing mention in someone else’s conversation.
But know.
Or didn’t she—and was this just coincidence? A normal conversation between people who happened to orbit the same unique ecosystem?
Your brain, unhelpfully, kept going.
Did she know, and was she quietly assessing you instead—measuring, comparing, filing you away as something she had to understand before she could understand him?
No. That was ridiculous.
You pushed it away, almost automatically.
“And you?” Lily asked, turning slightly toward you now, gently pulling you out of your internal spiral without even knowing it.
“I’m great,” you said quickly, a little too quickly. Then corrected yourself with a softer tone. “Great season so far.”
“I noticed you’ve been in the paddock quite a bit more this season,” she continued, tone light—curious, not invasive.
Just observant.
Because you had been pictured in the paddock this season a bit more often than any season before.
And somehow that was worse.
You nodded lightly, forcing your shoulders to stay relaxed even while your brain was still trying to decide what this interaction meant.
“A little,” you smiled carefully. “Alex keeps dragging me around.”
“That’s not true,” Alexandra immediately defended herself. “Dragging implies resistance.”
“I do resist,” you replied automatically.
“Badly,” Alex corrected.
Lily laughed softly at that, the sound warm and easy—not forced politeness, not awkwardness. Real amusement. Eyes flicking between you two like she understood the rhythm of it immediately—how long-standing friendship filled gaps that didn’t need explaining.
“I was going to say,” she smiled, glancing at you. “You don’t exactly look forced.”
A quiet breath of laughter escaped you before you could stop it, some of the tension easing from your chest despite yourself.
Because that was the confusing part.
If anything, Lily seemed… kind.
Nothing about her felt sharp.
Nothing about this felt like some hidden confrontation.
And somehow that was more destabilizing than if she’d been anything else.
Leo wagged his tail happily between the three of you before eventually settling himself against Alexandra’s legs, entirely unbothered by the emotional warfare currently taking place exclusively inside your own head.
“Were you here for the full weekend?” Alex asked casually.
Lily nodded. “Mostly for the Women in Motorsport stuff,” she explained. “A couple engineering panels too.”
“That’s amazing,” Alex smiled immediately, and she genuinely meant it. “I saw some pictures earlier.”
Lily ducked her head slightly, almost shy beneath the praise. “It’s been really nice actually. Slightly overwhelming, but nice.”
God.
Even her being humble was inconvenient.
Your brain hated this situation.
Because it couldn’t turn her into a villain.
Couldn’t even try.
Her blue eyes flicked between you and Alex, and then again, soft as before. Genuine. Deep.
“I always thought it was nice,” she admitted. “How your group kind of… keeps each other.”
That sentence landed somewhere unexpectedly deep inside your chest.
Alexandra’s expression softened too.
“We try,” she said quietly.
A small silence settled after that—not awkward, just gentle. The hotel lobby humming quietly around you with low conversations, rolling suitcases across marble floors, the muted clink of glasses from the bar further back. Outside, flashes from cameras occasionally reflected faintly through the glass entrance whenever drivers or staff arrived.
Then Lily smiled again, glancing toward you.
“And honestly,” she added lightly, “I think it suits him.”
Your brows furrowed slightly before you could stop them.
“Hm?”
“The paddock,” she clarified. “Having people.”
Your stomach tightened instantly anyway.
Because there it was.
Oscar.
Mentioned naturally. Casually. Like it shouldn’t mean anything.
And maybe it didn’t.
But your body reacted before your mind could categorize it.
Lily either didn’t notice—or pretended not to.
“He used to isolate himself a bit more,” she continued thoughtfully. “Not in a rude way. Just…” she shrugged softly, searching for the wording. “Very self-contained.”
A brief pause.
“He doesn’t seem like that anymore.”
Alex glanced at you briefly from the corner of her eye.
Careful. Observant.
Lily smiled faintly to herself now, almost nostalgic but not sad.
“He seems happier lately.”
And that—
That was the moment something inside you faltered slightly.
Because there was no bitterness in it.
No lingering ownership.
No agenda.
Just simple observation.
Quiet. Honest. Uncomplicated.
The kind someone makes when they once knew a person very well and can still recognize when something about them has softened.
Your throat tightened unexpectedly.
Not from jealousy this time.
Just the terrifying sincerity of it.
And before you could even think of something to say—
Lily tilted her head slightly, blue eyes settling on you properly now. As if either was realizing something or already knew something and was filing it away.
But she never voiced your fear out loud, instead she only shook her head lightly, as if dismissing her own thought before it could grow teeth, and turned her attention briefly over her shoulder toward the lounge she had come from before looking back at the two of you.
“Anyway, I won’t keep you two too long—travel day tomorrow?”
Lily’s hand glided through her hair once – the same absent, familiar motion that had reminded Oscar on your first date of Lily– casual, soft, unconscious.
Alex nodded immediately. “Yes, Leo can’t wait,” she said, nodding toward her tiny fur baby at her feet.
Lily smiled again, that same calm warmth still intact.
“Well,” she said, stepping back slightly, already easing into departure without rush, “it was really good seeing you both.”
Her gaze flicked to you again for a fraction longer this time. Not lingering in a way that asked for anything. Just acknowledging something she didn’t need confirmed anymore.
Then, after a beat—soft, almost like an afterthought but clearly sincere:
“Take care of yourselves, yeah?”
Alexandra gave a small, amused exhale. “We try.”
Lily laughed once, then shifted her attention to you for a second longer. Not lingering. Just a final glance.
And somehow, it didn’t feel like inspection.
Just… recognition.
Not as a question.
Not as a threat.
Just as the answer.
Like she had met you, registered you, and already placed you somewhere in her understanding of the world.
And for a brief moment, something almost like understanding settled in her expression—quiet, unspoken, but clear enough if you were looking for it.
She smiled one last time at you, deep and knowing. And then she was gone.
Not dramatically. Not noticeably. Just turning, walking, disappearing into the lounge area with the same quiet ease she’d arrived with.
The kind of exit that didn’t leave a gap behind it.
Only space.
Alexandra stayed still for a second longer, watching the direction Lily had gone before letting out a quiet breath through her nose.
Then she glanced at you.
“You’re spiraling,” she said calmly.
It wasn’t an accusation.
It was observation.
You let out a short breath that was almost a laugh, except it didn’t quite make it all the way there.
“I’m not spiraling.”
Alexandra raised a brow challengingly.
A beat.
“…okay,” you corrected, quieter now. “I’m lightly rotating.”
That earned an actual laugh this time.
“There you go,” she said, nudging your arm lightly with her shoulder. “Honesty.”
And for a moment, that was enough to pull you slightly back into the room again.
Not fully.
But enough to stay standing in it without feeling like the floor was moving underneath you.
Because this–the whole interaction just–was a lot.
❁✿❀❁✿❀
The hotel room door clicked shut behind him around an hour later.
You looked up instinctively from where you were sitting cross-legged near the head of the bed, laptop resting open on your lap and one of the lamps still on beside you, casting the room in that muted gold that made everything feel softer than it really was.
Oscar exhaled the second he saw you.
Not dramatic. Not performative.
Just that quiet release he only ever seemed to do around you now—as if some part of him had finally stopped bracing. Like the version of him that existed outside this room had been holding tension in his shoulders for hours and only just remembered he didn’t have to carry it all the way in here.
“There you are,” he murmured.
And annoyingly, unfairly, your body reacted before your thoughts did.
Relief first.
Always relief first.
A small smile immediately formed on your lips, soft and undeniable.
He crossed the room without urgency, backpack left by the door with a quiet thud, cap already half-off his head. His movements were slower than usual—weighted in that post-race exhaustion that wasn’t just physical, but everywhere at once.
His fingers brushed briefly against the back of your neck as he passed, a habitual touch more than a conscious one, grounding in the same absent way he always found you in rooms without needing to look. Then he leaned down just enough to press a tired but lingering kiss against your forehead.
It wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t showy.
It just stayed a second longer than necessary, like he was checking you were real.
“Long day?” you asked softly.
“Mhm.”
His voice was low, rough at the edges. He didn’t move away immediately—like he was trying to settle into stillness now that everything else had finally stopped moving.
Just taking you and your warmth in.
You had changed out of your skirt and vest the moment you had stepped into the room, and into one of his shirts you saw lying around and one of your sleep shorts. Comfortable and smelling of him.
Your makeup was already off, skin bare and slightly flushed from the heat of the day, hair tied loosely in a way that had already started slipping free at the sides. What was left was just you. Unfiltered. Unarmoured.
And that was what Oscar seemed to really take in without apology, his gaze lingering just a second too long—quiet, unguarded, like something in him always softened at the sight of you like this without him ever meaning it to.
“Sorry, debrief ran forever,” he apologized softly, hazel eyes still on you like he wasn’t fully ready to look away yet.
You only nodded in response, while your head already started trailing again.
“Zak just wouldn’t stop talking,” he added with a quiet laugh, shaking his head slightly.
You smiled at that, but it didn’t quite land all the way. Your thoughts were somewhere else entirely, hovering just out of reach of the present conversation.
“I’mma take a quick shower,” he said then, already starting to move, voice trailing slightly as he picked up his towel from the chair.
Again you just nodded.
Your eyes followed him without really seeing him properly—soft, steady, familiar in that way that had become second nature for you. The kind of look that didn’t need effort anymore. The kind he had slowly taught you to give without either of you ever naming it.
But it was then he lingered a bit longer than necessary at the threshold.
Just a fraction of a pause.
Like something in him caught on a detail he couldn’t quite place. The atmosphere maybe. Or you. Or the way your attention wasn’t fully landing where it usually did.
His head tilted slightly, as if he was about to say something—then stopped himself.
And just like that, he moved again. Bathroom door falling softly into its lock behind him, the sound muted and final in the thick hotel quiet.
And you—
You were left to stare at the brand presentation you had been working on for your client before Oscar had walked into the room, while your mind already drifted back to the same thought that had been looping since earlier: Lily.
Zak somehow made it into his summary, but not Lily?
The thought arrived quieter this time.
Not sharp. Not panicked.
Just… present.
Your eyes stayed on the screen in front of you, cursor blinking patiently over a slide you hadn’t actually processed in the last five minutes. Something about campaign rollout timelines. Market integration strategy. Carefully structured corporate language your brain usually translated without effort—now flattening into meaningless shapes beneath the noise in your head.
You tried to refocus. You really did.
Scrolled once. Twice.
Didn’t retain a single word.
The shower started running a moment later.
And somehow that made it worse.
Because it grounded everything too much.
Oscar was here. In the room. A few meters away. Warm towels and fogged glass and the sound of water hitting tile. Real. Familiar. Yours in all the ways that mattered.
And still your thoughts kept circling the same point.
Not because you thought he had done something wrong.
That was the frustrating part.
You didn’t.
At least… not consciously.
But your brain kept catching on the omission anyway. Like a loose thread your mind couldn’t stop testing just to see if it would unravel further if you pulled at it once more.
You closed your laptop with a quieter sigh than intended and let it rest beside you on the bed.
The room settled around you in layers.
Muted lighting pooling into corners. The soft, constant hum of air conditioning somewhere above. The faint city noise bleeding through the thick hotel windows—too distant to distinguish, too present to ignore.
And underneath it all—
Oscar.
Still in the fabric of the room even when he wasn’t visible. In the shape of things left slightly out of place. His bag by the door. A hoodie draped over the chair. The faint, familiar trace of his cologne clinging to the shirt hanging off your shoulders.
You tugged the sleeve over your fingers without thinking, grounding yourself in it.
Maybe he genuinely hadn’t thought it mattered.
That explanation still made the most sense.
Except now Lily had a face again in your mind instead of just a photo.
Soft blue eyes. Calm voice. Quiet observations that somehow felt more intimate than questions would have.
He seems happier lately.
Your throat tightened slightly at the memory of it.
Because she had said it so easily.
Just truth, spoken softly enough not to bruise.
No resentment.
No sadness.
No attempt to reclaim something.
And somehow that made everything feel more complicated instead of less.
The bathroom door finally opened again not long after, warm steam immediately curling into the room behind him. It softened the edges of the light for a second, blurring the clean lines of the hotel room into something almost intimate.
Your gaze lifted automatically.
Oscar stepped out in black basketball shorts and a black shirt, damp hair pushed messily back from his forehead, one towel still hanging loosely around his neck as he rubbed absently at the ends. Water still clung to his skin in places, catching faintly in the lamplight.
His eyes found you instantly again.
Always instantly.
“There’s my favorite girl,” he said softly, voice still roughened slightly from exhaustion.
Your lips twitched before you could stop them. Warmth spreading through you—small, immediate, involuntary.
But it didn’t last.
Before you could hold onto it, before it could settle properly in your chest, it was brushed aside again by the same thought that had been circling you since mid-race—quiet but persistent, like something refusing to dissolve.
You tried to hide it. You thought you did.
But maybe it was never as invisible as you believed.
Oscar crossed back toward the bed, slower this time, tiredness finally catching up to him properly now that the adrenaline of the day had worn off. There was something looser in his movements now, unguarded in a way that only came when he was no longer being perceived by the world in the same intense way.
The mattress dipped beneath his weight as he sat beside you.
Close.
Automatically close.
Normal and familiar.
One hand slid absentmindedly against your thigh beneath the oversized fabric of his shirt, thumb brushing once like his body had learned the movement before his brain ever needed to think about it. Not possessive. Not intentional. Just there—anchored.
“You waited up,” he murmured.
Not a question.
Something softer.
Your chest tightened unexpectedly at how easy he sounded saying it.
“Obviously,” you said quietly.
His mouth curved slightly at that.
Then his head tipped back against the headboard beside yours with a long exhale, eyes closing briefly as if the weight of the day finally landed all at once now that he was still.
And looking at him now—tired and warm and still unconsciously reaching for you even half-asleep—it suddenly felt impossible to know how to bring Lily into the room without changing its shape entirely.
Not just the mood.
The structure.
Like the room had settled into something quiet and safe, and you were about to put a crack through it just by speaking.
Your gaze dropped briefly to where his hand still rested against your leg.
Steady.
Familiar.
Safe.
“I ran into someone earlier,” you heard yourself say before you could decide against it.
Oscar opened his eyes again immediately, turning his head slightly toward you.
“Hm?”
There it was.
The opening.
Small. Ordinary. Still harmless enough to close again if you wanted. Still soft enough that it didn’t technically change anything yet.
You swallowed lightly.
Alexandra’s voice echoed faintly somewhere in the back of your mind.
You’re overthinking.
Maybe you were.
Maybe bringing it up now would turn something small into something heavier than it ever needed to become.
Or maybe it would change nothing at all and you were just borrowing fear from older versions of yourself that no longer applied here.
Or maybe it’ll make him freak out and you’d have to endure his silence as punishment… your mind immediately warned you, too quickly, too instinctively, like it still believed in consequences that didn’t exist in the same way anymore.
Oscar watched you quietly beside him now.
Patient in the way he always was with you. Not the kind of patience that waited out inconvenience—but the kind that made space. Like he had learned your pauses were part of your language, not interruptions in it.
Never pushing. Never demanding the rest of a sentence before you were ready to give it.
And somehow that made it harder.
Your fingers tightened slightly in his sleeve still pooled around your wrist, fabric bunching softly under your grip. A grounding point you didn’t realize you were holding onto until it shifted.
“…one of Alex’s old friends,” you finished softly instead.
The words came out carefully shaped, like they had been edited mid-sentence.
The smallest pause flickered across his face.
Not suspicion.
Just the brief recalculation of someone sensing a gap between intention and delivery. The quiet awareness that something had been adjusted before it reached him.
“Oh yeah?” he asked lightly.
You nodded once.
“Mhm.”
And just like that, the moment passed.
Or maybe not passed.
Just suspended there quietly between you instead.
But Oscar of course could tell that that wasn’t just it. He could tell something was wrong—subtle, but there. You weren’t fully here in the room. Not completely anchored. Like part of your attention was still somewhere else, held behind glass.
So instead of staying leaned back and letting sleep finally pull him under, he shifted again.
The movement was slow, unhurried, like his body didn’t want to fully leave the comfort it had settled into. But still, he sat up properly this time, the mattress dipping beneath him as he shifted closer to you. The sheets rustled softly under his weight, the warmth of him moving into your space without hesitation.
Trying to catch your eyes.
“What’s going on in that pretty head of yours?” he finally wondered.
Hazel eyes taking you in, wandering across your face, from your long lashes, to the faint tension still sitting in your expression, to your cheekbones softened by the low light, to the small shift of your lips like you were holding something back. And finally, back to your eyes.
“nothing—” you started automatically, reflexive, but the look you earned made you stop mid-word.
Not sharp. Not accusing.
Just knowing. Quietly persistent in a way that made avoidance feel pointless rather than unsafe.
You took a breath instead. Before finally: “you’ll always be honest, right?”
The question came out smaller than you intended. Not insecure exactly—but careful. Like you were testing the weight of something before fully stepping onto it.
Your boyfriend didn’t even hesitate. He nodded before the question had fully left your lips, like the answer had already existed in him long before you asked.
“Yes, of course sunny.”
A pause, softer now, his tone gentling without changing its certainty.
“What is going on?”
“You sure?” you pressed again, quieter this time, eyes flicking away from his face for half a second like you were trying to steady yourself before committing.
That made him let out a small, breathy laugh—not mocking, just confused affection. Like he genuinely didn’t understand where the fear was coming from.
“Yes, love,” he repeated simply. “I’m sure.”
He was so calm about it. So steady it almost felt unfair.
Like nothing you could say would shake him.
Like he was already prepared to take it—whatever it was—and still stay exactly where he was.
Just waiting on you.
Still—
You hesitated.
It wasn’t hesitation in your thoughts. It was your body still unwiring from an old pattern, where something like this was dangerous and consequences were painful.
Your nervous system remembering before your mind could correct it. Clinging to it.
Because Jean—whenever you confronted him with something he didn’t like—didn’t argue. Didn’t explain.
He withheld.
Silence first. Ignorance next. And only later, when the quiet had already done most of the damage, came the words. Sharp, cutting, designed more to end the conversation than understand it.
“Sol?”
Oscar’s voice brought you back gently. Anchoring you.
And finally you exhaled—small, uneven—before reaching for your phone from the bedside table.
“there’s this picture of you and lily talking… ehm… going like viral,” you said, and that is when you finally pulled the screenshot up.
Your fingers shook slightly against the edges of the screen—not dramatically, but enough that you noticed it, which made it worse.
Before you finally held the phone out toward him.
Oscar’s eyes dropped to the screen immediately.
The post.
The caption.
The picture.
And for a second, nothing about his expression changed at all.
No sharp inhale. No flicker of panic. No guilt snapping into place like a reflex. No tension tightening his shoulders as if he’d been caught in something he shouldn’t have been doing.
If anything, he just looked… confused.
Like his brain was trying to find the problem and failing to locate it.
His brows pulled together faintly as he read the caption once. Then again, slower this time—like repetition might reveal something he was missing.
“…What?” he said quietly.
Not defensive. Not careful. Just genuinely thrown.
The confusion in his voice almost threw you off balance more than defensiveness would have.
Oscar looked back down at the picture again, thumb shifting slightly against the edge of your phone.
Then he let out a quiet breath through his nose.
“Oh my god,” he murmured, realization finally clicking into place. Not sharp. Not dramatic. Just… delayed understanding. “This is what’s been bothering you?”
Immediately your stomach twisted.
Because suddenly the situation sounded smaller out loud than it had felt inside your head for the last six hours. Less layered. Less heavy. Almost embarrassingly simple when spoken in his voice like that.
“No,” you said quickly. Too quickly. It slipped out before you could shape it properly. “I mean—not bothering, I just—”
His eyes lifted back to yours instantly at the change in your tone.
Not into irritation. Not into distance.
Into understanding.
Not of Lily.
Of you.
His expression softened almost immediately, shoulders loosening as the pieces rearranged themselves properly in his head now.
“Sunny,” he said quietly.
That alone nearly undid you.
Not because of the nickname itself.
Because of how gently it came out of him. Like he wasn’t correcting you, or interrupting you, or trying to steer you anywhere. Just grounding you back into something familiar before you drifted too far into your own head.
Like he already understood this wasn’t really about a hotel lobby picture anymore.
You looked away first. Instinctive. Small retreat.
“It’s stupid,” you muttered softly.
“It’s not stupid.”
Your throat tightened.
Oscar handed the phone back to you carefully before shifting closer again,
one knee folding toward yours on the mattress. The bed dipped slightly with his movement, pulling him back into your orbit without any urgency, like gravity had already decided for him.
“She came up to me after media yesterday,” he explained softly. “Outside the hotel.”
His voice stayed calm. Easy. Not overly careful in the way people got when they were trying to avoid landmines. Just honest, like he was laying the moment out exactly as it had happened without embellishment or defense layered on top.
“She congratulated me on quali. We talked for maybe ten minutes.”
Ten minutes.
Not the endless, emotionally loaded reunion your brain had quietly started constructing somewhere along the way.
Just ten minutes.
You hated how immediate the relief was.
How your body reacted before your mind had time to decide if it was allowed to.
Oscar watched you carefully now, not scrutinizing, just reading. Like he always did when something mattered to you more than you were saying out loud.
“I genuinely didn’t think to mention it,” he admitted after a beat. “Not because I was hiding it. It just…”
He paused, searching for the right phrasing without overthinking it.
“Didn’t register as important.”
Your fingers tightened slightly around your phone again.
There it was.
The sentence your brain had already feared before he even said it.
Didn’t register as important.
Except somehow hearing it from him didn’t hurt the way you thought it would.
Because his attention never left you while he said it.
Not distant.
Not detached.
Not evasive.
Present.
Completely present.
“I know,” you said quietly.
And the frustrating thing was—you did know.
Objectively, logically, emotionally somewhere underneath the panic too.
You knew he wasn’t lying. You knew he wasn’t hiding anything. You knew there wasn’t something bigger sitting behind the situation waiting to be exposed.
But knowing something didn’t always stop your body from reacting like it didn’t.
Oscar tilted his head slightly anyway, studying you with that same quiet focus Lily had looked at people with earlier.
Only softer.
More careful.
“That’s not the actual problem though, is it?”
Your chest tightened immediately.
Because of course he found it anyway.
Not because you had said too much.
But because you hadn’t said enough.
You let out a small laugh under your breath, weak and tired, more breath than sound. “You’re annoyingly perceptive.”
“I try.”
He gave you that soft boyish smile you had grown to adore so much—easy, slightly crooked, unguarded in a way that never felt performed. Like it slipped out of him before he had time to think about whether he should hold it back.
“You really don’t have to sometimes.”
That widened his smile just a fraction.
Then his hand lifted slowly toward your face—not abrupt, not possessive, just gentle fingers brushing loose hair back behind your ear before resting briefly against your cheek.
Warm.
Steady.
Real.
“You got scared,” he said softly.
Not accusing.
Not analyzing.
Just naming it.
And for some reason that nearly hurt more than if he’d misunderstood you completely.
Your eyes dropped instinctively, like looking at him directly would make it harder to stay composed.
“A little.”
The admission came out small. Honest. Reluctant in the way truth always was when it had to pass through something older first.
Oscar was quiet for a second after that.
Not because he was searching for the right response.
Because he was thinking carefully before he said it.
Then—carefully, like he was placing the words exactly where they wouldn’t hurt more than they needed to:
“I’m not Jean.”
The sentence landed so softly you almost wished it hadn’t landed at all.
Because suddenly the room felt too still.
Too honest.
Too exposed. Too honest in a way that didn’t leave anywhere to hide the edges of what you were feeling.
Your throat tightened instantly, a reflex before thought could catch up.
Oscar’s expression shifted the second he saw it.
Not regret exactly.
More like immediate recognition. Like he understood immediately how deep he’d accidentally reached with one sentence.
His thumb brushed once beneath your jaw, grounding but careful, like he was trying not to pull you further than you were ready to go.
“I know that’s where your brain goes sometimes,” he said quietly. “I get it.”
The gentleness of it nearly unraveled you more than reassurance would have.
Because he wasn’t dismissing it.
Wasn’t minimizing it.
Wasn’t trying to rewrite your reaction into something easier to diges
He was just… meeting you inside it.
And suddenly all the tension you’d spent hours trying to hold together started feeling heavier now that you didn’t need to hold it alone anymore.
Not because it disappeared.
But because it finally had somewhere to land.
Somewhere outside of you.
You swallowed hard once before speaking, the movement feeling louder than it should have in the quiet of the room.
“I met her tonight.”
That finally surprised him.
Not dramatically—but enough that his brows lifted slightly, the smallest shift in expression breaking the calm rhythm he’d settled into.
“…Lily?”
You nodded.
“In the lobby. With Alex.”
Oscar blinked once, clearly trying to recalculate the timeline in his head.
“Oh.”
A beat.
Then another quieter one.
It wasn’t awkward. It wasn’t tense.
Just… processing.
“How did that go?”
And somehow that question alone told you everything.
No panic.
No immediate defensiveness.
No shift into explanation or justification.
No sharp “what did she say?” or “why didn’t you tell me earlier?”
Just concern for you first.
You.
You stared down at your hands for a second before answering.
“She was nice.”
Oscar huffed a soft laugh through his nose immediately, almost fond despite himself, like the answer confirmed something he already knew rather than surprised him.
“Yeah,” he murmured. “That sounds like Lily.”
And weirdly—that didn’t hurt either.
It should have, maybe. In some earlier version of this conversation it might have.
But there was no softness in his voice that didn’t belong in the past already. No hesitation. No weight. No lingering pull in the way he said her name.
Just recognition. Clean and uncomplicated.
Like someone acknowledging a chapter they had already closed the book on.
No reaching.
No unfinished attachment hiding underneath the sentence.
Just history—acknowledged without being reopened.
Still important in the way old things could still matter without still being alive.
But still finished.
“She told me you seem happier lately,” you admitted quietly.
That made him still.
Not freeze. Not tense.
Just... pause.
His eyes lifted back to yours slowly now, something quieter settling into them.
“And?”
You let out a small breath through your nose.
“And she didn’t sound sad about it.”
Oscar looked at you for a long moment after that.
Not searching. Not calculating. Just taking it in. Letting it settle properly before responding.
Then finally:
“She’s a good person.”
Simple.
No overexplaining.
No emotional defense.
No attempt to steer the meaning of what you’d just said into something safer or more complicated than it needed to be.
Just truth, spoken like it didn’t need to be dressed up to be real.
And somehow that honesty made the room feel even softer around the edges.
Less sharp. Less defined.
Like the air itself had stopped holding tension.
Your eyes burned unexpectedly.
Not from jealousy.
Not from insecurity.
But from something quieter and more disarming—relief finally arriving somewhere your nervous system could actually accept it without questioning the source.
Oscar noticed immediately, of course he did.
“Hey,” he said softly, shifting even closer now until his forehead rested briefly against yours.
His hand moved with him this time, no hesitation at all, shifting closer until he could tilt your face gently toward him.
“Come here.”
You didn’t even realize how much you’d been holding yourself together until he said it.
You didn’t even realize how badly your body needed that permission until you moved.
The second you folded into him properly, Oscar’s arms wrapped around you automatically—firm, warm, grounding in that deeply unconscious way that only happened when someone had held you enough times for your body to memorize them.
One hand settled at the back of your head, fingers threading lightly into your hair.
The other anchored at your waist beneath the oversized fabric of his shirt, warm and steady against your skin.
No urgency.
No performance.
Just him.
You exhaled shakily against his shoulder.
And Oscar, still holding you close enough that his voice vibrated softly through your chest when he spoke, murmured:
“You know you can ask me things, right?”
Your eyes closed briefly.
The words didn’t land like pressure.
They landed like invitation.
“I know.”
A beat.
“No, like actually ask.”
There was no frustration in it. No impatience. Just clarification. Like he was gently correcting a misunderstanding he didn’t want to exist between you.
A weak laugh escaped you before you could stop it. Small. Tired. Honest in the way exhaustion sometimes is when it finally lets go.
“I’m trying.”
“I know,” he whispered.
And this time, when he said it, it didn’t feel like observation.
It felt like patience.
❁✿❀❁✿❀
yourusername: lucky 🤍
yourusername
Liked by alexandramalenaleclerc, arthur_leclerc, oscarpiastri and 551’081 Others
Alexandramalenaleclerc: 🥹🤍🤍🤍
Margot.faure: so happy for you angel 🥹💗
Kimishipper12: okay, she was just in silverstone, so she must be dating a driver!!!
softluxurygirl: this is literally what “safe love” looks like
oldmoneyarchive: she doesn’t post often but when she does it feels like a magazine spread
f1knower: OSCAR PIASTRI IN THE LIKES!!!!
charlesluver: OSCAR what are you doing here? 👀
parisaesthetic: white peonies + soft caption = main character energy
f1fanatic92: wait why is oscar piastri liking this 😭
kimishipper12: didn’t she used to be linked to kimi?? this is confusing 😭
drszone: that was like a whole MONTH ago and he literally hard launched his gf pls let it go
kimiupdates: yeah that era is done guys 😭
op81fan: lowkey… what if it’s Oscar 😭
oscarstan: BE SERIOUS 😭 he’s literally in half the paddock likes and that means NOTHING
gridrumours: yeah but THIS one tho… 👀
monacof1fan: why does everyone assume it’s a driver?? she could literally be dating some finance guy in Geneva
gridwatcher: because this is F1 fandom and we cannot accept normal explanations 😭
leclercfamilyupdates: she’s literally just always with alexandra and arthur, that’s the only consistent thing here
paddockdetective: unless… someone IN that circle is the answer 👀
monacof1fan: ok hear me out… what if it’s Franco Colapinto
op81fan: FRANCO?? be serious 😭
drszone: Liam Lawson is single again btw
lawsonupdates: WHY DID YOU SAY THAT LIKE THAT 😭
f1fanatic92: WAIT THAT’S TRUE THO?? 😭
gridrumours: ok but he IS her aesthetic type lowkey
softluxurygirl: she gives “private relationship, never confirmed, always speculated” energy
oldmoneyarchive: exactly. she’s not a soft launch type, she’s a no-launch type
f1fanatic92: I just know she opens instagram and sees 400 theories about her dating life 😭
paddockwatcher: and none of them are right
monacof1fan: this is how every F1 mystery starts btw… a normal post and suddenly she’s dating the grid
gridrumours: I still think it’s someone we’re not even thinking about
oscarstan: that’s worse 😭😭
✿❀ Let the Light in ❁✿
I really feel like we all (or me at least) need an Oscar in our life: healing a heart and nervous system he didn't break.
hope you all enjoyed it!! please let me know in the comments.
It seems like y'all are limiting the meaning of "pressure." Do you really think the "pressure" that the commentators are talking about can only be used while they are on track racing?????
It seems like y'all are limiting the meaning of "pressure." Do you really think the "pressure" that the commentators are talking about can only be used while they are on track racing?????
i almost reblogged a charles post today and said "sometimes i do feel bad for him" but then i remembered he extended his contract with ferrari so like highkey he's doing it to himself
ᯓᡣ𐭩 𝖺 𝗆𝗂𝗇𝗂 𝗌𝖾𝗋𝗂𝖾𝗌!
ᯓᡣ𐭩 oscar piastri x writer!reader
ᯓᡣ𐭩 arranged marriage, eldest daughter x eldest son
ᝰ.ᐟ After a controversy threatens the reputation of Oscar Piastri, a carefully staged marriage to a sponsor’s daughter is meant to restore his image, nothing more than a strategic fix in the high-stakes world of Formula One, but as their perfectly crafted relationship begins to feel all too real behind closed doors, the line between performance and genuine love starts to blur, and they’re forced to confront whether what they have was ever just for show.
The weekend so far had moved without any real hitch—well, apart from your and Arthur’s chaotic visit on Wednesday and the second, somehow even more unhinged, visit on Thursday.
Yes, both surprise appearances had made it onto the internet. Of course they had.
Posts circulated within minutes, fans reacting with the kind of excitement that only came from nostalgia—old PREMA teammates reunited again, laughing together in the paddock like nothing had ever changed. The internet didn’t question it much further than that. They rarely did.
If anything, they filled in the blanks themselves.
Arthur being Arthur. You being there because you were always around the Leclerc orbit anyway. The usual assumption that you and Arthur were just as inseparable as you and Alex were. And honestly? That narrative was easier than anything else.
Safer, too.
Because it didn’t require looking too closely.
It didn’t require holding back from looking for him. Didn't require the effort of not missing him. Didn't require the act, of ignoring each other when you were so close. Didn't require acting or nonchalance.
So the story stayed simple.
You and Arthur: chaos siblings.
You and Charles: brother-in-law via friendship
You and Alex: inseparable duo energy.
And Oscar?
Just another driver you happened to get along with.
Friendly. Respectful. Nothing unusual.
Easy.
Laying low meant leaning fully into that structure.
You were never seen alone together—only ever with Arthur, or Charles, or Alex somewhere in the mix, filling in the gaps naturally. Public proximity carefully distributed like a system neither of you ever spoke about but both understood perfectly.
Close enough to not raise questions.
Distant enough to never answer them.
And only ever being alone again whenever the two of you returned to hotel rooms, or slipped into those rare in-between spaces where the paddock briefly stopped watching.
And it stayed that way—neutral, unknowing, hidden.
At least until 3pm local time. Drivers’ parade.
The sun sat sharp over the circuit, heat bouncing off the asphalt, the air thick with noise and movement as the grid got packed onto the back of the open-top truck waiting to take them around the circuit.
It was always slightly chaotic—too many drivers, not enough space, everyone half-laughing, half-shouting over engines revving in the distance and fans already screaming in the grandstands.
Oscar ended up somewhere in the middle. Not by choice, just by physics. Pressed between Lando and Carlos, one hand gripping the rail behind him, the other resting loosely at his side as the truck jolted slightly forward.
He was mid-conversation with Carlos about something trivial—tyres, probably, or strategy jokes from last night—when it happened.
“So is Sol here this weekend again?”
The question cut cleanly through the noise.
Too casual to be intentional.
Too loud to be harmless.
Oscar’s head snapped slightly in Lando’s direction before he even processed it properly, brows tightening just a fraction.
It wasn’t supposed to be asked. Especially not here.
Not with microphones so close. Not with Netflix cameras only a few meters away. Not with the official F1 livestream already rolling, ready to cut between drivers at any second.
A beat of silence flickered through the immediate cluster.
Then Carlos reacted first.
“Why are you asking Oscar that?” he asked, confusion written all over his face.
His gaze shifted from Lando to Charles- who was only a couple of steps away laughing at something Pierre had said-then back again, like he was trying to work out whether this was a joke he wasn’t in on or a mistake no one had corrected yet.
Carlos had seen you enough times in the Ferrari garage—back when he was still in red—to know you weren’t just random paddock presence. You were Alexandra’s best friend. Charles’ extended orbit. A Leclerc by association. Familiar enough that nobody questioned you being there.
So in his mind, if someone wanted to ask about you, they asked Charles.
Not Oscar.
Because he didn’t fully understand what your connection to Oscar was—and, to be fair, he wasn’t supposed to. Only a handful of people did. The Leclercs, Pierre—because Charles physically could not keep anything to himself for more than 0.3 seconds—and that was pretty much it.
That was the logical path.
So his question wasn’t even really a challenge. It was genuine confusion, placed exactly where it made sense.
It was only then that Lando seemed to properly register what he’d just done.
His expression changed instantly.
“Oh— I just—” he started quickly.
But it was already too late.
Because now Alex Albon had fully turned into the conversation, having been standing half a meter away with his arms loosely crossed, watching like he’d just stumbled into something mildly entertaining.
“Wait,” he interrupted, squinting slightly. “Who’s Sol? Do you mean Alexandra’s Sol?”
A few heads shifted at that.
Because that name people understood.
Of course he knew who you were. He’d talked to you during the spontanious friends’ dinner in Miami only a couple of months ago, and his girlfriend—who treated paddock gossip like it was mandatory reading—had kept him very much up to speed on anything even remotely interesting happening around the girls’ table whenever she was in the paddock and not off modelling somewhere across the world.
So Alex wasn’t confused.
He was connecting dots in real time.
“Uh…” Lando dragged a hand over the back of his neck, very clearly buffering now. “Yeah. I mean—Sol. Yeah.”
He glanced sideways again.
And landed—unfortunately—on Oscar.
Which immediately made Oscar exhale through his nose, slow and controlled, like he was actively trying to keep his face neutral while the situation got progressively less neutral around him.
Because this wasn’t helping.
At all.
It was doing the opposite, actually.
Alex’s gaze flicked between Lando and Oscar now, sharper this time. More deliberate. Like he was no longer just observing—he was evaluating.
Lando cleared his throat. “I just thought she might be here,” he said quickly, a little too quickly. “That’s all.”
Carlos frowned again. “Why would you ask Oscar?”
Silence.
That question landed heavier than the first one.
Because now it wasn’t just confusion—it was logic trying to reassert itself.
And Lando had no answer that wouldn’t immediately make everything worse.
Oscar finally spoke, calm but slightly resigned, like he was trying to gently close a door before it turned into a problem.
“She is here,” he said simply.
A beat.
Like that should have been the end of it.
Like that should have been enough to let the conversation die quietly and return to whatever everyone was doing five seconds ago.
But it wasn’t.
“And how would you know that?” Alex asked immediately, tone light but eyes sharp in that way that meant he was absolutely not letting it go.
Oscar didn’t react straight away. Just exhaled softly through his nose.
“Because Arthur came to the McLaren motorhome earlier,” he said evenly, “and she was with him.”
Simple.
Clean.
Factual.
And it should have worked.
Because Arthur Leclerc appearing anywhere in the paddock with someone was barely even information—it was atmosphere. Background noise. Nobody questioned Arthur; they just accepted the chaos came with him.
So for a moment, it landed.
But not for long.
Carlos’s eyes narrowed slightly again, shifting back to Lando. “But what do you mean with again?”
That word hit differently.
And Lando being Lando, didn’t think through enough before answering.
“You know,” he said, shrugging a little too casually, “she was in the paddock last week. As always.”
And that was technically not even a lie.
Because you had been in the paddock last weekend. You were there often—almost regularly at this point.
But what he didn’t account for was how you had been there.
Because last weekend, you hadn’t been there publicly.
No paddock walks. No casual standing around Ferrari hospitality where people could and would spot you. No easy sightings, no familiar silhouette in the background of someone else’s day.
You had been there the way you had asked to be there.
Hidden. Controlled. Moving only through pre-planned timing and spaces, slipping through the paddock in routes that avoided cameras entirely. Alone more than usual, not anchored to Alexandra’s orbit, not part of the usual visible structure people were used to.
So for most people—Alex included, Carlos included—you simply hadn’t been there at all.
Which meant Lando’s sentence didn’t land as confirmation.
It landed as contradiction.
“Wait,” Alex said slowly, head tilting slightly. “No she wasn’t.”
Carlos nodded immediately. “No, she wasn’t.”
A beat.
Alex frowned a little harder now, trying to reconcile it. “Or… was she?”
That question wasn’t aimed at Lando anymore.
It was aimed at reality itself.
And Lando—of course—froze.
Just half a second too long.
Just noticeable enough.
And Oscar, for the first time, actually closed his eyes briefly, like he could physically feel the situation slipping out of control.
Because now it wasn’t just a passing mention anymore.
It was a mismatch of facts.
And mismatches in the paddock rarely stayed small.
It was at that exact moment that Charles, who had been a few steps away laughing with Pierre, finally wandered closer—still mid-conversation, still unaware of what he was stepping into.
Until all eyes shifted to him.
That alone made him pause.
“…What?” he asked, instantly sensing the shift.
Carlos turned first. “Was Y/N here last weekend?”
There was a fraction of a beat too long.
Charles blinked.
Then—very deliberately—he shook his head.
“No,” he said.
Simple.
Clean.
Certain.
Exactly what he thought he was supposed to say.
But that didn’t help.
Because now there were two versions of reality in the same space.
“Then why is Lando saying she was here?” Alex asked, now fully invested.
Charles lifted his shoulders in a small shrug. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s mixing up weekends.”
Alex let out a short laugh.
“I mean, Lando is often confused,” he said, tone amused, “but I’m not sure he’s confused enough to invent an entire weekend.”
“Maybe I am,” Lando tried to salvage, but it came out weak—half laugh, half panic.
It didn’t land.
Alex tilted his head slightly, still locked onto the thread that clearly mattered most to him now. “Can we go back to why he asked Oscar and not Charles about Sol?” he said, more focused again. “I mean, we all know how obsessed Lando is with Sol, but what does that have to do with Oscar?”
“I am not obsessed,” Lando said immediately, too fast, straightening like the accusation itself was defamatory.
Carlos gave him a long, unimpressed look. “Tell that to the last two years of you bringing her up in completely unrelated conversations.”
That made Charles laugh properly now, because he had heard things in passing—enough to know there was something there—but never quite how much there was there. Not like Carlos had. Not like George had, apparently, on the other side of the paddock gossip chain.
Oscar didn’t laugh.
But something in his expression shifted anyway.
Subtle. Tightened at the edges. Not jealousy—not openly—but something quieter. More internal.
Two years.
Not a passing mention. Not a recent curiosity.
A pattern.
His gaze flicked briefly to Lando again, still calm, but now properly observant. Like he was adjusting a piece of information he hadn’t known he needed.
Lando, sensing the shift without fully understanding it, immediately pointed at Carlos. “You’re exaggerating.”
“I’m not,” Carlos replied without hesitation. “You once said she’s like clean air in dirty air— during a conversation we had about tyre degradation.”
“That was metaphorical!” Lando protested.
Charles blinked. “That sounds… actually insane.”
“It was not insane,” Lando insisted, voice rising slightly. “It made sense in context.”
Alex hummed, clearly unconvinced now, arms crossing more firmly over his chest. “Everything you’re saying is somehow making it worse, mate.”
A beat.
The group drifted into overlapping half-arguments—Lando defending himself, Carlos insisting on accuracy, Charles alternating between laughing and looking mildly concerned for Lando’s sanity.
“It was a normal comparison!” Lando said.
“No it wasn’t,” Carlos replied immediately. “Nothing about her has ever been a normal comparison for you.”
“That is not true—”
“It is absolutely true,” Alex cut in.
Charles wiped a hand over his mouth, still laughing. “I feel like I’ve missed a whole chapter of something here.”
“You have,” Carlos said. “Unfortunately, so have we all.”
That set them off again—another wave of arguing, teasing, half-shouting over each other until the original thread dissolved completely into chaos.
And just like that, the question that had started it all—about you, about Oscar—slipped further and further out of focus, buried under noise and laughter and Lando’s increasingly doomed attempts at damage control.
No one circled back to it.
No one noticed that it never properly got answered.
And Oscar... Oscar was glad.
❁✿❀❁✿❀
Chat between Sol and Oscar
❁✿❀❁✿❀
You were still laughing slightly when you finally locked the phone, shaking your head in disbelief at Oscar.
Yes, the situation wasn’t ideal. You both knew that risk existed—had known it from the beginning. Not because of you two specifically, but because of people like Lando: people who didn’t mean harm, just… didn’t always think before they spoke. Especially not when they were comfortable, surrounded by friends, mid-conversation, mid-chaos.
Still.
“What is it?” Alexandra asked, catching your expression from the corner of her eye as she set her phone down.
You exhaled softly, still half amused.
“Oscar,” you said, turning the screen slightly as if she could see the conversation through your reaction alone, before placing your phone on the table. “Lando almost spilled everything, and now Oscar is considering murder—or aggravated assault.”
Alexandra blinked once.
“Oscar?” she repeated, eyebrows lifting.
You nodded. “Apparently. I’m surprised too. But I guess with the history and how important this is for me—”
“Especially how important that is for you,” Alex cut in immediately, like she wasn’t even letting you finish the sentence because there was only one correct ending. “That’s the carrier.”
You let out a quiet breath through your nose at that, the smallest smile tugging at your lips despite everything.
“Putain,” she added after a beat, leaning back slightly in her chair as if she was mentally stepping back to appreciate the full picture. “You two are disgusting.”
It wasn’t said with judgment.
It was said with that very specific Alexandra tone—half affectionate, half entertained, fully aware she was watching something she was absolutely going to tease you about forever.
You groaned softly, covering your face for a second. “We’re not—”
“You are,” she interrupted instantly.
There was no space left for negotiation there.
You lifted both hands slightly in surrender, leaning back into your chair with a resigned breath. “I’m not fighting this.”
“Smart choice,” she said immediately.
For a moment, you just sat there.
The lounge around you felt louder now—not in volume, but in presence. The kind of noise that reminded you that the world outside this little bubble was already moving. Already narrowing. Already shifting toward the garages, toward formation, toward the moment everything tightened into place.
A marshal passed behind you carrying a helmet bag.
Somewhere deeper in the motorhome, someone calling Lewis.
Time was thinning.
Alex watched you for a second longer, then leaned forward again, elbow on the table, tone softening slightly—not less amused, just more curious now.
“So what did he actually say?”
You glanced down at your phone again, thumb hovering over the screen.
“He said he considered jail,” you admitted.
Alex snorted immediately. “Of course he did.”
“And that he’d miss me,” you added more quietly.
That made her pause.
Just for a second.
The expression on her face shifted—not surprised, exactly. More like something clicking into place that she’d already knew before, now just getting confirmation stamped onto it.
Then she leaned back again, lips curling slightly.
“Yeah,” she said simply. “Disgusting.”
You couldn’t help the laugh that slipped out of you at that—soft, breathy, immediate. Not because it was actually offensive, but because you knew exactly what she meant. There was no malice in her voice. Only that familiar, affectionate disbelief she reserved for things she found too obvious to be spoken out loud.
You shook your head slightly, still smiling. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I’m observant,” she corrected.
“Same thing,” you murmured.
Before she could argue back—
A staff member appeared at the entrance of the lounge, already half-moving as they spoke, voice clipped with efficiency.
“Ten minutes.”
That was it.
No countdown. No ceremony. Just reality snapping back into place.
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
Alex was the first to move, pushing her chair back with a scrape that cut clean through the remaining calm. “Right,” she said, already slipping back into that sharper, pre-race version of herself. “Race faces on.”
You exhaled through your nose, nodding as you reached for your paddock pass and phone, fingers moving automatically now. Bag over shoulder. Strap adjusted. Everything returning to order without needing to think about it.
“Let’s see whose man wins today,” she said, dragging it out just enough to be annoying.
You huffed a laugh under your breath. “You are impossible.”
Alex grinned immediately. “And you love me for it.”
And wit that she was reaching for your hand —easy, instinctive—and laced her fingers with yours like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like this wasn’t a paddock full of cameras and teams and consequences. Like it was just another Sunday.
And maybe, in some ways, it still was.
You squeezed her hand back once.
“Oscar will win,” you said automatically, slipping into the role just as easily as she did.
Alex gasped. “Traitor.”
❁✿❀❁✿❀
Sol's Insta Story
❁✿❀❁✿❀
You had expected a lot of things while watching the race.
An overtake only Oscar or Charles could pull off. A mistake from one of the younger drivers pushing too hard too early in their career. A strategy call that made no sense until it suddenly did—or didn’t. A slow pit stop that cost seconds that felt like hours. A lock-up that came out of nowhere and rewrote an entire weekend in a heartbeat.
That was Formula 1.
Controlled chaos, dressed up in precision.
What you hadn’t expected was your phone lighting up mid-race with a message from your sister.
Just a screenshot. No explanation. No context.
Only a message that read:
“Do you know about this?”
That line alone made something in your stomach shift before you even opened it.
Not because of the words themselves—but because your brain reacted before meaning arrived.
Like it had already decided this was the kind of message that never came for nothing, even though you knew that wasn’t true anymore.
You knew that.
Still your thumb hesitated before it opened it.
And then the world narrowed.
A post.
A photo.
Oscar.
And Lily.
Laughing.
Too close in a way your brain immediately refused to define correctly.
Close enough to be nothing.
Close enough to be everything.
And your brain refusing to pick one, because picking one meant committing to a version of reality you might regret later.
Leaning slightly toward each other in the hotel lobby, familiar in a way only people who really knew each other could be.
And suddenly there it was—the thing your brain did automatically that you had tried so hard to unlearn, the thing you hated that it still knew how to do: reconstruct absence into meaning.
Because absence had always meant something before.
Not always correctly. But always loudly enough that your body never learned the difference between quiet and danger passing without announcement.
The caption underneath felt louder than it probably should have. But you couldn’t help it.
Your heart accelerated at the picture before you could assign it a reason. And suddenly you weren’t sure what you should look at – the race still taking place or the post of Oscar with his ex from the night before.
Why hadn’t he mentioned it to you the night before?
The thought came too quickly to stop.
Too simple to argue with.
Except it wasn’t simple, because there were already too many versions of it forming at once.
Maybe he just hadn’t thought it mattered enough to tell you.
That one almost settled. Almost.
Until your brain immediately added: or he thought it mattered and that’s why he didn’t tell you.
And immediately after that thought came another one, almost defensive in tone:
That’s not fair. You don’t actually know that.
Which only made it worse, because part of you clearly did.
Your grip tightened around the edge of your phone before you even registered it. A reflexive pressure, like keeping something from slipping away — or keeping yourself from dropping it.
Or like proving to yourself you still had control over something physical, because the rest of it was already starting to feel less fixed.
The noise of the race was still in the background—engines screaming, commentators rising and falling with every lap, sudden rises in the crowd—but it suddenly felt further away.
As if you were watching it a second late.
Or as if you were underwater watching everything through glass.
Your chest tightened in a way that didn’t fully make sense yet, because your mind hadn’t decided what emotion it was supposed to land on.
It tried.
Confusion first.
Then something sharper, trying to become jealousy—
failing halfway, turning into suspicion instead,
then back into jealousy,
then neither,
just a restless pressure with no name that felt like it should have one.
“Are you okay?”
Alex’s voice cut through it gently.
Too gently.
Too observant.
Or maybe just normal, and you were the one misreading tone again because your brain was already mid-collapse into interpretation layers it didn’t need.
You hadn’t even realized your expression had changed.
You tried to turn the screen off immediately.
Not because you didn’t want her to see it — but because suddenly it felt like if she saw it, it would become real in a different way. More fixed. Less reversible.
Or more real in a way that meant you couldn’t reframe it later into something smaller.
But she was faster.
Of course she was.
Her hand reached out with practiced ease, taking your phone in one smooth motion while still angling her body slightly away from the cameras in the garage—instinctive, protective, like she had learned how to exist in public spaces without ever fully being seen in them.
Her eyes dropped to the screen.
Paused.
Then again.
Not scrolling. Not judging. But the pause wasn’t empty either. It held weight—like she was trying to place something she didn’t immediately understand the shape of.
Then her jaw shifted slightly, almost imperceptibly, before she smoothed it back into neutrality.
And just like that, the atmosphere shifted.
Not dramatic.
Not loud.
Just… precise.
“Did you know?” she asked quietly.
The question wasn’t accusatory.
It was careful.
Measuring.
Like she was trying to understand whether this was information or surprise.
You swallowed once.
It felt too loud in your throat.
“No,” you said, almost immediately.
Then, like it needed correcting even though nothing had been said wrong:
“Not really.”
Somewhere on track, Charles had just pulled off an overtake—smooth, controlled, almost effortless. The kind that made the commentators raise their voices like they were trying to catch up with what they had just seen.
But you barely registered it and didn’t react to it straight away either.
Her thumb hovered over the screen for a second longer than necessary.
Not scrolling. Not judging. But not entirely still either. Like she was resisting the impulse to do either too quickly.
There was a faint crease between her brows now—gone almost as soon as it appeared, but not before you caught it.
Then she exhaled.
Low.
Measured.
Or slightly controlled in a way that suggested she had tightened it halfway through.
Then she handed your phone back more slowly this time, not like she thought you would drop it, but like she was giving your thoughts time to catch up with your body again.
You took it, but you didn’t look at it again. Didn’t need to.
Your fingers tightened around the edge of the screen instead, like holding onto something solid could stop the feeling from spreading further than it already had.
Around you, the garage kept moving. Engineers talking quietly, screens flashing, the distant sound of commentary bleeding through the speakers as the race continued somewhere far away on track. Life, completely uninterested in what your stomach was doing right now.
Alex watched you for a second longer than necessary.
“You’re overthinking,” she said softly, like she could hear it happening.
And maybe she could.
Her voice didn’t rise above the hum of the garage, didn’t try to compete with the distant roar of engines or the occasional burst of commentary filtering through someone’s headset. It just… existed beside you. Steady. Certain. Like she had decided there was no need to make it louder, because she already knew you would hear it anyway.
Your laugh came out smaller than intended, almost embarrassed by how quickly it slipped through.
“I didn’t even say anything.”
Alexandra’ gaze didn’t move away from you.
“You don’t have to. I know you.”
That landed more than it should have.
Not because it was harsh.
Because it wasn’t.
It was observant in a way that made it impossible to hide behind normal reactions. Like she wasn’t responding to what you said—but to what your brain had already decided before you spoke.
And you hated a little how accurate that felt.
Because something in you had already started building the story. Not consciously. Not deliberately.
Just automatically.
Oscar. Hotel lobby. Saturday night. Time you didn’t have a memory for.
Your brain—too quick, too practiced—doing what it always used to do: filling silence with meaning until silence stopped existing.
Alexandra exhaled slowly.
“You’re not actually reacting to the picture,” she said more gently now. “Not really.”
You wanted to agree immediately.
But the thought didn’t fully settle.
It just… paused. Like it had been interrupted, not resolved.
Your throat tightened slightly.
Because part of you already knew that too.
It wasn’t jealousy in a clean sense. It wasn’t even about him in a direct way.
It was the gap. The not-knowing. The suddenness of finding out through someone else instead of him.
The feeling of being outside something you didn’t realize you were supposed to be inside of.
That old, familiar reflex rose before you could stop it.
The one that never fully left.
The one that expected meaning in absence. Distance in delay. Change in silence.
Alexandra tilted her head slightly, hair falling over her shoulder, watching you properly now—not just your face, but the way you were holding everything too tightly at once.
“It isn’t proof of anything worse,” she added. “Not automatically.”
Your mind still tried to fill in the gaps anyway.
Slower now—but still there.
Still reaching.
That didn’t erase the feeling.
But it shifted it just enough to make it harder for your mind to keep escalating it.
A pause stretched between you, filled with the sound of engines and distant commentary, life continuing at full speed without caring what your thoughts were doing.
Then she added, quieter:
“If there was something you actually needed to worry about, you wouldn’t be finding out from a screenshot mid-race.”
That shifted something. Not relief exactly. But scale.
Back into proportion.
A moment. A photo. A coincidence of timing.
Not a revelation. Not a warning.
You knew that was logically.
But your body was still catching up, still recalibrating its definition of “safe enough”.
Your grip loosened slightly. Not fully. But enough.
Still there. Still real. Just no longer expanding.
Alexandra’s gaze stayed on you for a second longer, like she was confirming you were coming back to yourself in real time.
Then, softer—almost like she was saying it to the space between you rather than to you directly:
“This is what your brain does when it doesn’t like uncertainty.”
And you hated that she was right.
Not because it wasn’t true.
But because knowing it didn’t switch it off.
A beat.
“And it’s not about him.”
That one finally cut through the noise properly.
Not sharply. Not painfully.
Just clearly.
Because she wasn’t wrong.
It was never only about him.
It was about how quickly your mind learned to prepare for shifts before they happened. To read distance as warning. To treat not-knowing like risk.
You swallowed, looking back down at the phone again—but this time without the same urgency behind it.
Oscar was still there. Still laughing in a moment you hadn’t seen. Still existing outside of your awareness.
But it didn’t spike in you the same way anymore.
Not because the feeling was gone.
But because it had lost momentum mid-run—like it had hit something it couldn’t immediately turn into a story anymore.
And then Alexandra shifted closer without making it a decision. Just the natural way she always ended up beside you. Especially when things got too loud or too much.
He shoulder bumped yours lightly – completely familiar.
Her hand found your arm a second later, warm and soft against your arm, not gripping, not checking—just resting there in that absent, easy way that meant she wasn’t going anywhere and didn’t need to announce it.
No weight to it. No question in it. Just habit. Just her.
Just there.
Like she always was and always will be.
And for the first time since the message arrived, you weren’t trying to outrun your own thoughts inside it. But you also weren’t too sure how to hold it exactly.
Just… suspended in it. Not resolved. Not escalating.
Like your mind had finally stopped running ahead—but hadn’t figured out how to stand still yet.
The garage continued on in the familiar rhythm it always did during races. Not quiet—never quiet—but balanced in that way where everything has its place: engineers talking in low, clipped sentences, screens flickering with live data, the soft mechanical hum of systems running checks in the background.
Normal.
Structured.
The race continued.
Alex Albon P5.
Lando Norris P4.
Lewis Hamilton P3.
And Oscar and Charles back on the front row, battling it out for first.
✿❀ Let the Light in ❁✿
soooo, Oscar ran into Lily, what do we think about this? does it bring consequences? and why hadn't he mentioned it?
OSCAR PIASTRI HAS A WASP SPECIES NAMED AFTER HIM I NEED EVERYONE TO KNOW THIS
scientists found a 98-million-year-old flat wasp preserved in cretaceous burmese amber and officially named it Gwesped piastrii because the amber’s orange tint reminded the researcher of mclaren orange.
anyway it is now a peer reviewed fact that oscar piastri has a truly timeless aura
Corentin Jouault, Di-Ying Huang, Celso O. Azevedo, New flat wasps (Hymenoptera: Bethylidae) from the middle Cretaceous Kachin amber of Myanmar, Palaeoworld, Volume 35, Issue 3, 2026, 201067, ISSN 1871-174X, https://doi.org/10.1016/j.palwor.2026.201067
You didn’t know what it was exactly that made you agree to travel with Oscar to Silverstone as well, but here you were—back on a flight, somewhere between exhaustion and quiet anticipation, with your two favorite menaces in the row behind you and Oscar seated right next to you, waiting for the plane to finally begin its descent.
The soft hum of the engines filled the space, steady and almost comforting, while muted conversations and the occasional rustle of movement blended into background noise. It was calmer up here. Removed. Like the world had been paused just for a moment longer.
“It needs to be studied how well you can convince me,” you murmured, voice low and a little drowsy, as you shifted closer and rested your head against his shoulder.
Oscar smiled immediately at that—soft, automatic, like the reaction lived somewhere instinctive in him now. There was something about the way you leaned into him, like you didn’t think twice about it, like taking space beside him was the most natural thing in the world.
His shoulder dipped just slightly to accommodate you better—subtle, but deliberate.
And his hand found yours not long after.
Not by accident. Not absentminded.
Just… there.
Like he knew exactly where it should be.
“I’m just that good,” he joked lightly.
The quiet sound you let out—half laugh, half breath—was soft enough that it barely carried, but he felt it anyway. Against him. Through him.
And you were a little too aware of that now.
Of him.
Of the warmth of his hand over yours, of the steady rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek, of how easily your body seemed to fall into place against his like it had learned him in a way it hadn’t before.
But he really was that good.
Not in the obvious way. Not just in words or timing or the way he could talk you into things you’d normally hesitate over.
It was subtler than that.
It was the way he never pushed—just nudged, just enough. The way he made things feel like your decision even when he had clearly set the path. The way being around him shifted something in you until saying yes didn’t feel like giving in, but like… choosing.
Choosing him.
Your fingers absentmindedly toyed with the fabric of his hoodie, tracing small patterns you weren’t even aware of, while your eyes stayed half-lidded, heavy with the quiet lull of the flight.
Behind you, there was a sudden burst of laughter—familiar, chaotic, unmistakably Alex—followed by a hushed “shut up” that sounded far too amused to be serious.
You smiled faintly without lifting your head.
“Your friends are loud,” Oscar murmured.
“They’re not my friends,” you replied instantly, tone dry. “I don’t know them.”
That made him laugh, shoulders shaking slightly against you.
“Funny,” he murmured, glancing back briefly, “considering they won’t stop talking about you.”
You groaned softly, sinking a little further into his shoulder—but your hand didn’t move from his. If anything, your fingers curled slightly more around his.
“I’m changing my seat.”
“Too late,” he said, thumb brushing once, slow and deliberate, over your knuckles. “You’re stuck with me now.”
That small movement alone sent a quiet warmth through you—subtle, but impossible to ignore.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
For a moment, neither of you said anything after that.
The confirmation just lingered.
Silverstone scared you a bit. Because it meant more media. More eyes. More risk of things slipping out of carefully controlled lines. Especially after Spielberg. After the photo. After the whispers already starting to spread faster than either of you had expected.
And yet—
You were here.
On this flight.
At his side.
Your fingers stilled against his hoodie, then curled slightly, holding onto the fabric instead of just playing with it.
“You know this is a terrible idea, right?” you said after a moment, voice quieter now, not quite teasing anymore.
Oscar didn’t even hesitate.
“No, it’s not.”
You huffed softly. “Oscar—”
“It’s not,” he repeated, turning his head just enough so his cheek brushed lightly against your hair. “It’s just… not the easiest one.”
That made you go quiet.
Because that was the difference with him.
He didn’t dismiss your concerns.
He just… reframed them.
You shifted slightly, lifting your head just enough to look at him properly now.
“And you’re okay with that?” you asked.
His gaze met yours without any hesitation, steady and calm in a way that felt very him. Certain.
“I wouldn’t have asked you to come if I wasn’t.”
A beat.
Then, softer:
“And I wouldn’t have kept asking if I didn’t want you there.”
Something in your chest tightened at that—subtle, but undeniable.
Because he hadn’t just convinced you.
He had wanted you there.
Even if it meant still hidden.
Somewhere where eyes and cameras couldn’t reach you.
But with him.
Your lips pressed together briefly, like you were holding something back, before you exhaled softly and let your head fall back against his shoulder again.
“Still think it needs to be studied,” you murmured.
He huffed out a quiet laugh, one hand coming up almost absentmindedly to rest over yours where it held onto his hoodie. Not gripping. Not restraining.
Just there.
Warm. Steady. Certain.
“Yeah?” he said lightly.
“Yeah.”
Another pause settled in—comfortable this time.
The kind that didn’t need to be filled.
The plane began its slow descent not long after, the subtle shift in pressure making your ears pop slightly as the captain’s voice echoed faintly through the cabin.
But neither of you moved right away.
Not when your head was still resting against him.
Not when his hand was still loosely covering yours.
Not when everything between you felt just a little more… known than it had before.
And somewhere behind you, Alex laughed again—loud, unfiltered, completely unaware or entirely aware and choosing chaos anyway.
Silverstone was waiting.
But for now—
you stayed exactly where you were.
❁✿❀❁✿❀
To keep the cover of you and Oscar barely being friends—because fans were already waiting at the airport—you naturally linked your arm with Alex’s the second you stepped off the plane.
Familiar. Easy.
Safe.
You stayed a step behind Charles, just like you were used to before Oscar came into your life, letting the formation fall into something that looked natural from the outside—like it had nothing to hide.
But that didn’t stop it.
His eyes still found you.
Again.
And again.
Quick glances over shoulders, between fans, past phones raised for pictures—checking. Always checking. Making sure you were still there. Still fine. Still within reach, even if he couldn’t stand next to you. He just needed to know you were safe. That if something happened, he could react fast enough.
And you felt it every time.
Even without looking.
Fans crowded them almost immediately—calls of their names, hands stretching out with caps and posters and phones. Charles stopped first, smiling easily as always, while Oscar followed a second later, just as composed, just as polite.
You and Alex slowed down instinctively, stepping slightly to the side, giving them space. Giving the moment to the drivers.
Still, you stayed close enough.
You’d also enter the paddock with Alex this weekend again. It was simply easier that way—cleaner for appearances, less risk, less attention.
Even if it meant sneaking into Oscar’s driver room would take a little more planning.
A little more patience.
Not impossible.
Just… trickier.
What you hadn’t expected, though, was to be pulled into a selfie yourself.
“Can you come in too?” one of the fans asked, already half-lifting their phone, eyes bright with excitement as they looked between you and Alex.
You hesitated for half a second—just long enough to register it—before smiling and stepping in beside Alex anyway.
“Of course,” you said easily.
The picture was quick.
Bright smiles.
Alex leaning her head slightly against yours the way she always did—natural, warm, habitual. A small laugh slipping out of both of you at something unspoken.
Then it was over.
“Thank you so much,” you added, genuinely, as the fan lowered their phone.
But their reaction didn’t settle—it grew.
“No, thank you,” they said quickly, almost breathless. Their gaze lingered on you a second too long.
“I’ve seen you in the paddock so often and always thought how pretty you are,” they added, smiling wider, almost shy now that they’d said it out loud.
A beat.
“I love your and Alex’s friendship. Literally goals.”
That made something in your expression soften instantly.
You couldn’t help the quiet laugh that left you at that—and Alex reacted the exact same way, bright and immediate, like she had been waiting for an excuse to step in. Her smile widened as she slipped her hand into yours, squeezing your fingers gently.
“She’s the best,” Alex grinned at the fan without hesitation, like there wasn’t even a second of doubt in her voice.
You shook your head in disbelief, still laughing. “She’s exaggerating,” you said, nodding slightly toward her, only earning an offended gasp that wasn’t really offended at all.
“I’m not,” Alex insisted, shaking her head dramatically, still holding your hand. “I mean, look at her.”
She gestured toward you with the brightest smile, like she was presenting something she was genuinely proud of.
“Isn’t she gorgeous? And her smile—no?”
You weren’t entirely sure what you felt about suddenly being the centre of attention like this. It wasn’t uncomfortable exactly, just… intense in a way that made you hyper-aware of yourself in your own skin.
But the fan’s reaction was immediate.
“Oh my god, yes.”
And just like that, it doubled. A few nearby heads turned. Phones lifted slightly higher. The moment expanded just a little more than you expected.
You let out another soft laugh, quieter now, heat rising to your cheeks despite yourself as you instinctively tried to shrink the moment down again.
“Okay, okay,” you murmured, ducking your head slightly as your hair fell forward, almost like you could hide behind it for a second.
But you couldn’t really.
The blush stayed.
It lingered.
And what you didn’t know—
what you couldn’t know from where you stood—
was that Oscar had caught the entire interaction from the corner of his eye.
Half-listening to a fan in front of him. Half-watching you.
The way you smiled—easy, natural, the one that had caught him from the very beginning.
The way you thanked them—always genuine. Always warm.
The way you deflected the compliment—only for it to land anyway, soft and visible in the color rising to your cheeks.
His grip on the pen in his hand paused for just a second too long.
Then continued.
But his expression shifted—barely.
Not enough for anyone else to notice. But enough, if someone was looking closely.
Because something about it—
about seeing you there, in his world, surrounded by it but still somehow untouched by its noise—
did something to him.
Something quiet.
Something dangerous.
He was only falling harder.
❁✿❀❁✿❀
f1lover
f1lover OMG THE LECLERCS + THEIR “ADOPTED CHILDREN” (aka @.oscarpiastri and @.yourusername) WERE AT HEATHROW AND I’M STILL NOT OKAY 😭😭😭
they were SO nice?? like actually stopped for everyone, signed EVERYTHING, took pics even though they looked a bit rushed
no attitude AT ALL like??? insane
like I don’t think people understand how nice they actually are in person??? it didn’t feel real 😭
AND I MET @.alexandramalenaleclerc AND @.yourusername FOR LIKE 5 SECONDS AND I THINK I STOPPED BREATHING.
I SWEAR THEY’RE EVEN PRETTIER IN PERSON?? LIKE HOW IS THAT EVEN LEGAL 😭
Y/N literally BLUSHED when someone said she was pretty and said thank you SO SWEETLY i can’t 😭💞
also the group dynamic is actually insane in real life?? like it really is giving “found family but make it paddock chaos”
and yes… Charles fully referred to Oscar and Y/N as his “kids” AGAIN in public 😭😭 like sir PLEASE why is this still a joke you commit to in front of strangers
I also feel like I keep seeing Charles + Oscar together more often lately?? and then Y/N is just… always somehow in the same orbit?? like I’m NOT saying anything but I AM observing 👀
also Oscar and Y/N being around each other also makes sense bc she’s actually so chill in person?? like no weird energy at all
anyway i will never recover from this interaction 😭��
if i see them again this weekend i will literally evaporate
Liked by antonelli12, op81lover, charlesbaby and 2’398 Other’s
antonelli12: wait you saw ALL of them at HEATHROW?? 😭
charlesbaby: I WOULD HAVE PASSED OUT I’M NOT EVEN JOKING
f1fanatic92: Y/N BLUSHING???? STOPPP THAT’S ACTUALLY SO CUTE 😭💞
gridchaos: imagine being that pretty AND polite I would also lose consciousness
yourusername: so lovely meeting you 🤍🤍��
alexandrafan: NOT HER COMMENTIG 😱😱😱❤️
op81lover: this is INSANE!!!
monacopaddockwatch: charles calling them his kids AGAIN he is so unserious 😭
kkimislover12: ok but why is Y/N ALWAYS there lately 👀
monacogpqueen: she’s literally just Alex’s BFF relax 😭
f1fanatic92: THE WAY CHARLES JUST WALKS AROUND WITH HIS “KIDS” LIKE THAT 💀
charles_leclerc_fan: he has fully adopted Oscar at this point it’s canon
op81lover: “Oscar and Y/N are so chill together” ok this is getting louder 👀
oscarstan: guys they’re literally just in the same friend group 😭
f1tea: airport Oscar is always 10x more polite btw
paddockwatcher: same with Y/N she’s actually really sweet in person
monacof1fan: y’all are doing investigative journalism over an airport interaction 😭
f1fanatic92: I’M SORRY BUT IF I SAW ALL OF THEM TOGETHER I WOULD CRY
charlesbaby: same i would simply dissolve
❁✿❀❁✿❀
While Oscar was off at the MTC filming marketing content and fulfilling whatever obligations were thrown at him, you found yourself pulled right back into something far more familiar—wandering around with the Leclercs.
Including Arthur Leclerc.
He had only landed a few hours after you, coming straight from Nice instead of Spielberg like you had—and somehow still arrived with more energy than anyone reasonably should.
Which, unfortunately, meant chaos.
The kind of chaos that didn’t build slowly.
The kind that arrived fully formed and immediately made itself everyone else’s problem.
London buzzed around you as you walked—buses rushing past, people weaving through sidewalks, snippets of conversation in a dozen languages blending into one constant hum.
You spent the day sightseeing through London, slipping through crowded streets, stopping here and there when fans approached, taking pictures, chatting lightly—trying to keep things normal.
Trying being the key word.
Because Arthur had decided, very early on, that this weekend had a mission.
“I will have my meeting with him this week,” he announced, completely unprovoked, like he was declaring something to the press instead of casually walking beside you.
The tone alone told you everything.
It wasn’t a maybe.
It wasn’t a joke.
It was a plan.
You inhaled slowly, already feeling the headache forming—but forced yourself not to sigh.
Because as much as part of you wanted to shut it down immediately… another part of you—much quieter, much more strategic—knew this could actually solve something.
Seeing Oscar without sneaking around.
Without timing corridors and empty rooms.
Arthur, for once, might actually be useful.
…even if he’d be insufferable about it.
“No defense?” Arthur pressed immediately, clearly disappointed by your lack of reaction as he sidestepped a pedestrian at the very last second—far too focused on you instead of where he was going.
You didn’t even look at him.
Just kept walking, adjusting your pace slightly to avoid colliding with someone else.
“I know you,” you said calmly. “If you’ve decided something, you’ll make it happen anyway.”
That was all the encouragement he needed.
The smirk that spread across his face was instant.
Proud.
Annoying.
Predictable.
And then—before you could even react—his arm slung around your shoulders, dragging you straight into his side and pulling you into an exaggerated, bone-crushing hug.
“It’s so beautiful that you know me this well,” he gushed dramatically, squeezing you tighter for emphasis, fully ignoring the fact that you could no longer breathe properly.
“Arthur—”
No oxygen.
No space.
No mercy.
You let out a strangled laugh anyway, hands pushing weakly against his chest as you tried to escape.
“Arthur, I need lungs to survive,” you managed between laughs.
“Overrated,” he shot back instantly, not loosening his grip in the slightest. “This is more important.”
Ahead of you, Charles slowed, glancing back—and immediately broke into laughter when he saw you half-trapped against Arthur.
Alex didn’t even hesitate, turning fully with a grin already forming, phone already halfway raised like she might document this.
“Should we help?” she asked, not moving an inch.
Charles shook his head, still amused. “No, no. This is important for Arthur.”
“I hate all of you,” you called out weakly, still stuck, which only made Arthur tighten his grip again in mock offense.
“She doesn’t mean that,” he informed them confidently. “She loves me.”
“I love oxygen more,” you shot back immediately.
That finally got him to laugh—and loosen his hold just enough for you to breathe again.
Barely.
But then, as if nothing had just happened, he straightened—completely unbothered—slung an arm casually over your shoulders again like this was entirely normal behavior, and continued walking with you.
“So,” he continued, tone far too casual for the topic, “do you think he’s prepared for me?”
You froze mid-step.
Actually stopped walking for a second.
“Arthur,” you muttered, dragging a hand down your face.
“What?”
“You are not interrogating him.”
He frowned slightly, like you’d just insulted him on a personal level.
“I’m not interrogating,” he corrected. “I’m just… asking questions.”
“That’s the same thing.”
“No,” he shook his head, completely serious. “Interrogation has bad intentions. This is…” He paused, searching. “protective.”
Next to you, Alex let out a quiet snort, clearly enjoying this far too much.
You closed your eyes for a second.
“He’s not some random guy,” you reminded him, quieter now. “You know him.”
Arthur nodded immediately.
“Exactly,” he said. “Which is why I already know he’s decent.”
A beat.
Then, more pointedly:
“But I need to know if he’s good for you.”
That made you pause.
Just slightly.
Because underneath all the chaos—
there it was.
The quiet care he had for you. The instinctive, almost stubborn need to look out for you, like something in him had decided a long time ago that you simply weren’t someone the world got to treat carelessly again.
He hadn’t been there when you were with Jean. He knew that. And maybe that was exactly why it mattered so much to him now—because this time, he was here. Present. Loud about it in the only way he knew how.
And in his mind, that changed things.
You were family now.
And family took care of family.
Arthur softened it immediately with a grin again, like he didn’t want the moment to sit too heavy.
“Also,” he added, tone flipping back to light, “I need to see if he gets nervous.”
You blinked.
“He won’t.”
Arthur’s eyes lit up.
“Oh, I bet I can make him.”
“Arthur—”
“I’m serious,” he insisted. “I’ve raced him. I know exactly which buttons to press.”
Charles laughed again, shaking his head as he pushed open the door of a small café you were passing, holding it open for the rest of you.
“You’re going to get yourself banned from McLaren,” he muttered.
“Worth it,” Arthur said instantly, not missing a beat as he followed you inside.
You dragged a hand over your face again.
“I’m not being there when you do this.”
Arthur gasped.
Deeply offended.
“You would abandon me? After everything we’ve been through?”
“You’re creating the situation,” you deadpanned.
“That’s not the point.”
Alex snorted, slipping in beside you now and hooking her arm through yours, clearly deciding she wanted a front-row seat to whatever disaster this would become.
But Arthur leaned in slightly then, voice dropping just enough to make it feel conspiratorial despite the grin still pulling at his mouth.
“I haven’t seen him like this before,” he admitted.
You glanced at him.
“This… obvious,” he clarified, meaning the soft launch. The photos. The shift.
A beat.
Then he nudged you lightly with his shoulder.
“So yeah,” he finished, straightening again, “I’m going to need a proper look at him.”
You exhaled slowly.
Long.
Tired.
Resigned.
“I’m surrounded by maniacs.”
Arthur grinned immediately.
“I know.”
And somewhere across the city, completely unaware, Oscar was about to walk straight into the most chaotic version of a “protective brother-but-not-brother” check imaginable.
❁✿❀❁✿❀
Sol’s Insta Story
❁✿❀❁✿❀
Mediaday back in the Ferrari motorhome felt familiar.
Comfortingly so.
The soft hum of conversation, the low clatter of coffee cups, the quiet movement of PR staff weaving through the space with clipboards and schedules—it was all something your body recognised before your mind even caught up. Muscle memory at this point.
You knew where everything was.
Knew which corners stayed quieter.
Knew where to stand or sit, to not be in anyone’s way.
The only thing missing—
was him.
And you felt that absence in small, inconvenient ways. In the way your eyes still flicked up every time the door opened, even though this wasn’t his motorhome. In the way you caught yourself listening for a voice that wouldn’t be here. Or in the way your gaze lingered just a second too long on the hallway, like he might walk past out of habit alone.
It was stupid.
You knew it was.
But that didn’t stop it.
Still—
it wasn’t like he’d have much time for you anyway.
Media day meant running. Constantly.
From one interview to the next. From sponsor obligations to filming segments, to quick turnaround content, to being ushered from one room to another with barely enough time to breathe in between.
You had seen it enough with Charles to know the rhythm by heart—and after last weekend, after being inside McLaren’s motorhome, you knew Oscar’s schedule didn’t look any different.
If anything, it was worse after a win.
So no—
it wasn’t bad that you were back here.
At least you weren’t alone.
At least you had Alex.
And this time, you weren’t tucked away in some hidden driver’s room, carefully out of sight.
You were sitting out in the open.
In the main area.
Like you belonged.
Because you did.
“So,” Alex started, carefully setting down the cool glass of water she’d been holding, condensation still clinging to the sides. “are you going to sneak off to him today?”
You let out a quiet breath through your nose, fingers absentmindedly tracing the edge of the table in front of you.
“I’m thinking about it,” you admitted, glancing up at her. “but do I already want to release the storm on him?”
Alex laughed immediately.
Because she knew exactly what that meant.
You had told her about your plan—about using Arthur as your cover to visit Oscar sometime during the day. Because Arthur and Oscar already went way back, and so it wouldn’t be weird for them to be caught together in the paddock. Midday, ideally. Casual.
But what that really meant—
was unleashing chaos straight into Oscar’s orbit.
Oscar, of course, already knew.
You had told him the night before, half-expecting at least a little hesitation.
Instead, he had just laughed.
Soft. Easy. Completely unfazed.
As if the idea of Arthur “checking him” was more amusing than anything else.
But then again—
this was Oscar.
The calm in person.
The one who didn’t rush. Didn’t rattle. Didn’t get pulled off balance easily.
And when it came to you—
he was steady in a way that made everything else feel quieter.
“He’ll probably take it,” Alex shrugged, leaning back slightly in her chair. “if it means he gets even five minutes in your space.”
Your lips pressed together at that, a small, uncertain smile tugging at the corner despite yourself.
You weren’t as sure as she was.
“He’s got so much to do,” you reminded her.
Schedules. Expectations. Cameras.
You knew how packed his day would be.
Alex just shrugged again, like that detail didn’t matter nearly as much as you thought it did.
“And still,” she said simply, “I’m sure he’d want to see you.”
You huffed quietly.
“He saw me this morning.”
It slipped out before you could stop it—like you were trying to justify something to yourself more than to her.
Alex tilted her head immediately.
“Not the same.”
You glanced up at her. But before you could open your mouth she already continued:
“Seeing him midday means you chose him. Like—actively. Even when it’s inconvenient. Even when it would be easier not to.”
You stilled slightly at that.
“And it’ll feel like finally taking a deep breath after running all day.”
“A deep breath?” you laughed.
“Yes, a deep breath,” Alex nodded, entirely serious. “Have you never had that feeling? You’re rushing all day, everything’s loud, people everywhere—and then you’re with him and suddenly it’s quiet again? Like your body finally catches up?”
Now you knew exactly what she meant.
Yeah.
You knew that feeling.
Monaco. After the race. The club.
Too many people, too much noise, too many hands pulling you into conversations you didn’t want to have.
And then him.
A quiet corner. His hand finding yours.
And suddenly—
air again.
“I feel like he’s earned it,” Alex grinned, clearly very pleased with her own logic. “you get flowers, he gets five minutes.”
You rolled your eyes, but the smile was there now.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I’m right,” she corrected immediately.
A beat passed.
Then another.
And slowly, without really meaning to, your fingers stopped fidgeting against the table.
Because the thought had already settled in your chest.
Not loud.
Not urgent.
Just there.
You wanted to see him.
Not later.
Not after everything.
Now.
Even if it was just for a moment.
Even if it meant dealing with Arthur right after.
Your gaze flicked briefly toward the door again—pure instinct by now.
Then back to Alex.
“…midday?” you asked, quieter this time.
Her grin widened instantly.
“Oh, we are absolutely doing this.”
❁✿❀❁✿❀
“Please, for the love of God, keep it to a minimum,” you begged.
“But that’s boring,” Arthur Leclerc fired back instantly.
You were still standing in front of the Ferrari motorhome, the familiar red stretching out behind you like a safety net you were about to willingly leave. Your handbag rested against your ribs, paddock pass clipped to it, swaying gently in the warm breeze that moved through the narrow walkway between motorhomes.
Arthur stood in front of you—far too relaxed for someone about to cause problems. Jeans, Ferrari polo, sunglasses hooked casually into the collar. His hair shifted slightly with the wind, and even in heels, you still had to tilt your head up to properly meet his eyes.
Annoyingly similar to someone else.
“You do realise this is the middle of the paddock,” you reminded him, lowering your voice slightly as a couple of team members passed behind you. “You can go all out another time. Maybe in Monaco?”
Arthur’s expression shifted into something thoughtful for exactly half a second.
“Let me think about it.”
And then—
he just started walking.
Your brows furrowed immediately.
“What?” you murmured, before instinct kicked in and you moved after him, heels clicking quicker against the pavement as you reached for him—but he was already a step too far ahead.
“Arthur, no,” you muttered, finally catching up enough to grab his bicep and force him to stop mid-step.
He turned his head slightly, glancing down at your hand like this was mildly entertaining.
“Arthur, yes.”
“No,” you shook your head, stepping in front of him now, fully blocking his path. “Promise me. Right now. You will not go all out.”
He tilted his head, considering you like this was a business negotiation.
“Hm,” he hummed. “I can push it down to 70%.”
“Twenty,” you shot back immediately.
“Sixty-five.”
“Thirty.”
“Sixty-four.”
You stared at him.
Flat. Unimpressed. Entirely done.
“Forty.”
“Fifty percent,” he said, lifting his hand like he was closing a deal at an auction. “Last offer.”
You exhaled slowly, biting your lip as you debated whether this was already a loss.
It was.
You knew it was.
But it was the best you were going to get.
“…fine,” you gave in, pointing a finger at him in warning. “But you only get to start once we’re inside.”
Arthur rolled his eyes immediately.
“You are taking out all the fun,” he sighed dramatically.
“I’m trying not to blow my cover,” you groaned.
And that—
that actually made him pause for a second.
Just a second.
Because underneath everything, he did understand that part.
But only barely.
You dropped your hand and turned, starting to walk before he could change his mind again, already weaving into the flow of the paddock.
The atmosphere shifted the further you moved away from Ferrari.
Less red.
More movement.
More cameras.
Voices overlapping, team members crossing paths, the occasional burst of laughter or shouted instruction cutting through the air. Somewhere in the distance, a camera shutter clicked rapidly, followed by someone calling a driver’s name.
Your pace stayed steady. Controlled.
But you were more aware now.
Of where you were walking.
Of who was around.
Of him.
Arthur fell into step beside you easily, hands in his pockets now, gaze flicking around like he was already mapping out the situation ahead.
“You’re nervous,” he noted casually.
“I’m not,” you replied just as quickly.
He glanced at you.
Then down at your hand—still holding onto the strap of your bag just a little tighter than necessary.
“Sure.”
You didn’t dignify that with a response.
Instead, your eyes lifted—
and landed on it.
The papaya motorhome.
Bright. Distinct. Impossible to miss.
Your steps slowed for just a fraction of a second.
Because suddenly—
this wasn’t just a plan anymore.
This was happening.
Arthur noticed immediately. Of course he did.
His smirk returned, slow and knowing.
“Too late to back out now,” he murmured.
And before you could even hesitate—
his hands found your lower back, warm and firm, pushing you forward just enough to force the step you hadn’t fully committed to yet.
And then—
you were standing in front of the motorhome.
Closer than before.
Real.
A McLaren team member stood just off to the side, leaning casually against the railing, cigarette between his fingers. His eyes flicked up as you approached—landing on Arthur first, then you, then back to Arthur again.
Arthur, of course, didn’t miss a beat.
“We’re here to see Oscar,” he announced easily, like this was the most normal thing in the world. “Haven’t seen him in a while.”
The team member studied him for half a second longer—just enough to recognise him, place him, decide this wasn’t a situation worth questioning.
Then he nodded.
Stepped aside.
Exhaled a slow stream of smoke into the open air before offering a small, polite British smile.
That was it.
No questions.
No suspicion.
Just access.
Your stomach flipped slightly anyway.
And then you were moving.
Following Arthur up the narrow steps, your heels softer now against the metal as the outside noise faded behind you. The door opened, and the shift was immediate—
cool air brushing against your skin, the low hum of air conditioning replacing the buzz of the paddock, and that same faint citrus scent lingering in the space. Clean. Sharp. Familiar now.
It grounded you more than you expected.
For a second, your gaze dropped—adjusting, recalibrating—
but you didn’t need to search.
Because something in you already knew where he was.
And when your eyes lifted—
they found him instantly.
Oscar.
Like a pull.
Like something quiet and certain guiding you there before your brain could catch up.
And just like that—
you smiled.
It wasn’t controlled.
It wasn’t subtle.
It just… happened.
His was already there.
Waiting.
And for a split second, the rest of the room faded.
Because he looked at you like he hadn’t seen you in longer than a few hours.
Like the space between this morning and now had stretched into something bigger.
Like this mattered more than it should have.
And maybe it did.
But then—
reality snapped back in.
People around.
Movement.
Eyes.
And Oscar adjusted just as quickly.
Stepping forward—but not toward you.
Toward Arthur.
A handshake. Firm. Familiar. Controlled.
“Long time no see,” he murmured, leaning in slightly as their shoulders brushed.
“Yeah,” Arthur nodded easily. “Lot’s changed since.”
The smirk in his voice was unmistakable.
You rolled your eyes immediately.
Of course he would start like this.
Oscar huffed a quiet breath through his nose—somewhere between amused and already aware of what was coming—but didn’t rise to it. Not yet.
Instead, as they pulled apart, his eyes flicked past Arthur.
To you.
Just for a second.
Enough to soften.
Enough to say something without actually saying it.
Then—
they shifted again.
Toward the glass doors.
Outside.
Cameras.
You followed his line of sight instinctively—and felt it too.
The awareness.
The limitation.
So instead of closing the distance—
instead of the hug he clearly wanted, the one you had already braced yourself for—
he just nodded at you.
Polite. Casual.
It tugged at something in your chest.
Subtle.
Uncomfortable.
But necessary.
“Let’s move somewhere else,” he said instead, voice steady, already turning slightly toward the hallway.
Your head snapped back toward him immediately.
Because you understood.
And without another word, you followed—Arthur already moving ahead like he owned the place, Oscar just behind him, and you trailing close enough to feel the tension of it all without showing it.
The hallway narrowed.
Quieter.
Less movement.
Until finally—
the door to his driver’s room.
Oscar pushed it open, stepping inside first before holding it just long enough for you and Arthur to enter.
And then—
the door clicked shut behind you.
Soft. Final.
No cameras.
No eyes.
No pretending.
For a split second, you expected it—
the shift.
The moment he’d close the distance. Pull you in. Let everything from the last few hours finally settle where it belonged.
But it didn’t come.
Because Arthur—
of course—
stepped forward first.
Chaotic.
Unhinged.
Completely absurd.
“Alright,” he clapped his hands together once, looking between the two of you like he was about to start a formal interrogation. “Let’s begin.”
And Arthur’s “50% chaos” was not, unfortunately, half of anything reasonable. It was just chaos with slightly better self-control.
“Before anything happens—congratulations, Oscar.”
Oscar blinked. “Thanks—”
“And,” Arthur cut in immediately, already walking further into the room like he owned it, “I need to say this first so I don’t forget.”
You sighed. Out loud. Already.
Oscar’s gaze flicked to you for half a second—soft, amused.
Arthur pointed at him now, fully committed. “I’ve raced you. I respect you.”
A pause.
Oscar nodded slowly. “I respect you too.”
“Good,” Arthur said instantly. “Because I need to know your intentions.”
You buried your face in your hands.
Oscar’s brows lifted slightly. “My… intentions?”
“Yes,” Arthur nodded like this was a formal interview. “With her.”
He gestured at you like you were Exhibit A in a courtroom.
“I’m right here,” you muttered.
“Exactly,” Arthur said without looking at you. “This affects you.”
Oscar exhaled a short laugh through his nose, glancing at you again—this time definitely amused. “Okay…”
Arthur stepped closer.
Too close.
Oscar didn’t move, but something in his posture shifted anyway—subtle, instinctive. Not defensive. Just more attentive. Like the situation had quietly upgraded itself from joke to evaluation.
Arthur continued, completely serious. “Are you going to stress her out?”
Oscar blinked once. “No.”
“Good.”
“Are you going to disappear for days and leave her wondering what’s happening?”
“No.”
Arthur nodded like he was ticking boxes on a mental checklist. “Good.”
A beat.
Then, immediately:
“Are you going to make her laugh in situations where she is trying to be serious?”
Oscar paused.
Just a fraction too long.
“…I mean—”
Arthur snapped his fingers. “That’s a yes.”
“It’s not—”
“Bad influence,” Arthur declared, pointing at him like he’d solved something. Like he was the better influence between the two of them, when he really wasn't.
You made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a protest. “Arthur, what are you doing?”
“Protecting you,” he said simply, like it was obvious.
Oscar’s mouth twitched harder now. He was definitely trying not to laugh at this point.
Arthur circled slightly, like he was inspecting him from different angles—slowly, theatrically, as if Oscar had been turned into a specimen under observation.
“You know,” he continued, “I thought you’d be more intimidating in person.”
Your head snapped toward Arthur instantly. “You literally already know him.”
Oscar blinked. “Sorry?”
“You’re very…” Arthur squinted, like he was diagnosing a phenomenon, “…calm.”
Oscar tilted his head slightly. “Is that a problem?”
Arthur shrugged. “It’s suspicious.”
That finally broke him—Oscar laughed properly now, shaking his head, a hand briefly brushing over his mouth like he was trying to reset his composure.
And that was it.
You saw it immediately: Arthur’s satisfaction. He looked delighted. Not because he’d won, but because he’d gotten the reaction.
He pointed at Oscar again. “See? That. That’s fine. I like that.”
Oscar glanced at you again, eyes warmer now, like he’d quietly accepted that logic had left the room.
Arthur turned back to you abruptly.
“And you.”
You straightened slightly. “Me?”
“Yes,” he said, suddenly very serious again. “You are not allowed to disappear into paddock corridors without telling someone.”
You stared at him.
“That is not—”
“I said what I said,” Arthur interrupted immediately.
Oscar’s lips parted slightly, like he was about to step in—but then he hesitated. Probably wisely. This was not a battle worth picking.
You rubbed your forehead.
“I am not a missing person,” you said flatly.
Arthur ignored that completely.
“You also,” he continued, now pointing between the two of you like he was connecting dots only he could see, “need to communicate better.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow. “We communicate fine.”
Arthur didn’t even look at him. “I wasn’t talking to you.”
That made you choke on a laugh.
Oscar actually gave up at that point, exhaling through his nose, shoulders loosening again as he leaned slightly back against the motorhome wall—fully giving up the idea that this was a normal conversation. His expression said I’m just here for the show.
Arthur nodded once, satisfied with his own conclusion so far.
Then—
He paused.
Squinted at Oscar.
And asked, completely out of nowhere:
“…If you two had to survive one apocalypse together, which one of you is dying first?”
Silence.
You blinked.
Oscar blinked.
Arthur didn’t.
“What?” Oscar said finally, slowly.
Arthur shrugged. “It’s important.”
“It’s not important,” you said immediately.
“It is,” Arthur insisted. “Because I need to know if I have to worry about you emotionally or physically.”
Oscar let out a laugh again, sharper this time. “I think we’re fine on both fronts.”
Arthur looked unconvinced.
“I feel like she’d be dramatic in an apocalypse,” he said thoughtfully, pointing at you. “Like she’d refuse to eat ration packs.”
“I would not—”
“You would,” Arthur cut in confidently.
Oscar was openly laughing now.
You pointed at Arthur. “You are not invited to any survival situation, ever.”
Arthur gasped. Deeply offended.
“I am literally the most useful person here.”
“In what world?”
“In all worlds,” he said immediately.
A beat.
Then he leaned back slightly, satisfied again, and clapped once.
“Anyway,” he said, as if he hadn’t just asked about apocalypse death order, “approved.”
You froze. “Approved?”
“Yes,” he repeated, as if this was the most official verdict in history. “For now.”
“For now,” you repeated flatly.
“I’ll reassess in Monaco,” Arthur added casually.
Oscar chuckled under his breath again.
And you just looked between them both—your calm, composed Formula 1 driver boyfriend and your absolutely unhinged, emotionally over-invested human chaos machine—and accepted one very clear truth:
You were absolutely, completely outnumbered.
✿❀ Let the Light in ❁✿
33 Word Pages... jesus. I would’ve loved to keep this chapter longer, but i feel like this weekend deserves a two-parter. I hope y’all don’t mind.
Let me know in the comments, what else you think will happen this weekend!
Watching a race in the paddock alone, in a different garage, just felt strange. Almost eerie.
You were so used to standing next to Alex in a red garage, pressed shoulder-to-shoulder with her while Ferrari strategists shouted in the background and the world outside felt like noise you didn’t have to belong to.
But this time you weren’t there.
This time, you were in McLaren’s garage.
White panels, clean surfaces, flashes of papaya breaking through the structure like small bursts of identity. Everything quieter. More controlled. Less chaotic, but somehow more intense because of it.
You stood further back in the corner, exactly where Natalie had guided you earlier — hidden just enough to avoid the main line of sight from the pit wall cameras. Not that anyone was actively looking for you. Still, precautions had been taken. PR aware. Boundaries set. NDAs signed. Everything carefully invisible.
Papaya headphones covered your ears, immediately connecting you to Oscar’s radio channel and his engineer. One side of the world in your ears, the other in front of your eyes — the live feed on the screens showing the grid forming under a pale sky.
Next to you stood Natalie.
Of course she wasn’t directly beside you. She stayed half a step outward, subtly shielding you from the open space of the garage, positioning herself like a quiet barrier between you and everything else—just in case a camera wandered too far, just in case someone looked where they shouldn’t.
“Are you ready?” she asked softly, glancing at you with a small, reassuring smile.
You nodded once, slow but certain.
“He’s going to do well,” you said.
Not hope. Not wish.
Sure.
Because you had seen him too many times to doubt it.
He had qualified on pole yesterday. Clean lap. Controlled aggression. No mistakes.
But today was still a race.
And behind him were people who didn’t care about sentiment or stories.
Charles Leclerc starting just behind him.
And Kimi Antonelli right there too—young, fast, with a car that did what it was supposed to do.
Anything could still happen.
“Yeah,” Natalie smiled, eyes returning to the screen. “He will.”
A small silence settled between you again. Not awkward. Just focused. Waiting.
Then—
“Oscar, radio check,” Tom’s voice crackled through your headphones.
A beat.
“Loud and clear,” Oscar answered immediately.
And something in your chest eased without you even noticing it happening.
It wasn’t dramatic. Not sudden.
Just a quiet shift. Like tension loosening its grip slightly.
Because hearing his voice—steady, calm, already in control—reminded you of something simple.
He wasn’t just hoping for a good race.
He was capable of one.
Your fingers slowly relaxed around the edge of your paddock pass, your shoulders dropping a fraction as you exhaled.
Yes, you were still nervous. That didn’t go away just because you trusted him.
But it wasn’t the sharp, consuming kind anymore.
It was softer now. Contained. Manageable.
Because Oscar wasn’t the kind of driver who rushed into chaos.
He didn’t chase moments that didn’t belong to him.
He built them.
Lap by lap. Decision by decision. Calm under pressure in a way that almost felt unfair.
And as the cars formed up on the grid and the broadcast cut to the opening angles of the track, you realised something quietly sitting beneath everything else:
You weren’t just watching a race.
You were watching him do what he was built for.
❀
When the lights went out, Oscar pulled away cleanly, but so did Charles—because Ferraris always launched well from the line, while the Mercedes-powered cars still struggled just a fraction off the start.
So instead of immediately building a gap, Oscar had to defend first.
But you had to admit one thing.
Watching Oscar and Charles race wheel to wheel was probably one of the most impressive things in your world.
Because both of them were clean. Both held their lines. Both gave space where it mattered. It wasn’t aggression for the sake of it—it was precision. A kind of mutual respect that made the fight feel less like a battle and more like a controlled dance at 300 km/h.
If it had been anyone else that close to Oscar, you might’ve spiralled.
But this was Charles.
And Charles Leclerc was, objectively, one of the best drivers on the grid in wheel-to-wheel combat.
So when he eventually slipped past on lap three—late braking into Turn 2, just enough traction on exit to edge ahead—you didn’t even feel disappointment.
It felt earned.
He had earned it.
And Oscar?
Oscar didn’t flinch.
You knew him well enough by now to recognise that shift—the moment something inside him recalculated instead of reacted. No frustration, no panic. Just quiet focus tightening into something sharper.
He had outraced the lion once.
Now he was going to hunt the stallion.
“Gap to P2 is 0.6,” Tom’s voice came through your headphones. “DRS enabled this lap.”
You leaned forward slightly, eyes locked on the screen.
Oscar stayed close.
One lap. Then another.
He didn’t force it. He studied.
And that’s when it happened.
Lap 16.
Charles exited the final corner just slightly compromised—fraction too wide, fraction too early on throttle.
And Oscar saw it instantly.
“Now,” Tom said quietly.
And Oscar went for it.
He didn’t divebomb. He didn’t gamble.
He placed the car exactly where it needed to be—inside line, perfect braking point, controlled aggression.
The McLaren slipped alongside the Ferrari into Turn 1.
For half a second, they were completely level.
Papaya and red.
Side by side.
No contact. No hesitation.
Just two cars refusing to give anything away.
Then Oscar edged ahead.
Clean exit. Better traction.
And just like that—he was in front.
A sharp inhale left you without you realising you’d been holding your breath.
“Nice move,” Tom confirmed over radio.
“Let’s go,” Oscar replied simply.
Your fingers curled slightly in your palms as the gap began to stabilise.
But Formula 1 never lets anything stay simple for long.
Because just a few laps later—
“Box, box,” came the call.
McLaren pitted him.
And for a moment—just a moment—you felt that familiar drop in your stomach as he rejoined the track.
Because when he came out of the pit lane—
Charles was still ahead.
Ferrari had extended the stint.
And suddenly the order reset.
Charles P1 again.
Oscar P5, needing to make his way through the grid.
Your jaw tightened slightly.
“He’s fine,” Natalie said softly beside you, as if she could feel it.
“I know,” you replied immediately. Too quickly.
Because you did.
But knowing didn’t stop the tension.
It just made you trust it differently.
Oscar didn’t push immediately this time. He rebuilt. Closed the gap again. Controlled it. Managed tyres, pace, distance—like the race was something he was slowly assembling rather than chasing.
Overtaking Verstappen first, then Antonelli next. Norris after that—clean, decisive, no drama.
And then he was back in P2.
And then—
“Box this lap,” came Charles’ radio.
And suddenly, everything shifted again.
As the Ferrari peeled into the pit lane, Oscar stayed out—one more lap, clean air, maximum push.
And when Charles rejoined—
Oscar was ahead.
Properly ahead this time.
No overlap. No overlap strategy. No timing advantage waiting to disappear.
Just track position.
Real, earned, uncontested.
“P1,” Tom confirmed. “P1.”
And something in your chest finally loosened properly.
But the race wasn’t finished yet.
Because behind them, Lando Norris had been quietly climbing all afternoon.
Steady. Consistent. Waiting for mistakes that never came—but staying close enough that when they didn’t, he was still there.
“Lando P3, gap 1.8,” the engineer added.
And for the first time, you allowed yourself to breathe properly.
Not because it was over.
But because it finally felt like it was going the way it should.
Lap after lap, Oscar kept it clean. No mistakes. No unnecessary risk. Just control.
Charles closed slightly in the final stint, Ferrari pace strong in clean air—but not enough. Not quite enough.
And when the final laps came, the gaps stabilised. Locked in. Decided.
“Last lap,” Tom said.
And then the garage around you seemed to hold its breath with you. Goosebumps rose beneath your skin, the air suddenly feeling thin, static, like everything had been stretched right to the edge.
You stared at the screen, barely blinking now.
Papaya McLaren. Red Ferrari. Second McLaren in the distance behind.
And then—
The chequered flag.
“Piastri crosses the line first!” the announcer screamed. “Oscar Piastri wins in Miami, wins in Barcelona, and wins here in Spielberg!”
For a second, you didn’t move.
Didn’t breathe.
Didn’t think.
Just watched it register on screen as if your brain needed permission to accept it was real.
Then the garage exploded.
But even that felt distant for half a heartbeat—like your senses were catching up slower than the moment itself.
“Well done, Oscar,” Tom’s voice came calmly over your headphones.
Then static.
Then a familiar chuckle.
“Yeah, great race,” Oscar said, slightly out of breath. “Thank you to everyone. This is yours.”
And then—
Then did you finally smile.
Properly.
Fully.
Like something inside you had unclenched without permission.
And while everyone began moving toward parc fermé, spilling out of the garage in waves of orange and noise and adrenaline, you stayed exactly where you were for a moment longer.
Just taking it in.
The chaos. The joy. The relief vibrating through every corner of the team.
Yeah.
You could do this again.
❁✿❀❁✿❀
Winning wasn’t something new for Oscar, or something he took for granted, but this one felt different.
Because you were here.
Not just in the paddock somewhere in the distance. Not just in the abstract sense of you’re somewhere in this world watching him.
But in his garage. On his side. In his space.
And somehow, that changed everything.
So when he climbed out of the car and let his team swarm him in celebration, and when the helmet finally came off, his hair still damp and his breath still slightly uneven from the final stint, the smile on his face was brighter than it had ever been before.
Not the practiced kind. Not the media-trained kind.
Something looser. Unfiltered. Real.
And even as voices surrounded him—hands on his shoulders, pats on his back, the noise of victory folding in on itself—his mind had already drifted elsewhere.
Back to you.
He could picture it too clearly.
You still standing in that quiet corner of the garage where he had left you, half-hidden but impossible for him not to think about. The oversized orange headset sitting slightly crooked on your head because you’d forgotten to adjust it properly. The way your eyes would’ve stayed locked on the screen even when nothing was happening, like you didn’t want to miss a single second of him.
The tension you tried to hide but never quite managed to.
The way your cheeks might be flushed now—not from heat, but from adrenaline. From holding your breath at every lap, every corner, every moment he didn’t get it quite right.
And your pulse—
Yeah.
He was almost certain he could feel it, even from here, racing in sync with his.
That thought alone made something in his chest shift, light and sharp at the same time.
His heart skipped, just slightly, like it had forgotten how to stay steady.
He was so caught in it—too far gone in a quiet, private version of the moment that didn’t belong to anyone else—that he only noticed Charles approaching after the second tap against his shoulder.
“Great race,” Charles congratulated him, stepping in close enough for the noise of the garage to soften between them as he shook Oscar’s hand.
“Yeah,” Oscar nodded, grip firm, still slightly buzzing from the after-race rush. “You made it hard.”
A short laugh followed, honest and breathy.
Charles snorted. “Had to.” A beat. Then, leaning in just slightly, voice lowering into something more private: “Especially when you stole one of my good luck charms.”
That landed exactly the way Charles had wanted it to.
Oscar had every intention of playing it off. Easy smile, casual shrug, the kind of reaction that would’ve made it nothing more than a joke between drivers.
But the warmth that climbed up his neck betrayed him first.
And the smirk tugging at Charles’ mouth confirmed it immediately.
There was no escaping it.
Oscar exhaled a quiet laugh through his nose, glancing away for half a second like that might reset his composure.
“Good luck charm is strong,” he murmured instead, the words coming out softer than intended, pink still creeping across his cheeks.
Charles let out a low laugh at that, nodding once like it was exactly the answer he’d been expecting.
“Yeah,” he said, taking a sip from his water bottle, already half-turning toward the next part of his day. “Seems like it.”
And while Oscar did the same, he let his eyes wander over the crowd just once—searching instinctively, almost without thinking—wondering if maybe you had dared to come out anyway.
But he didn’t find you anywhere.
Just movement. Colour. Noise.
No orange headset. No familiar silhouette in the distance.
So, then he thought—simple, certain—
he’d just have to find you later instead.
“Oscar,” Jenson’s voice rang over the speakers. “Great race. Tough racing though—how was it for you?”
Oscar laughed, re-adjusting his hat before lifting the microphone to his lips. “It was a fun race. But Charles definitely didn’t make it easy on me.”
“He truly didn’t. Was there ever a moment in the race you thought you wouldn’t get back to the front?”
Oscar exhaled through his nose, a small grin still lingering, like the adrenaline hadn’t fully left his system yet.
“Honestly? Not really,” he said, rolling his shoulders slightly as if the memory of the race was still sitting in his body. “I think there are always moments where it feels… tight. Especially when you lose track position after a stop.”
A beat.
“But I never felt like we didn’t have the pace.”
He glanced briefly off-camera, listening to his engineer’s faint voice still in his ear, before focusing back on Jenson.
“We just had to be patient. Charles was strong in the first stint, and then we waited for the right moment. It wasn’t about forcing anything today.”
Jenson nodded, leaning slightly forward. “And that move on lap sixteen—Turn 1. Take us through that.”
Oscar smiled a little more at that, like he already knew that question was coming.
“Yeah… that was just timing, really,” he said. “I got a better exit out of the last corner, saw a bit of space, and just committed. Nothing crazy. Just clean racing.”
A soft laugh.
“Which is always easier said than done with Charles, to be fair.”
The crowd in the background reacted lightly, and Oscar’s smile widened just a fraction at that.
Jenson tilted his head. “You two seemed very respectful out there. Almost like you knew exactly how far you could push each other.”
“Yeah,” Oscar nodded without hesitation. “We’ve raced each other long enough now. There’s a lot of respect there. You don’t need to… overstep it to make a good fight.”
A brief pause, then he added more quietly:
“And it’s better that way.”
Jenson hummed in agreement. “And then the pit stop shuffle—things got a bit tense again. Were you aware at that point you might have to do it all over again?”
Oscar’s eyes flickered, just for a second, like he was replaying it internally.
“Yeah,” he admitted. “When you come out behind again, you just reset. It’s not emotional. You just go again.”
He shrugged slightly.
“That’s kind of what today was about. Resetting every time it changed.”
A faint smile returned.
“And the car was really good, so it made my job a lot easier.”
Jenson smiled. “And finally—you take another win. Miami, Barcelona, now here. It’s a serious run of form. How does that feel?”
For a moment, Oscar didn’t answer immediately.
Not because he didn’t know.
But because something about the question landed differently this time.
His gaze softened slightly, just for a second, before he lifted the mic again.
“Yeah… it feels good,” he said simply. “But it’s really down to the team. They’ve given me a car that’s in a great window right now, and I’m just trying to do my part with it.”
A small pause.
“And I’m enjoying it.”
That last part came a bit more quietly. More personal.
Jenson nodded, picking up on it. “Well, you’re certainly making a habit of standing up there. Congratulations again.”
Oscar smiled properly now, a little breathless, a little grounded again.
“Thank you.”
And as the interview wrapped, his eyes flicked off-camera one last time—just briefly, instinctively—toward the McLaren garage.
Like he already knew exactly where you were.
And, more than anything else, knew what he needed to make the win feel even better.
❁✿❀❁✿❀
Messages with your sister
❁✿❀❁✿❀
You had expected to see Oscar only much later—after all his duties were done, somewhere between cooldown room and debrief, when the paddock had quieted and the adrenaline had finally settled.
Not like this.
So when a wall—warm, wet, and unmistakably smelling of champagne—crashed into you and pulled you straight into a bearhug, a sharp gasp left your lips.
Partly from the cold shock of liquid soaking through your clothes.
Partly from the fact you hadn’t seen him coming at all.
For a second, everything was noise and movement—hands around your waist, the weight of him pressing you back slightly, the faint chaos of celebration still echoing somewhere behind him.
Then you heard it.
That low chuckle.
Right against your ear.
And instantly, something in you softened.
Your shoulders dropped before your mind even caught up, arms wrapping around him just as quickly, pulling him closer like it was instinct rather than choice.
You didn’t care that champagne was already soaking into your clothes, that your hair was probably sticking slightly to your skin, or that in a few minutes you’d smell like a mix of alcohol, rubber, fuel, and heat.
Not when it was him.
Not when he felt like this.
“Oscar,” you screeched softly, half-laughing, half-scolding, still holding onto him. “What are you doing here?”
He pulled back just enough to look at you properly—hair damp, skin flushed, a few droplets of champagne still clinging to his jawline. His eyes were bright in a way that had nothing to do with exhaustion and everything to do with adrenaline still running through him.
“Celebrating,” he shrugged, slightly out of breath, like he had actually run through the garage to get here.
Your brows lifted immediately. “But duties,” you reminded him, though you didn’t actually let go of him. If anything, your grip tightened slightly at his fireproofs.
“Yeah,” he nodded, almost amused at himself, hands still resting firmly at your waist like he had no intention of moving yet. “But I needed this first.”
A beat.
The noise around you faded into something distant again—garage movement, muffled voices, the aftershock of a win still rippling through the team—but none of it mattered in this small pocket of space.
Because then he leaned in.
No hesitation.
No overthinking.
Just him.
His lips met yours softly at first—careful, almost like he was grounding himself in you after everything that had just happened.
Champagne on his lips.
Warmth in the kiss.
Something unmistakably him underneath it all.
It wasn’t rushed.
It wasn’t showy.
It was celebratory in the quietest, most intimate way possible—like the win had already been processed by everyone else, and this was the part that belonged only to him.
And you.
Your breath caught again, but this time not from surprise.
From him.
From the way his hand slid slightly up your back as he deepened the kiss just a fraction, still controlled, still aware—but no longer holding anything back either.
When he finally pulled away, it was only just enough to rest his forehead briefly against yours.
Still close.
Still holding you.
Still not ready to let go.
And you realised, belatedly, that the entire world outside could’ve been watching, that there were interviews waiting, media obligations pulling him in every direction, other priorities demanding his attention—
and it still wouldn’t have mattered in that moment.
Because he had come here first.
To you.
“You’re unbelievable,” you murmured, your voice soft and slightly out of breath, still close enough that your words brushed against his lips more than anything else.
A slow grin spread across his face at that.
“So are you,” he shot back immediately, a wink following it as his expression broke fully into something bright and unguarded.
Teeth showing.
Hair damp and slightly stuck under his cap.
Champagne still dripping off the brim, tracing down the side of his face and catching in the fabric of his collar.
He looked completely ruined by celebration—and entirely unbothered by it.
You shook your head at him, but you couldn’t shake the feeling sitting beneath everything else.
That quiet, constant pull that was always there when he was near.
The one that never really left.
Not fully.
Not even for a second.
And you were fairly sure it never would.
There was a beat of silence.
Just the two of you.
Still close.
Still slightly breathless.
His hands resting loosely at your waist, like he hadn’t quite decided if letting go was necessary yet. Your fingers still curled lightly into the fabric of his fireproofs, as if you were anchoring yourself without thinking about it.
He was looking at you properly now.
Not just seeing you—but taking you in.
Your flushed cheeks.
Your slightly messy hair from his rushed entrance.
The way your white shirt had gone faintly see-through where champagne had soaked into it, clinging softly to your skin in a way that made the moment feel even more unreal than it already was.
And you were looking at him the same way.
Like you were both trying to memorise something you already knew you’d carry with you anyway.
He wanted to say something.
Maybe something stupid.
Or maybe something soft.
Definitely something honest.
But before he could decide which version of himself to be—
his name was called.
“Oscar.”
Natalie appeared at the edge of the garage opening, already in motion, clipboard in hand, expression somewhere between amused and fully professional.
“You need to go to the media pen now,” she said, not unkindly, but firm enough that it cut through the moment cleanly. “We don’t want a fine.”
Oscar let out a quiet breath through his nose, like he’d already accepted that reality the second she spoke.
“Yeah,” he nodded immediately.
But he didn’t move right away.
Instead, he looked back at you once more.
Just once.
Then leaned in again, pressing a final kiss to your lips—slower this time, softer, like he was sealing something in place rather than stealing time.
When he pulled away, his forehead brushed yours for the briefest second.
And then, finally, he stepped back.
But even then—he still wasn’t gone.
Halfway to turning, he stopped again.
Looked back at you over his shoulder.
That familiar grin creeping back in, a little less composed now, a little more him again.
“There should be an extra shirt in my bag,” he called out casually.
Your brows lifted immediately.
His eyes dragged over you once—slow, deliberate, unmistakably shameless in the way only he could get away with.
Then he added, quieter, with a small, wicked tilt of his mouth:
“I won’t take too long.”
A beat.
And a wink.
Heat rushed straight to your face instantly.
You shook your head in complete disbelief, a breathy, helpless laugh escaping you despite yourself.
“Go,” you mouthed, half-exasperated, half-smiling.
He finally turned properly this time.
Jogging out toward media pen like he hadn’t just left your entire world slightly tilted off axis.
And you stood there for a moment longer than you meant to.
Still smiling.
Still soaked in champagne.
Still very aware that your heart was definitely not behaving normally anymore and probably won’t ever again, near him.
❁✿❀❁✿❀
f1gossip
f1gossip: 🚨 OKAY WAIT… OSCAR PIASTRI WAS JUST SPOTTED IN THE GARAGE HUGGING A BLONDE WOMAN BEFORE MEDIA PEN 👀💥
Fans noticed he arrived slightly late afterward — and this moment might be why.
The woman’s identity is still unknown, but fans are already connecting dots with the recent “soft launch” rumours surrounding Oscar over the past weeks. 👀
At this point, it’s starting to feel like this mystery girl might actually be around the paddock more than we thought…
That said — Oscar has always been extremely private about his personal life, especially during his long-term relationship with Lily Zneimer, so seeing him this visibly close with someone in the paddock is definitely getting attention. 😳
Is this something serious, or just a quick moment before media duties? And more importantly… who is she??
Be honest, F1 fam — are we overthinking this, or is there actually something here? 👀
Liked by f1fanatic92, oscarstan, kkimislover12 and 881’200 Other’s
f1fanatic92: OKAY BUT WHY IS HE HUGGING HER LIKE THAT?? 👀💥
oscarstan: guys relax it’s literally just a hug 😭😭
kkimislover12: “just a hug” yeah right 💀 be serious
paddockwatcher: I need 4K zoom of that arm immediately
kkimislover12: this is giving PR stunt idc
f1tea: PR STUNT??? for WHAT 😭
Op81lover: we’re talking about Oscar, he would NEVER do a PR stunt
Lewlew44: we also thought that about Lewis and now he’s with Kim K
gridchaos: I ZOOMED IN AND I THINK THAT’S THE SAME HAIR AS THE CAR PIC FROM MONACO 👀
monacof1fan: PLEASE touch grass all of you 💀
oscarupdates: guys he’s literally just doing media pen relax 😭
tracksidefan: I’ve never seen him this relaxed in the garage before though
paddockdetective: why is no one talking about the timing… RIGHT before media pen?? That means he literallymust’ve sprinted to see her, before heading for media duties. You do know if he’s late or doesn’t show up, he could get fined. So this MUST MEAN SOMETHING!!
gridrumours: I’m not saying it’s serious but I’m also not saying it’s nothing
f1fanatic92: I NEED HER ID BY TONIGHT THIS IS DRIVING ME INSANE 😭
oscarpastry: he does seem happier recently
oscarstan: imagine harassing a random woman because of a blurry hug 💀
paddockwatcher: too late fandom already named her “blonde garage girl”
f1tea: STOP THAT’S ACTUALLY STUCK IN MY HEAD NOW 😭
monacogpqueen: I’m more invested in this than the actual race atp
kimiantonelli_updates: this is how every F1 “mystery girl” starts btw…
gridchaos: if this ends up being nothing I’ll never trust zoomed photos again
❁✿❀❁✿❀
His lips were already on yours before the door even fell completely shut behind the two of you.
There wasn’t even a pause between entering and finding each other again—like the distance in the corridor had been too much to tolerate, like neither of you had fully recovered from the earlier kiss in the garage.
The adrenaline was still awake in his bloodstream, pulse racing beneath your hands where they had already found their way into his shirt.
The sound of the door clicking shut behind you barely registered.
All of it narrowed down to him.
To heat.
To breath.
To the way he kissed you like he still hadn’t fully come down from the race, like the win was still vibrating through him and you were the only place it could settle.
When he finally pulled back just slightly, it wasn’t far.
Barely enough to breathe.
Barely enough to look at you.
“You look so good in my clothes,” he murmured, almost like it slipped out before he could stop it.
His eyes dragged over you again—slow, unhurried, openly appreciative.
As if seeing you in his space, in his shirt, in his world, had done something irreversible to his brain.
The fabric hung slightly loose on you, sleeves pushed up carelessly, the collar sitting just a bit too wide—still smelling faintly like him even though he hadn’t worn the shirt since washing it and packing it in his bag just in case.
You let out a small laugh at that, heat creeping up your neck despite yourself.
“It’s just a shirt,” you shrugged, though your voice didn’t quite sound as steady as you wanted it to.
Your arms tightened around him instinctively as he shifted his grip.
And then, without warning, he lifted you.
Effortless.
Like you weighed nothing at all.
Your breath caught slightly as your legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, your hands moving to steady yourself against his shoulders.
He didn’t hesitate for even a second.
Just held you there like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like this—you—belonged there.
“Just a shirt,” he repeated softly, almost amused, shaking his head.
His hair was still slightly damp from the quick shower, no longer slick with champagne or sweat, falling messily across his forehead as he looked at you.
But there was nothing calm about him.
Not really.
His hands settled more firmly at your thighs, keeping you balanced against him as he took a small step forward, pressing you back against the nearest surface without fully breaking the kiss again.
And when he looked at you this time, it wasn’t just playful anymore.
It was heavier.
Sharper.
Like the win outside had stripped him down to something more honest than media rooms and interviews ever got to see.
“You have no idea what you do to me,” he murmured against your mouth, voice lower now.
The words weren’t loud.
They didn’t need to be.
Because they stayed right there between you.
And as if the adrenaline wasn’t just still coursing through his body, but through yours too—something inside you finally snapped into movement again.
You pulled him back to you.
Needing him now, near and close. Impossibly close
As if reading you correctly immediately, deepend the kiss. His tongue sliding into your mouth, slow and possessive. Taking and fighting and earning.
His fingers were warm when they slipped beneath the hem of his shirt on you, brushing over your skin like he was grounding himself in the fact that you were really here.
Really with him.
“Can I?” he murmured against your lips, voice lower now, quieter—still steady, but with something almost careful underneath it.
His hands already at the hem of the shirt, not rushing, just waiting for you.
You didn’t even need a second to think.
“Yes,” you nodded immediately, breath uneven, already lifting your arms to make it easier for him.
And he didn’t hesitate.
The shirt came off in one smooth motion, carefully pulled over your head and away, discarded somewhere behind him without either of you breaking eye contact for more than a second.
And then his lips were back on yours.
Hot.
Heavy.
Immediate.
Like the pause had only existed to make the return more inevitable.
You stayed there for a moment just like that—caught in the rhythm of him, lips moving against yours, tongues fighting, teeth touching. Hungry, hot and sinful. His hands held you steady, while heat began to pool heavier and heavier in you.
Your fingers slid up into his hair instinctively, tugging lightly, and that was all it took for the balance to shift again.
Before you even realised it, it was you pulling at the hem of his shirt next.
Restless now.
Needing him closer in a different way.
“Take it off,” you murmured against his lips, voice quieter but certain.
He let out a low breath of a laugh at that—soft, almost disbelieving—but didn’t hesitate.
And when the shirt came off, you couldn’t stop your gaze from following.
Lean.
Warm-toned skin still carrying the faint trace of sun from Barcelona, from the days you had spent hidden away from the real world.
You took him in, without an ounce of shame. Enjoying how beautifully he looked infromt of you. Tanned skin, lean muscle, messy hair and still the slightest trace of adrenaline on his cheeks.
“You’re so pretty,” you murmured softly, like you didn’t even realise you’d said it out loud.
That made him huff a quiet laugh, something low and amused—but his eyes stayed on you the entire time.
You finally slipped off of the edge of the sideboard he had set you on earlier. Your hand drifted over his chest briefly—light, unthinking, familiar in the way it felt like you already knew him there.
Then you laced your fingers with his.
And tugged.
Guiding him toward the bed waiting in the centre of the room, like the rest of the world had already been left somewhere far behind the moment the door closed.
Oscar followed easily.
No resistance.
Just that small, knowing curve of his mouth still lingering as he let you lead him.
Not taking the control back, yet.
He let you have this moment.
Let you pull him in.
Because both of you already knew—
it was only a matter of time before he did.
❁✿❀❁✿❀
oscarpiastri
Red Bull Ring
oscarpiastri Great weekend
Liked by charles_leclerc, alex_albon, hattiepiastri and 312,847 others
gridchaos: NO BC THAT’S LITERALLY THE SAME HUG FROM THE GOSSIP POST JUST THE OTHER SIDE I’M NOT INSANE
oscarstan: y’all need to relax it’s a HUG 😭
kkimislover12: “just a hug” yeah okay 💀
paddockwatcher: BLONDE GARAGE GIRL MADE IT INTO THE PHOTO DUMP 😭
op81lover: THIRD TIME. THIS IS THE THIRD TIME.
gridupdates: SLIDE 4 AND 8????? HELLO????
paddockdetective: timeline check:
monaco sightings → barcelona → “stayed longer” → garage hug → THIS
op81fan: OH HE’S TAKEN TAKEN. LIKE DOWN BAD GONE 😭😭
f1fanatic92: NO BC THIS IS “SHE’S THE ONE” ENERGY I’M SICK
gridchaos: he is NOT coming back from this I fear
f1tea: oh it’s OVER over 😭
oscarupdates: guys it’s literally just a hug please
kkimislover12: JUST A HUG???? be serious
olliebearman: again???
olliebearman: i’m learning things from instagram at this point
sunsetandcircuits: "great weekend” FOR WHO OSCAR
gridrumours: i’m not saying it’s confirmed but i’m also not NOT saying it’s confirmed
antonellination: this fandom builds relationships out of elbows and hair strands 😭
bambialbon23: okay but this hug is NOT giving “just friends”
f1tea: this man soft launches like it’s a netflix series
f1fanatic92: I RECOGNISE THAT HAIR I SWEAR
monacogpqueen: not the hair analysis again 💀
papayawife: whoever she is… she keeps winning
tracksidefan: why does he look so comfortable though…
oscarstan: because it’s a HUG 😭
kkimislover12: this is not a hug era anymore this is RELATIONSHIP era
gridchaos: SLIDE 8 + GARAGE PIC MATCH I’M DONE
randomfanaccount: i came for race pics why am i in a relationship investigation
f1fanatic92: HE’S SMILING DIFFERENT LATELY I’M JUST SAYING
oscarpastry: NOT THE “HE LOOKS HAPPIER” THEORY AGAIN 😭
paddockdetective: the TIMING of this post after the garage pic…
gummygunk
ellievsbear
kaledo-art
jbbartram-illu
