SUMMARY: it won't be that bad to hope for something to happen between you and oscar, right?
REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.
WARNINGS: angst but happy ending, inspired by my favorite movie 'sixteen candles', alternative universe wherein oscar is not an f1 racer but a uni boy, a little cliche (just bc), not proof read, and a little typographical errors
WORD COUNT: 15.1k
AUTHOR’S NOTE: i honestly don't know what to say. this had been in my drafts for months now (since last year), and also, happy 2026. a lot of things had happened to me, that's why i have to be inactive for a while. been dealing with some stuff. i offer this word vomit of a fic to you guys. i hope you'll like it :)
p.s. i'm not completely sure when i'll be able to do an update again with my op81 socmed au. i need to get my shit together first. also, i might disappear again right after, so i'm very sorry in advance.
The sound of your mother’s laughter filtered through the thin walls of your house that one Saturday morning. She was talking to someone over the fence—again. You didn't really have to look to know who she was talking to. There was only one person she chatted with animatedly at eight in the morning on weekends—Mrs. Piastri. You were still in your Pajamas, brushing your teeth when you heard your mother call your name.
“—and she’s up now, she’s awake!”
You froze mid-brush, toothbrush hanging limply from your mouth. “No,” you mumbled around the foam, “no, no, no—”
But by then, it was already too late. There was a light knock at the door connecting to the side gates of your houses, followed by an all too familiar voice.
“Your mum says you’re awake.” Oscar said, tone flat but amused.
“I hate this neighborhood arrangement.” You said, spitting out the toothpaste, and out onto the hallways.
Oscar leaned against the doorframe, wearing that usual half smirk he did whenever he was amused with you. His hair was messy, a clear sign that he had just woken up too, but he already looked too effortlessly put together for someone who had just rolled out of bed. You noticed, with slight annoyance and something else you did not want to name, that he wore the same black hoodie he always did when it was chilly.
“Morning to you too,” he replied, eyes flicking over your sleepy state. “You’ve got, uh…”
“What?”
He motioned vaguely to your mouth, “toothpaste.”
“Oh, uh,” you wiped it quickly, cheeks heating up. “Thanks.”
“Anytime,” he said, biting back a grin. “Mum said you’re coming to campus early for your Saturday class. You still need a ride?”
You sighed, heading back to your room to get dressed. “Yeah, just give me ten minutes.”
Ten minutes, of course, turned into twenty-five. By the time you walked out of your front door, bag slung over your shoulder and hair hastily tied up, Oscar was already leaning against his car—arms crossed, pretending to check the time on his phone like he always did.
“You know,” he said dryly, opening the passenger door for you, “for someone who complains about my driving, you sure love making me wait.”
You slid in at the front seat with a mock glare. “You don’t drive fast. You drive like an eighty-year-old man who’s terrified of speed bumps.”
Oscar raised an eyebrow as he got inside the driver’s seat. “Well I’m sorry that I value my life and my passengers by not dying in traffic.”
“Tragic.” You said, buckling in.
“You’re so dramatic.” He rolled his eyes, but his lips twitched.
“Comes with studying medicine.” You said, clicking on his dashboard screen.
The speakers hummed softly before you connected your phone via bluetooth, and, as always, you went straight to your favorite playlist—basically a whole spotify playlist of songs from your favorite rom-com movies of all time. The intro chords of Stephen Bishop’s song, It Might Be You filled the car, and you turned the volume up just enough to make Oscar groan.
“Again?” He said, dragging out the word.
“Yes, again!” You said brightly, leaning back in your seat. “This song is a masterpiece, don’t tell me it doesn't make you feel things!”
“It’s from 1982.”
“So? It is literally the golden era of love songs.” You tapped your fingers on your thigh in rhythm. “This song is about fate, you know. About finding the right person when you least expect it. It’s timeless, Oscar.”
He gave you a sidelong glance, that subtle little smile tugging at his lips. “You’ve given this speech, like, fifty times now.”
“And yet you still don’t appreciate it enough!” You said, turning up the volume again and starting to sing along—loudly and exaggeratedly. “Time, I’ve been passing time, watching trains go byyyy—”
Oscar just groaned. “Oh my god.”
But he didn't stop you, he never did. By the time you reached the chorus of the song, you could see Oscar trying not to smile. You stretched your arm towards him dramatically, pretending like you were serenading him from the passenger seat.
“It might be you, all of my life!”
He burst out laughing, finally shaking his head. “You’re ridiculous.”
“You love it, though.”
“Debatable.”
“Liar.”
It was always like this, the easy banter. The quiet moments that didn't need words. The comfort that came from years of friendship, the kind that made you forget where the line between ‘best friend’ and ‘something else’ really was.
You and Oscar grew up side by side—matching scraped knees, shared ice creams, your mothers gossiping over the fence while you and Oscar built lego towers that always collapsed. He was awkward even as a kid, quieter than most, but you would always find his dry humor very charming. Somewhere between high school and university, though, he had grown taller, jaws became sharper, and his smile more boyish—and somewhere along that blurry timeline, you had started falling. But you had never told him, you never would.
Oscar had that effect on people—being the kind of quiet that made you want to fill the silence, the kind of presence that felt safe, steady, and real. Maybe that’s why it hurts sometimes, because you knew that while you were quietly memorizing the way he smiled, Oscar probably just thought you were being your usual loud, dramatic self.
Halfway to campus, the song had already switched to another track. The moment you noticed it was no longer It Might Be You, you reached for your phone again to replay it.
Oscar swatted your hand lightly. “Nope.”
“Excuse me?”
“We’ve listened to that one enough.”
“I’m not done absorbing the emotions!” You protested.
He just gave you a look that said he had heard this line before. “You listen to that song like it’s your religion.”
“That’s because it is,” you said solemnly. “It’s the perfect love song. Don’t you ever wonder what it would be like to just know someone’s the one?”
He blinked, hands gripping the steering wheel a little tighter. “I don’t think it’s that simple.”
“Of course not, never said it was,” you said softly, staring out the window. “But I think you just feel it. Like one day, you wake up, and you realize you’ve been looking at the same person all along, and all of a sudden, it makes sense. It’s them.”
“You really believe that?” Oscar replied, a little quieter now.
“I do.” You smiled faintly.
He nodded slowly, eyes still on the road. “Yeah, I can tell.”
You laughed softly at his reply, but your chest felt warm in that painful, familiar way. You wanted to tell Oscar that it’s you. That every time you sang that song, it was not just for fun. It was because every word of it reminded you of the way he had been there for years—steadily, unknowingly, and the boy next door who had somehow become the center of your heart.
But you didn't say it. Instead, you just turned the volume back up, singing the chorus again while Oscar shook his head with the fond, quiet smile that you had grown too attached to, and in that car, between laughter, music, and unspoken feelings—you decided that if you had to carry this secret forever, it was okay with you. Because, even if he never knew, even if he never felt the same way, it still might be him.
All your life.
It was one of those rare evenings when the roles were reversed. Usually, Oscar would be the one leaning casually against the wall across from your lecture hall, backpack slung lazily over one shoulder, scrolling through his phone while waiting for you to finish class. But tonight, it was you standing outside his lecture hall—tired but still patient, your tumbler being held by your right hand, and your books being clutched by your left hand against your chest.
The corridor buzzed faintly with voices from the other rooms—footsteps echoing, people laughing, and the faint squeal of rubber soles against tile. The light outside had dimmed into a dusky orange, the kind that seeped through the hallway window and painted the white walls gold. You checked the time on your phone, Oscar’s running late.
“Come on, Piastri.” You murmured softly, shaking your head.
You tried distracting yourself by doom scrolling between different apps, but your focus kept slipping towards the door of their lecture hall. You could faintly hear a professor’s voice inside, muffled and monotonous. You smiled to yourself, picturing Oscar fighting to stay awake, pen tapping lightly against his notebook as he zoned out. When the door finally opened, a flood of students poured out—some were chatting, yawning, and rushing towards the vending machines. Then, there he was.
Oscar walked out, laughing softly at something that was beside him had said, and that someone was Lily Zneimer. You froze for a split second, the same smile you had been wearing faltering just slightly. Of course you knew who Lily was, everyone in the faculty did. Bright, kind, effortlessly composed—she’s the type of person that people would usually gravitate towards.
You had worked on a charity project together once, where you went to an underserved remote area, she’s the one that the engineering faculty sent to go with you. Lily was genuinely lovely, the kind of girl who said your name softly when she spoke to you, who remembered details about people, and who always had encouraging words to offer. Now, she was walking next to Oscar, her hair falling gracefully over her shoulder as she laughed at something he said. He looked very relaxed, hands in his pockets, that faintly amused smirk on his lips, the one you always saw when he was in a good mood.
There was a small pinch in your chest. You didn't know why exactly, or maybe you did, and you just don’t want to admit it yourself. You took a quiet breath, straightening up, and decided to just wait until they were done talking, since you didn't want to interrupt. So you just stood there, pretending to check your phone, pretending that your pulse was not doing that weird thing it did whenever Oscar smiled.
After a few moments, Oscar’s eyes lifted and spotted you down the hall. His expression softened, and that familiar, small, lopsided smile appeared on his face. The one that always felt a little too fond, too easy. You lifted your hand and gave him a small wave, smiling back. He nodded slightly before turning to say something to Lily—probably to say goodbye, you guessed. She smiled at him, and then waved before walking in the opposite direction, her friends calling out to her from down the corridor. Just like that, it was you and him again.
Oscar walked towards you, his bag slung over one shoulder, hair slightly disheveled from running his hand through it, which is something he did often when he was tired or distracted.
“Hey,” he greeted, voice easy and casual. “Sorry, class ran a bit over.”
You smiled, forcing the cheerfulness into your tone. “It’s fine. I figured you’d be late, engineering people, right? Always overachieving.”
“Right,” he chuckled. “Because med students never stay late in the lab or anything.”
You grinned at him faintly, brushing off his teasing. Then, because you couldn't help yourself, the words slipped out of your mouth before you could even try and stop them.
“You and Lily looked good together.”
You said it with the intention of it only being a joke, with tone light and sing-song, as if you were just teasing Oscar. You even raised an eyebrow and nudged his arm slightly, like you were daring him to laugh. However, you did not expect him to go along with it.
Oscar looked down at you, smiling faintly. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.” You blinked.
He shrugged that looked entirely too casual, and then said, “she’s nice. I kinda have a little crush on her, actually.”
The words hit you like an ice cold rush of water. For a second, you could not breathe properly. You tried to school your face into something neutral, supportive, but you could only feel your chest tighten anyway. You forced a laugh, one that came out softer than you meant it to.
“Oh? Really?”
“Yeah,” Oscar nodded, shoving one hand into his pocket, tone almost bashful—but in that kind of quiet and awkward Oscar way. “I don’t know…she’s smart, funny, and kind of easy to talk to.”
“She’s really sweet,” you said lightly, smiling. Even though it felt like your cheeks were made of glass. “And she’s one of the best in your year, right? You two make sense, actually.”
Oscar gave a small laugh. “You think so?”
“Yeah, of course.” You replied, staring ahead as the two of you started walking towards the university parking lot. “You’re both on the same program, probably understand each other’s brainy conversations about mechanical…curcuits? Or whatever you guys talk about.”
“Oh wow,” he said, glancing sideways at you with a teasing grin. “You really have no idea what we do, do you?”
“Nope,” you said, popping the ‘p,’ and laughing softly. Grateful that Oscar took it as a joke. “I just pretend to understand whenever you talk about equations.”
He smirked, kicking a small pebble on the path ahead of him. “Good to know. I’ll stop pretending to understand all the medical terms you throw around, then.”
“That’s fair.” You chuckled faintly, gripping your books and tumbler a little tighter.
The silence that followed was not uncomfortable, but heavier than usual. Usually, your walks with Oscar back to the car were filled with banter—snide remarks, shared laughter, and your voice bouncing off his quiet hums. But tonight, it was a little bit different. You could hear the faint rustle of leaves, the low chatter of students heading home, and beneath all that, the steady rhythm of your heart trying to pretend that everything’s fine.
You looked at Oscar from the corner of your eye—his relaxed posture, the way his hair fell into his eyes, faint trace of a smile that was still lingering on his lips as if he was lost in thoughts, which you think that he’s probably thinking about Lily.
“Soooo,” you swallowed hard, smiling, and forced a bright tone. “Are you gonna ask her out?”
Oscar laughed softly. “I don’t know. Maybe.”
“Maybe?” You echoed.
“I mean,” he glanced at you, eyes amused. “She’s great, yeah. But I don’t think I’d have much of a chance.”
You frowned. “And why not? You’re Oscar Piastri. You literally have people in our year who blush when you talk to them.”
“That’s not true.” He rolled his eyes.
“It is,” you said. “Trust me on this one, I’ve seen it with my own two eyes. You just don’t notice because you’re too busy pretending you don’t care.”
Oscar chuckled under his breath, shaking his head. “You give me way too much credit.”
“Eh, maybe.” You replied softly.
But your voice came out quieter this time, barely above the sound of the gravel under your shoes. You smiled faintly, looking up at the darkening sky, and tried not to think about the dull ache that was growing somewhere deep in your chest. You wanted to say something else, something that would change the subject, lighten the mood, but the words stayed trapped behind your smile.
So instead, you kept walking beside him, shoulders brushing against each other every now and then, your laugh a little too soft, voice a little too casual, and somewhere in the quiet, between the sound of your footsteps and the memory of that song that always played inside of his car, you realized something—maybe the most cruel part of loving someone in silence is not that they do not love you back, but that they could look at someone else the way you had been looking at them all along.
The days began to fall into a rhythm that you didn't quite enjoy, but accepted it anyway—because that’s just how things were now. Every afternoon, the familiar routing repeated itself. You would finish your lab work, exhausted but patient, and then make your way towards the engineering building to wait for Oscar.
Waiting for Oscar used to be a small and comforting part of your day. You would lean against the wall outside his lecture hall, maybe scroll again through your phone, sometimes you’ll hum to yourself while counting the minutes until he gets out. Usually, he would be the first one to spot you, his face lighting up a little as he waved and walked over to you. But lately, that small, familiar joy had been replaced by something that is quieter, something that pressed against your chest whenever the door opened and you saw him walking out beside Lily.
You did not mind, that it was fine—unless that’s what you tell yourself. But you were starting to get really good at lying to yourself, and today was no different. You stood by the side of the hallway, your bag heavy on your shoulders—filled with your lab coat, goggles, notes, and everything else from your day of endless experiments and dissections. Your other hand held your tumbler, which you hadn't even opened yet because you were too tired to care. The white tiles under your shoes gleamed faintly under the hallway lights, and the faint hum of the air conditioner filled the space around you.
It had been a long day. A very long day. The kind of long that made your limbs ache and your mind fog over. You had been at the lab since eight in the morning, measuring, testing, writing, redoing—and now, it was almost seven in the evening. You didn't even have any energy left to scroll through your phone. You just stood there, staring blankly ahead, exhaustion heavy in your bones.
When the door to Oscar’s lecture hall finally opened, your eyes automatically flickered towards it. Students filed out in twos and threes, chatting quietly as they passed, and there he was again—Oscar, walking beside Lily, papers in hand with the faintest smile on his face. You didn't know if it was because you were tired or just completely something else, but seeing Oscar and Lily together made that familiar dull ache return. It was not jealousy, not really. It was something that is much softer, sadder. The kind of pain that came from watching something slip away from your grasp that you never really had in the first place.
They look good together, you couldn't simply deny that. Oscar was tall and quiet, awkward in the way that made people want to lean in closer, whereas Lily was poised and warm, the kind of girl who made everything around her seem lighter. Then there’s you—you were just there. Standing on the sidelines, with your heavy bag and tired eyes.
You waited until they finished talking. You didn't want to interrupt, you never did. You watched Lily laugh softly at something Oscar said, the sound echoing faintly down the corridor. You watched the way he looked at Lily—not with intensity, but with quiet interest. You had seen that look before, it was the same one Oscar had when he found something fascinating, something worth understanding. It took him a little while before his eyes finally lifted and found you.
When they did, his face broke into that familiar, gentle smile—the one that felt like it belonged only to you. You gave him a small wave, returning his smile with one of your own, though yours was a little tighter, a little more tired. Oscar said something to Lily, probably goodbye, and she smiled before heading in the opposite direction, her books hugged to her chest. You exhaled quietly as he walked towards you, pushing his hair back with his hand.
“Hey,” he said, voice soft but bright. “You’ve been waiting long?”
You shook your head, forcing a little smile. “Not really. I just got here.”
It was a complete and total lie—you had been there for nearly twenty minutes, but you didn't have the energy to make Oscar feel bad.
He frowned slightly, studying you. “You look exhausted.”
“I am,” you admitted with a quiet laugh, rubbing your shoulder. “We had back-to-back lab sessions today. My brain’s basically mush.”
Oscar chuckled softly, adjusting the strap of his bag. “Mush, huh? Is that the medical term?”
“Yeah,” you gave him a small grin. “Very scientific.”
He smiled, and for a moment, it felt like things were normal again. The easy rhythm of your friendship falling into place. But your body was too drained to keep up the usual banter, so the silence stretched longer than it usually did. As the two of you started walking towards the parking lot, you could hear the faint crunch of gravel beneath your shoes, and the rustling of trees overhead. Oscar glanced sideways at you a few times, like he wanted to say something, but each time, he stayed quiet.
“You and Lily seem to be spending a lot of time together lately.” You said finally, trying to keep your tone light, casual.
“Yeah,” he nodded, not catching the way your fingers tightened slightly around your water bottle. “We got paired up for this big project. Counts for, like, half our final grade.”
You nodded. “That’s great. You two make a good team.”
“Yeah, she’s—” he started, then paused. “She’s really smart. Organized, too. Keeps me on track.”
You forced another smile. “Sounds like you need that.”
“Probably.” He grinned faintly.
You modded, looking straight ahead. You didn't say anything else. You don’t trust your voice right now to sound as casual as you wanted it to. But, inside your mind, your mind wouldn't stop spinning. You told yourself that it was okay, that this was just how things went sometimes. You had known Oscar your whole life, and if anyone deserved something good, it was him, and Lily—she was as good as they came. Of course they would make sense, they would fit together in a way that you and Oscar never would.
Lily Zneimer was perfect. She was soft spoken, radiant, effortlessly graceful—she is the kind of girl who made people look twice, and you, well, you were just you. Loud, quiet other times, always somewhere in between. You were good at what you did, sure—top of your class too, focused, ambitious, but you are not Lily Zneimer. You couldn't compete with someone like her, not that you ever planned to. But still, that didn't make it hurt any less.
Oscar’s voice broke through your thoughts. “You’re really quiet today,” he said, glancing at you with concern. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Yeah,” you blinked, then looked up at him and smiled faintly. “Just tired. Labs all day, remember?”
“You sure?” He asked again, gaze lingering a little longer than usual.
“I’m sure,” you chuckled softly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “Just running on fumes.”
“Okay,” he said, tone still laced with a hint of worry for you. “You can sleep in the car if you want.”
You laughed quietly. “Tempting.”
Oscar laughed a little at that, unlocking the car door for you. As you slid into the passenger seat, you rested your head lightly against the cool window, eyes falling shut for a moment. You could hear him starting the engine, the faint hum of it filling the silence. For a brief second, you wished things could go back to how they were before—before Lily, before the paired project, before the quiet ache that had taken up residence in your chest. But you knew better. Some things were not meant to stay simple, and some things—like loving someone who didn't know, were meant to hurt quietly, in ways you would ever understand.
You just stayed silent, eyes closed, pretending to rest. When Oscar glanced your way again, concern was evident in his eyes, you smiled faintly to yourself—because even though your heart was aching, you still loved him enough to be happy that he might have found something who could make him smile that way.
The hum of the fluorescent lights inside the laboratory had long stopped being comforting. By now, it was a dull, persistent reminder of how late it was, how tired you were and how much you wanted to go home. The faint scent of disinfectant clung to the air, mixing with the sterile tang of metal instruments and faint traces of alcohol from the day’s endless experiments.
You glanced up at the clock above the door, nearly eight in the evening. You let out a quiet sigh, shoulders sagging as you placed your pipette down, double checking the label on the last sample before closing the lid on your lab kit. Other students were already packing up too, the scraping of chairs and quiet chatter echoing faintly against the tiled walls.
“Fucking finally,” you muttered under your breath, wiping your forehead with the back of your sleeve. “I can’t feel my brain anymore.”
Noelle, your lab partner gave you a tired laugh as she zipped up her bag. “Go home, you look like you’re about to fall over.”
“Don’t tempt me.” You smiled faintly.
Once everything was neatly tucked away—notes, gloves, goggles, and medical tools, you slung your bag over one shoulder and grabbed your tumbler, still half-full from this morning. The hallway outside was dim and quiet now, most classes were already done for the day. You could feel the weight of the week pressing down on you—fatigue seeping deep in your bone, dryness of your throat, and stiffness in your hands.
As you pushed the lab door open, you let out a breath that you did not realize that you were holding—relieved that the long day was finally over. But then, you stopped on your tracks, because standing just outside the lab, waiting, was Oscar. Next to him was Lily.
For a brief moment, your mind went blank. Your footsteps faltered just slightly as your eyes took in the sight of them—Oscar in his usual hoodie and jeans, leaning against the wall, with his arms crossed, and expression relaxed as he said something to Lily that made her laugh. Lily’s hair gleamed under the hallway lights, posture perfect and graceful, as if she was not the least bit tired despite the late hours. You didn't know what to feel exactly, there was a strange twist in your chest, mix of surprise, confusion, and that small stubborn ache that had been sitting in you for weeks now. Still, you smiled, tight lipped and polite, clutching your tumbler a little too firmly in your hand.
“Hey.” You greeted, voice soft, and trying to sound normal.
Oscar’s eyes lifted at the sound of your voice. His expression quickly changed—a familiar kind of warmth lighting up his face, the kind that always made something inside you flutter, despite your best efforts.
“Hey,” he replied, pushing off the wall. “You took your time.”
You gave him a small laugh, it sounded weak but genuine enough. “Sorry, the lab ran late again. We had so many samples to process today.”
“Med students are built differently,” Lily chimed in, smiling kindly at you, and tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “I could never do that many hours straight.”
You smiled back at her. “Trust me, neither can I.”
Oscar chuckled softly, watching the exchange between you and Lily. You glanced down at your watch, it was already 8:12 pm. The realization that they had both been waiting thus long hit you, and something about that did not sit quite right in your chest.
“You should've gone home first,” you said, looking up at Oscar. “I could've just taken the bus.”
“Not a chance.” Oscar replied almost instantly. “Mum would actually murder me if she found out I left you here alone.”
His reply made you pause. For a heartbeat, you didn't know what to say. Though the words themselves were plain and simple, teasing, but the way he said it—a small hint of protectiveness in his tone, made you feel things. It made your chest ache in that familiar, traitorous way.
“Right,” you smiled faintly, though it didn't quite reach your eyes. “Can’t risk your mum’s wrath.”
“Exactly.” He grinned.
“Let’s go then,” you shifted the strap of your bag on your shoulder, trying to ignore the heaviness in your limbs and the slight wobble in your heart. “Before I actually fall asleep on my feet.”
Oscar nodded, starting to walk, but then he glanced back over his shoulder. “Hey, is it okay if Lily rides with us? She didn't bring her car today.”
“Oh,” you said softly, Oscar’s question catching you off guard. “Yeah, of course.”
“Are you sure?” He asked, tone careful.
“Yeah,” you repeated, managing a small smile. “It’s fine.”
It really was fine. It had to be.
The three of you started walking together towards the university parking lot, the night air was cool and quiet. You listened absently as Oscar and Lily talked about their project, something about simulation codes and structural testing that you don’t have any idea about. Their conversation flowed easily, it was the kind of conversation that only happens between people who understand the same language.
You trailed behind, nodding occasionally, not wanting to intrude in their conversation. When you finally reached Oscar’s car, you automatically went towards the backseat, only to realize that Lily had done the same thing. You both reached for the door handle at the same time, pausing awkwardly.
“Oh—sorry,” Lily quickly said, pulling back her hand from the door handle. “You sit there, please.”
“No, it’s okay.” You shook your head with a polite smile. “You can sit in front.”
“Are you sure?” She asked, hesitant. “I don’t want to impose—”
“Really, it’s fine,” you insisted, tone gentle. “Go ahead.”
Lily looked at you for a moment before smiling gratefully. “Thank you.”
“No problem.”
As you settled into the backseat, you buckled your seatbelt and rested your head briefly against the cool window, the city lights outside flickering faintly in the reflection. You caught a glimpse of Oscar as he got into the driver’s seat, adjusting the rear view mirror.
“Ready?” He asked.
“Yeah.” You and Lily said almost at the same time, and both laughed softly.
The car ride started quietly, the hum of the engine, the occasional sound of the tires rolling over the uneven pavement, and ghe faint murmur of Oscar and Lily’s conversation upfront. You chime in every now and then when they addressed you—small things and polite responses. But mostly, you just listened.
There’s no doubt that Lily was easy to talk to, you could see why Oscar liked her. She had this natural warmth that made the space feel lighter, her laughter easy and sincere. Every now and then, she would turn slightly in her seat to ask you something about your classes or how medicine compared to engineering, and you would answer with a smile. Though your words would always come out quieter and slower. You didn't trust your voice not to sound off.
From where you were seated, you could see the way Oscar would glance at Lily whenever she spoke—curious, attentive, and with that subtle smile tugging at his lips. You had seen that kind of expression before, Oscar had once looked at you like that during your late night study sessions or car rides that were filled with laughter. Now, it was all hers. You just decided to turn your gaze towards the car window instead, the soft glow of passing streetlights blurring into streaks of gold and white.
By the time you reached Lily’s place, you had managed to compose yourself again. She unbuckled the seatbelt and turned slightly to look at you from the front seat.
“Thanks again for letting me hitch a ride,” she said kindly. “You’re seriously too nice.”
You smiled. “It’s no problem. Get home safe, okay?”
“I will,” she said, and then looked at Oscar. “Thanks, Oscar. See you tomorrow.”
“See you.” He replied, voice soft, and his smile lingering as Lily stepped out of the car.
The door on the front seat closed gently, and then silence. The air inside Oscar’s car felt heavier now, quiet—almost deafening after all the light conversation. Oscar started driving again, hands steady on the steering wheel. You leaned your head against the window, feeling the cool glass against your skin, reflection faint in the passing lights. For a few minutes, neither of you spoke, until Oscar decided to break the quietness.
“You okay?”
You blinked, forcing a small hum. “Mhm? Yeah. Just tired.”
“Long day?” He glanced at you through the rearview mirror, eyes soft.
“Very,” you replied, smiling faintly. “I don’t think my legs remember how to function anymore.”
Oscar chuckled under his breath. “You’re gonna burn yourself out if you keep pushing like this.”
“Well, it’s basically in the job description for my program.” You said, voice tired but teasing.
He smiled at what you had said, but nothing else. The car fell into that quietness again, save for the low sound of the tyres against the road. Every now and then, you would catch him glancing at you in the mirror—quick, concerned looks that he probably did not even realize he was doing. When he finally pulled up in front of your house, you unbuckled your seatbelt, giving him a tired but genuine smile.
“Thanks for the ride. Goodnight, Oscar.”
“Anytime,” he said softly. “Get some rest, yeah?”
You nodded, stepping out of the car. “You too.”
Oscar waited until you reached your front door before he parked his on the garage of their house next to yours. You turned the key in your lock, exhaling deeply as you stepped inside. It wasn't until you were settling your bag down that you had realized that your tumbler was missing. You immediately frowned, checking the pockets of your bag, the counter, your jacket—nothing. Then it hit you, you must have left it in the backseat of Oscar’s car.
“Of fucking course.” You murmured to yourself, sighing and shaking your head.
You would get it from him tomorrow.
You never did get your tumbler back from Oscar. You realized it two days later, when you opened your bag to reach for it after class, and your hand met only the empty space. A hollow sigh escaped you, one that carried more than just the frustration of losing something small. You knew exactly where it was—on the floor of Oscar’s car, maybe rolling under the seat or tucked beside the door. You could have texted him, you could have asked, but somehow you didn't, because lately, Oscar was not just Oscar anymore. Yeah, he was Oscar, but now it became Oscar and Lily.
You thought it was just convenience. The two of them had been partners in a group project, so it made sense that they spent time together, working late, talking through code or design drafts. But the project had ended weeks ago, and still, Lily rode with you both now to and from university. You saw him and Lily together sometimes inside the university campus together—laughing, sharing those small, comfortable looks that you used to think only you understood. And maybe that is when realization had hit you again—maybe Oscar did finally made his move.
Meanwhile, you were sill the one staying late in the lab, surrounded by the sterile hum of machines and the echo of your own exhaustion. The embarrassment began to creep in slowly, until it became impossible for you to ignore. Every night you would leave the lab and find them both waiting for you—Oscar leaning casually against his car, Lily beside him, their silhouettes framed by the yellow glow of the campus lights. It was kind, maybe even sweet of him, but you just could not stand the thought of Oscar waiting there for you with Lily. You felt like an intruder in something that used to be yours.
One evening, after another long and draining day, you finally decided. You had just finished logging your lab results when you saw a message pop up on your phone.
Oscar [7:34 pm] : outside whenever you’re done :)
You [7:34 pm] : hey, if you’ve already been waiting for 15 minutes or so, you don’t have to stay.
You [7:35 pm] : you can just go home first, I’ll be fine.
Oscar [7:36 pm] : nah, it’s fine. we’ll wait.
You [7:36 pm] : oscar, seriously.
You [7:36 pm] : you don’t have to wait for me, especially since lily’s with you.
You [7:37 pm] : i can just take the bus or grab an uber ride home, it’s late anyway.
Oscar [7:40 pm] : you know mum will kill me if she finds out i left you here alone lol
You [7:41 pm] : then i’ll tell her it’s fine.
You [7:41pm] : i’ll talk to her myself if i have to.
You [7:42 pm] : i promise i’ll get home safely, okay?
Oscar [7:43 pm] : you sure?
You [7:43 pm] : yep :)
Oscar [7:44 pm] : 👍🏻
That was basically how it started with you going home alone at night. The first few nights felt strange, lab corridors were too quiet, the hum of the vending machine too loud. You got used to hearing your own footsteps echo as you walked to the bus top, the weight of your bag pressing down on your shoulder. You had plugged in your earphones and listened to the faint hum of your playlist that you didn't really pay attention to, mind too full and too emoty all at once. Yet, every night as you stepped out of the lab, you would find yourself glancing towards the parking lot out of habit, just to check and see.
Sometimes, you would caught a glimpse of Oscar’s car in the distance, headlights cutting through the dark, Lily in the passenger sear beside him. You would swallow down that quiet, stupid ache that bloomed in your chest and quickly look away, pretending you hadn't seen anything.
During your in-between breaks, it was all the same. You would sit at one of the benches by the university courtyard, notes open in front of you but your attention slipping elsewhere. Across the quad, you would see them together—Oscar carrying his backpack with that casual slouch of his, and Lily laughing at something he had said. They always walked close enough that their shoulders brushed. That small, simple sight would be enough to send a stinging feeling through your chest.
It was not jealousy to be exact. Or maybe it was. You didn't know anymore. It was more like realizing that something you had quietly cherished for years was slipping away—not taken, nor broken, just fading. Slowly and quietly, like it had never really belonged to you in the first place.
Days turned into weeks, and before you knew it, you and Oscar had started to drift apart. There was no argument, no falling out, just a gradual softening of things—conversations that used to be easy now felt forced, messages that used to come instantly now came hours later, if at all. Oscar became busy with Lily, you became busy with your own stuff. That was all there was to it. When you did see each other, it was different. Polite, a little distant, like two people who used to share everything but now didn't know where to start.
Then, your new class schedule came out, it felt like it was the quiet ending of it all. Your classes were now in the afternoons, while Oscar’s were still in the mornings. There was no point in riding together anymore. You didn't even mention it to him, there was no need. The change just happened naturally, besides he didn't asked.
Somewhere between the late nights in the lab and the quiet rides home alone, the rhythm you once had with Oscar had unraveled. Not in a sudden snap, but in a slow and steady unraveling that you could not stop. It was fine, people drift apart, that this was just a phase—part of growing up. Yet, every now and then, as you walked home with your bag heavy on your shoulder and the city lights flickering faintly in the distance, you couldn't help but think of the tumbler you left behind—the one still sitting at the back of Oscar’s car.
Weeks had quietly slipped by, the kind that blurred together in the haze of university life—labs, lectures, late nights, and the quiet sting in your chest that followed you around like a shadow. Somewhere in between those days, things began to shift again, though not in the way you expected.
Your parents had sat you down in the kitchen one Saturday morning. You were still in your pajamas, hair tied in a messy bun, sipping coffee while trying to finish your lab notes. Your mother cleared her throat first, exchanging a quick glance with your father, and you immediately knew something was coming.
“Sweetheart,” your mother began, tone gentle but deliberate. “We’ve been talking, you father and I, about your car.”
You looked up from your notebook. “Uh, what about it?”
“The mechanic says it’s done for. Completely.” Your dad gave a small sigh, pushing a few papers aside. “He doesn't recommend repairing it anymore.”
“Seriously?” You blinked. “I thought it just needed a new transmission.”
“He said even if he replaced that, the engine’s going to gove out sooner or later. It’s been over ten years, love. It’s time to let it go.” Your mother said softly.
“So…no car for me anymore?”
“That’s the thing.” Your father smiled, a little too amused for your liking.
That was when you noticed the small envelope your mother slid across the table. Curious, you carefully opened it, and inside was a key fob. New, shiny, and completely unfamiliar.
“Wait,” you blinked, looking up, completely caught off guard. “Is this—?”
“Your new car!” Your mother said excitedly. “Well, technically it’s ours until you graduate, but you’ll be the one driving it. It’s parked in the driveway.”
Your jaw dropped. “You got me a new car?”
“An SUV,” your father added. “Something reliable. You’ve been coming home late from the lab almost every night, and we don’t like the idea of you taking the bus alone. It’s not safe.”
“I can’t believe this.” You were still in disbelief, clutching the key fob.
“You’ve been working hard, sweetheart.” Your mother reached over, squeezing your hand. “You deserve something that makes things a little easier.”
“Thank you.” You said softly, meaning it.
“We also know about everything.” Your mother’s gaze softened even further as she added. “About Oscar, and how you feel a little embarrassed about him waiting for you with Lily.”
“What?” You blinked, heart tightening just slightly. “You knew about that?”
“You think we don’t notice?” Your father chuckled under his breath. “You’ve always been open with us, honey. We know you insisted on going home alone. We trust you.”
Your mother tilted her head. “You know, you could've just told Oscar to stop waiting for you. You’ve always been so considerate of everyone else’s time.”
“I did,” you said softly, stirring your coffee. “I did told him, and I told Aunt Nicole about it too. She was sweet about it, just worried, I think.”
“Of course she was,” your mother said. “They’ve always treated you like family.”
You smiled faintly at that. “Yeah, they have.”
By the time Monday rolled in, you were already used to seeing your new SUV sitting proudly in the driveway, a crisp shade of silver gleaming under the sunlight. You hadn't driven it to university yet, though—your schedule had been packed, and today, you were running late. Your 1:30 pm class starts in fifteen minutes, and you haven't even left the house. You were half-dressed, hair still damp from fhe shower, scrambling to shove your notes and laptop into your bag.
“You’re going to be late if you don’t move faster!” Your mother called out from downstairs.
“I know!” You called back, juggling your tumbler and stethoscope case before nearly tripping over your shoes.
After the whirlwind of chaos, you slung your bag over your shoulder, grabbed your keys, and called out a breathless goodbye to your parents.
“I’ll be home late! Don’t wait up!”
You jogged down the front steps, clutching your bag and keys, and then you froze. Leaning casually against the hood of his car parked right outside your house was Oscar. He looked completely at ease, hands in his pockets, head tilted slightly down as he scrolled through his phone. The sight of him, so unexpectedly familiar, made your heart stumble in your chest.
“Oscar?” You blinked, momentarily stunned.
He looked up immediately, faint smirk tugging at the corner of his lips. “Took you long enough.”
“What are you doing here?” You frowned slightly, walking up towards him. “I’m running late, I don’t have time to talk.”
Oscar shrugged, straightening up. “Good thing I’m driving then.”
“What?”
“Your class starts at 1:30, right? Mine too. We can go together, saves you time.” He replied, gesturing to his car.
“You don’t have to do that anymore, Oscar.”
“What do you mean I don’t have to?” He frowned slightly, pushing off his car.
“I mean, you don’t have to drive me anymore.” You said, fumbling with your keys. “Not unless my car breaks down again, which, I’m hoping won’t happen anytime soon.”
He blinked, confused. “You got a new car?”
“Yeah! My parents surprised me with a new one.” You said, proud and breathless as you gestured towards the shiny silver SUV parked a few feet away. “Apparently, they got tired of worrying about me going home alone from uni.”
“Exactly.” You smiled, walking towards your car, pulling open the passenger door and tossing your bag inside the front seat. “So really, thank you for driving me every day for the past few months. I owe you so much for that.”
“You don’t owe me anything.” He tilted his head, looking at you quietly.
“Come on, I definitely do.” You laughed softly, brushing it off. “You were basically my chauffeur for how many months. Just text me what you want in return—coffee, food, free tutoring, not that you really need it since you’re already smart, anyways. So whatever you want and it’s yours.”
Oscar let out a quiet scoff, almost amused. “That’s not how it works.”
“Well, too bad,” you said, grinning as you shut the car door. “Consider it a deal.”
Oscar stuffed his hands into his pockets again, brows furrowing slightly, like he wanted to say something more. But before he could, you nodded with a teasing lilt.
“Anyways, you should go now too. I’m sure you’ll still be picking up Lily along the way.”
You meant to what you said as a lighthearted joke, but something in his face changed slightly. There was a flicker of something you couldn't quite place. You didn't notice though, as you were already walking around to the driver’s side, smiling softly.
“Thanks again, Oscar.” You said sincerely, before opening the door and sliding in. “I’ll see you around, okay?”
Oscar hesitated, standing there for a few moments longer. Then finally, he nodded. “Yeah. See you.”
You waved at him through the car window as you started the engine, his reflection caught faintly in the glass—standing there beside his car, watching as you drove away for the first time in a long while. For the first time in months, you were the one leaving Oscar behind.
Days slipped into a peaceful and quiet rhythm—but the slower and duller kind of days, and somehow, it’s familiar enough that you learned to live with it. Waking up, driving to university in your new car, attending your classes, spending hours in the lab, and driving home. Alone.
But in all honesty, it took you a while to get used to the silence. You did not realize how much space Oscar’s presence had occupied in your day until it was gone. The sound of hum humming absentmindedly to some song on the radio, sarcastic little comment that he would throw in whenever you ranted about an exam or quizzes, or the quiet moments when neither of you talked but the silence never felt heavy.
Now, it did.
The first few days were the hardest. You would reach for your phone instinctively after class, about to text him ‘I’m done’ like you always did—only to stop halfway, your thumb hovering over the screen before you locked it again. You reminded yourself that this was fine, this was what you wanted—indepence, distance, and control over your own feelings. But still, sometimes, when you passed by the engineering building, you couldn't help but glance toward the entrance, half-expecting to see him there with his backpack slung over one shoulder, waiting.
Now, when you did see him, he wasn't alone.
In no time, Oscar and Lily had become a familiar sight around the campus—walking side by side, talking, laughing softly at something only they understood. It was as if they had their own little bubble. You never lingered long enough to stare, of course. Whenever you happened to cross paths with them, you would pretend to be busy or in a hurry, clutching your bag a little tighter and keeping your eyes trained on your phone. But you always made sure to greet them, at least politely.
“Hey, Oscar. Lily.” You would say with a small smile, your voice steady, but your heart not.
They would smile back, both kind and genuine. Lily would wave and Oscar would give you that small nod of acknowledgement, the same one he used to give you when you were waiting outside his classroom. But now, it all felt…different.
The last straw happened when you were sitting in the student lounge, halfway through revising your notes, when you overheard a group of engineering students talking a few seats away. Their voices carried easily through the quiet room.
“—so apparently, Oscar and Lily have been hanging out a lot lately.”
“Yeah, they’re not officially together yet,” another chimed in. “But, like, they might as well be. They’re basically inseparable.”
It all felt like a cold bucket of water had been splashed at you. You froze for half a second, pen hovering over your notebook. You told yourself to ignore it and just focus on the lines of text in front of you, on the ink, on anything else. But you heard it anyway.
“They’d make such a cute couple, to be honest.”
You forced a small, bitter smile and looked down at your notes again, pretending to reread the same sentence for the tenth time. You even nodded slightly to yourself, as if agreeing to something unspoken. But on the inside, it felt like something had quietly folded on itself—small, sharp, and painful.
By the time afternoon rolled around, you were already running on fumes. Everything that could go wrong had gone wrong.
You woke up late this morning, spilled coffee on your notes, forgot your ID inside your locker, missed a quiz because your lab session ran over time. Hell, you even dropped a petri dish, and while your professor had been very patient about it, the humiliation alone made your throat tighten. It was one of those days where the universe decided to test you, one small inconvenience at a time—as if it wanted to see how long you could hold it together.
Apparently, not very long.
Your last class ended later than usual. You stayed just long enough to hand in your lab report—movements stiff and mechanical. When the professor dismissed everyone, you packed up your things quickly, shoving your notes and laptop into your bag without any care at how messy it was. You didn't say goodbye to anyone, you just straight up left.
Your footsteps echoed against the empty hallways, breathing uneven as you clutched your keys in one hand and pushed open the door to the parking lot. The sun was already beginning to set, orange light bleeding across the concrete. It should have been a very pretty sight, but right now, it just felt so heavy. At a distance, you spotted your car from the distance, the familiar silver SUV that your parents had given you, now sitting quietly in its usual spot. You walked faster, not wanting to see anyone or talk to anyone.
Not Oscar. Not Lily. No one.
The moment you reached your car, you fumbled with the keys, and finally unlocked it with trembling hands. You opened the back door and threw, literally, your bag inside—the sound of your things hitting the seat and some of your things on the car floor echoed louder than it should have. You even threw your tumbler, the clanking of the metal sound reverberated as it hit the closed car door on the other side, you then slammed the door shut, and sank into the driver’s seat, body sagging against the leather.
You did not even start the engine.
Instead, what you did was you just sat there in complete silence. The kind of silence that was defeaning—no music, no laughter, no voice calling your name. Just your heartbeat, loud in your chest. And then, without any warning, something in you cracked. You gripped the steering wheel tightly, fingers white against the leather. The pressure built in your chest, a mix of exhaustion, frustration, and sadness—all of it all balled up and tangled until you could no longer tell them apart.
And before you even could stop yourself, you let out a scream. A raw, broken sound that tore from your throat before you even realized it was happening. The scream filled the car—loud, ugly, and desperate. It was the kind of sound that you did not even know you were capable of making.
Then came another. And another. Until the scream turned into sobs.
You leaned forward, resting your forehead against the steering wheel, shoulders shaking as the tears came—hot, unrelenting, and unstoppable. You didn't even know what exactly you were even crying for. Maybe it was the stress, maybe it was Oscar and Lily, and maybe it was everything all at once. You had been holding everything in for so long, telling yourself that it doesn't matter, that you were fine, that you had gotten used to it. But you weren't fine at all, you hadn't been for a while.
You covered your face with your hands, breaths coming in shaky bursts as tears fell down on your cheeks.
“I’m so tired.”
Your voice cracked, barely audible over the sound of your breathing. You were not just tired physically—though you were, completely. You were tired emotionally, mentally, in ways you could not explain. Tired of pretending it was okay, when in reality, it was not.
You just sat there for a long while, letting the tears run freely, until your chest finally began to loosen. The sky outside had darkened by the time your breathing steadied again. You wiped your face with a tissue from the tissue box inside your car, sniffling, and throat raw.
You started the engine, the soft hum of the car filling the silence. The headlights flickered on, cutting through the fading dusk. And even though the ache in your chest was still there—small, stubborn, and lingering, you took a deep breath and drove away. Trying to leave everything in the parking lot.
Weeks bled into months. A slow and colorless passing of time that made everything blur altogether. Your life had fallen into quiet predictability—classes, assignments, grocery runs, and long nights spent catching up on readings. The routine was steady, unchanging, and almost peaceful.
Almost.
The strange part was how easy it had been to slip out of rhythm with Oscar. There wasn't a fight, no harsh words exchanged, and no dramatic ending to your friendship. It just faded. One day you were sending each other memes and quick texts about random things, and the next, days turned into weeks of silence. Then it eventually became months.
You always reminded yourself that you’re both busy. He had his program, his relationship—or whatever it was going on with Lily. You had your coursework, internship preparations, and your life. You lived on the same street as him, yet somehow it all felt like worlds apart. Sometimes, when you would pass by the Piastri’s house, you would see his car parked outside, lights inside the house turned on, and laughter faintly spilling out from inside. You had wondered if he was there with Lily, or just his family. You would wonder if he ever thought of you at all.
Still, life went on.
So when the two-week break had been announced, you felt an overwhelming sense of relief. It was exactly what you needed. A pause, a breather from all the stress. And somewhere within those two weeks was your birthday, though this year, you would be spending it alone. Your parents had been upfront about it, they had a business trip abroad that would last a month, meaning they would miss your actual birthday. But they had celebrated early before leaving—a quiet dinner, thoughtful cake, a few gifts, and warm hugs. You told them not to worry, that you would be fine, and you’ll just treat your special day as your usual self-care day.
As the day approached, you couldn't help but think of Oscar.
Part of you hoped, stupidly, that maybe he would remember. That he would text you, and that he would show up at your door the way he always used to every year, grinning, holding a box of your favorite cake, and hearing him say, ‘you didn't think I’d forget, did you?’. But you didn't let that hope take root, you tried to be rational—it was not fair to expect anything anymore, things were already different now. Changes are always inevitable, and you can’t be stuck in the old usual routine that you used to have every year for your birthday.
When your birthday came, the day started in silence. You woke up to your phone buzzing with notifications, and your parents calling you on facetime. As you answered, you were greeted with an off-key ‘happy birthday’ from halfway across the world. Somehow, it made you cheer up on a glum day, laughing softly, your chest warming at the sight of their smiling faces.
“So what will you be doing today, sweetheart? Is Oscar coming over?” Your mother asked.
There was a slight hesitation before you answered, keeping your tone light. “I’m not sure, mom. He’s probably busy, but I’ll do something small here. Maybe bake myself a cake or something.”
“Send us photos, okay?” Your dad chimed in. “We’ll celebrate again properly the moment we get back.”
You promised them that you would, said your goodbyes, and hung up. Even Nicole, Oscar’s mother, sent you a text later that morning.
Aunt Nicole [10:43 am] : Happy Birthday, darling! Hope you’re enjoying your day ❤️
You [10:45 am] : Thank you, aunt Nicole! Hope you and everyone are doing well 🤍
You scrolled through your messages after that, your thumb subconsciously pausing over one contact—Oscar’s. The chat history was old now, filled with the kind of warmth that made your stomach twist when you reread it. You locked your phone before you could even think too much about it.
The hours passed by quietly. You baked yourself a small cake—vanilla sponge with whipped cream and strawberries, your favorite. You had done it more out of habit than excitement, but despite everything, it still felt nice. Plus, you love the smell of sugar and butter filling the kitchen. It didn't matter if you were celebrating alone, birthdays were just normal days, after all. But still, you found yourself glancing at your phone every so often, the screen lighting up with random notifications—group chats, university announcements, and social media, but never the one name you were hoping for.
By eight in the evening, the whole house was silent, save for the faint sound of the movie playing on the tv. Sixteen Candles. You had it paused midway through, the screen frozen on a frame, wherein Samantha’s disappointed face. You let out a soft sigh that sounded a little too much like hers—the irony was not lost on you.
You looked back from the couch you’re seated at, and stared at the untouched cake sitting on the dining table—frosting still perfect and a single candle standing straight at the center. The candle lighter you had used earlier was placed beside it, right where you had left it.
So, you stood up from the couch, stretched a little, and walked over to the table. The air smelled faintly sweet. You picked up the candle lighter, flicked it on, and watched the small flame catch onto the wick. The tiny flame flickered in the dim light of the dining room, its glow reflecting faintly on your face. You sat down on the dining chair, resting your chin on your palm as you stared at the candle, the warmth of it soft but lonely. You let out a quiet laugh—empty, almost bitter.
“Happy birthday to me.” You whispered to yourself, under your breath.
Then, softly, you blew out the candle. The smoke curled upward, fading quickly into the still air. You remained on your seat for a moment longer, chest heavy, the silence around you settling deeper. Then you reached for your phone, screen lighting up immediately. There was a message from your mother in the family group chat.
Mom [8:23 pm] : How did you celebrate today, sweetheart? Did Oscar come over? 🎂❤️
You stared at the message for a while, thumb hovering over the keyboard. Then you began to type.
You [8:30 pm] : Yeah, Osc came over! We just finished watching movies, and had some cake. It was fun! 🤍
You read the message twice before pressing send. A harmless lie, something small, and something that would make them worry less. Once the message was delivered, you turned your phone face down on the table and stood up. You walked back to the couch, pressing play on the movie again. The screen came alive, showing Samantha’s disappointed expression melting into a shy hope. You pulled a blanket over your legs and hugged a pillow to your chest.
You had seen Sixteen Candles more times that you could even count, you even made Oscar watch it with you once. He would groan halfway through, teasing you endlessly for loving something so corny, but he would stay until the end. You smiled faintly at the memory, even as your throat tightened, because right now, you felt exactly like Samantha—forgotten on her own birthday.
And no matter how much you try to convince yourself that none of it really matters, you couldn't just help the way your heart ached quietly in your chest. Wishing that somewhere out there, he would at least remember.
Throughout the two-week break, there was nothing from Oscar. No texts, no quick ‘hey,’ not even a reaction to an instagram story of the cake you baked. It was pure silence—defeaning, frustrating, painful silence. It’s fine, or so you thought. Tried to make peace with the fact that maybe things really did change for good between you and Oscar. You were not angry, just tired. You knew he had Lily, and you knew that meant you were not the center of his world anymore. You didn't even have the right to demand such things from him, let alone his time, much less expect him to remember your birthday. But still, when you found out from mutual classmates that he had spent your birthday out with Lily, something inside you wilted quietly.
The ache didn't come and swallow you all at once, instead it came in a form of little waves. You would be fine, then hear a song, or see a photo, or remember something he once said, and it would sting. You learned to breathe through it, to let the ache pass, to remind yourself that none of it was Oscar’s fault.
It was now the last night of your two-week break, and you had done nothing the entire day. You just let yourself wallow, drown in old romantic comedy movies, the classics and comforting ones. When Harry Met Sally, 10 Things I Hate About You, Pretty Woman, Notting Hill. You even found yourself laughing at the predictable endings, even though your chest tightened a little every time the credits rolled in and the couple kissed. By the time the final movie ended, it was already nine in the evening. The tv screen dimmed into darkness, and the only light came from the small lamp near the couch. You exhaled softly, stretching your arms over your head before standing.
“Alright,” you murmured to yourself, brushing off invisible crumbs from your sweater. “It’s time to hit the sack.”
You picked up the throw pillows that had fallen off of the couch and onto the floor, neatly arranging them back on the couch. Then you grabbed your empty mug from the coffee table, the one that still smelled faintly of cocoa, and made your way towards the kitchen. The house was quiet, eerily so, and the soft hum of the refrigerator was the only sound filling the silence.
As you were halfway to turning off the lights, you heard a knock coming from the front door. The knock was sharp, clear, and really unexpected. You froze for a second, fingers hovering over the light switch, frowning. Glancing at the wall clock—9:07 pm. Who would even be at the door at this time of hour? You didn't order anything. A neighbor? That’s unlikely, everyone on your street was quiet by this hour. Your heartbeat picked up a little as the knock came again, slightly softer this time.
You padded towards the door, floor cool against your feet despite wearing socks. You peeked through the small gap between the curtains, just for precautionary measures. When your eyes finally landed on who it was, your breath caught in your throat.
Oscar.
He was standing there, under the faint yellow glow of your porch light, hair slightly messy like he had run his hands through it too many times. He was wearing a dark hoodie and jeans, shoulders slightly hunched like he was not sure if he should even be there. In his hands was a big brown paper bag, and your eyes immediately recognized the logo printed on the side. It was a paper bag from your favorite bakery.
You blinked, disbelief clouding your mind. You thought that Oscar standing there, with a paper bag from your favorite bakery was just a figment of your imagination. That the exhaustion was playing tricks on you. But then he shifted his weight from one foot to another, glancing towards the door expectantly. Your fingers tightened around the doorknob before you could slowly unlock it and opened the door—just a little, taking a peek first.
“Oscar?” You said, voice cautious, soft. “What are you doing here? It’s already late.”
Oscar looked up, meeting your eyes instantly. For a moment, neither of you had said anything. Then he cleared his throat, paper bag crinkling slightly as he adjusted his grip on it.
“Hey,” he started, voice low. “Uh, I know it’s late. I’m sorry for just showing up like this.”
You blinked, opening the door a little wider. The cool night air slipped inside, brushing against you despite wearing a sweater.
“It’s uh, it’s okay.” You said slowly, still trying what to make of the situation. “But why are you here? It’s already past nine.”
Oscar nodded quickly, looking a little flustered. That’s when you noticed it. He was talking fast, words tumbling over each other like he had rehearsed this a dozen times inside of his head but was now panicking.
“I know. I know it’s late, and you probably—well, I mean, you are probably tired, and I just—look, I messed up, okay? I know I did. I was supposed to come by last week, I wanted to come by, but then Lily—no, that’s not an excuse, I just—things got complicated, and time slipped away, and then I realized I didn't even—”
“Oscar.”
He stopped immediately, blinking at you.
“Slow down. Please.” you said gently, voice calm but firm. “You’re talking way too fast. I can’t understand you.”
He took a deep breath, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. His eyes dropped to the floor for a second before meeting yours again. The look in them was a strange mix of guilt, sincerity, and exhaustion.
“I’m sorry.” He said again, but this time, more slowly. “I should've come earlier. Or at least called you. I didn't mean to forget your birthday.”
“I, uh,” you started, not really quite sure on what to say. “It’s fine, really. You didn't have to—”
“I did,” he cut in softly, shaking his head. “You always spend your birthday with me, and I just…I completely spaced out. I don’t even have a good excuse for it, to be honest. I just realized it too late, and I felt like crap the entire week about it.”
You stared at him, hand still resting lightly on the door. He shifted the paper bag again, holding it up to you slightly.
“So,” he said, lips twitching into a nervous half-smile. “I brought this for you. Lemon chiffon cake from your favorite bakery downtown. They were about to close, but I begged them to let me buy one. And, uh, there’s also that strawberry tart you like, and a few of those cookies with the chocolate center thing you always steal from me.”
“Oscar.” You murmured softly, glancing at the paper bag, then back to him. Not really knowing what else to say.
“I know it’s late. And I know I’m probably the last person you want to see after disappearing for so long. But I couldn't not come.”
You stood there for a moment, staring at him. In front of you was the boy who used to wait for you outside your classes, who would make sarcastic comments just to make you laugh, who used to know you better than anyone. And now here he was again, at your door, eyes sincere, and holding a paper bag full of the little things that reminded him of you. You let out a quiet sigh and finally stepped aside.
“Come on in.” You said softly. “Before the neighbors think you’re some weird late night delivery guy.”
Oscar let out a small, sheepish chuckle before stepping inside. The faintest hint of relief flickering across his face.
You were not really dressed for the occasion—hair still messy from lounging on the couch, oversized sweater, and your pajama pants were wrinkled from laying on the couch for hours. You hadn't expected company, much less him. Oscar, meanwhile, stood by the door in his hoodie, jeans, and sneakers, looking entirely out of place in the softly lit living room that smelled faintly of cocoa and vanilla candles.
He closed the door gently behind him, offering you a small, awkward smile before walking towards the dining table. You followed him, a few steps behind, watching as he carefully set the brown paper bag on the table. He carefully set the brown paper bag on the table, and opened it, pulling out a box and two small containers—the lemon chiffon cake, strawberry tart, and cookies.
“You really didn't have to—” you started, but he was already halfway through unpacking.
“Yeah, I did.” He simply said, not even looking at you, voice low and steady. “Trust me.”
You pressed your lips together and leaned against the counter, watching him silently as he opened the cake box. Oscar looked oddly concentrated, brows furrowed slightly, tongue poking the inside of his cheeks as he carefully peeled back the parchment paper. You noticed then that he was handling the cake as if it were some fragile, priceless artifact.
Oscar reached back into the bag and pulled out a handful of small, thin candles—so many of them that for a second, you actually thought he was joking.
You blinked, confused. “Uh, just how many candles did you buy?”
He gave you a brief glance, the corner of his mouth twitching up. “Twenty-four.”
“Twenty-four?” Your eyes widened. “Are you serious? That cake is going to melt before you can even light the last one.”
“The bakery ran out of those number candles,” he said, completely unfazed as he started sticking them one by one into the cake. “So I thought, why not just go classic? One candle for every year.”
“That’s insane.” You muttered as he continued arranging the candles in uneven circles. “You’re going to burn the house down before we even finish singing.”
Oscar just laughed under his breath. “Relax, I know what I’m doing.”
“Do you? Really?” You raised an eyebrow, crossing your arms. “Because that looks like a fire hazard waiting to happen.”
“Trust me, I’ve handled worse.” He said, looking up briefly at you, the glint of amusement in his eyes softening the tension that had been sitting between you. “Remember that time you almost set your lab coat on fire?”
You frowned, though there was a reluctant smile that tugged at your lips. “That was one time, Oscar. And I was under pressure.”
“Sure, future doctor.” He chuckled quietly, shaking his head.
You sighed and rolled your eyes at him, and didn't say anything else. Instead, you just stood there and watched him work—placing each candle carefully, adjusting their angles, and occasionally stepping back like he was inspecting an art piece. There was something strangely comforting about seeing him like this again, moving around your kitchen like he had done it a hundred times before, with the quiet hum of familiarity filling the room.
When Oscar was finally done, he took a small step back, exhaling softly. The cake looked ridiculous, it was like a bunch of tiny white candles scattered all over like some chaotic constellation, but there was something endearing about it too. You opened your mouth to tease him again, but before you could, Oscar turned towards you. His expression had changed, the playful glint was gone, and was replaced by something that’s quieter and heavier. He ran a hand through his hair, sighing softly.
“I’m sorry.” He said, voice low. “I know I already said it, but I need to say it properly.”
You blinked twice, caught off guard by the sudden shift in his tone. “Oscar, again, it’s fine. You don’t have to—”
“No.” He interrupted gently, shaking his head. “Please. Just let me.”
So you did. You hesitated, but nodded slowly anyway. He leaned against the edge of the table, eyes flickering briefly to the cake before settling on you.
“I was with Lily that day,” he said quietly, tone steady but filled with something that was almost akin to regret. “On your birthday. I shouldn't have been, but I was. And I’m not gonna make excuses for it.”
“It’s okay,” you said softly, forcing a small smile. “You don’t owe me an explanation.”
He shook his head again, more firmly this time. “Yeah, I do. Because I think you deserve one—scratch that, you do deserve one.”
The air between the two of you was still. You could hear the faint ticking of the clock on the wall, the hum of the refrigerator, and the soft rustle of the candles’ wicks brushing against each other. Oscar took a quiet breath, voice dropping even more softer.
“I did try going out with her. I thought I liked her—I mean, I did like her, for a bit. She’s smart, kind, and easy to talk to.”
Okay, ouch? No need to rub it in, Oscar. No need to rub it in. You thought to yourself.
“But…it just didn't feel right. None of it did.”
You swallowed hard. “What do you mean?”
“I realized it that night.” He glanced up again, eyes meeting yours, earnest and unguarded. “I realized that after I dropped her off, I was driving home, and for some reason, it felt all…wrong. Like I was forcing something that wasn't supposed to fit. I didn't know why at first.”
You just stayed silent, pulse quickening, and unsure where this conversation was going. Oscar gave a quiet laugh, almost self-deprecating.
“And I looked at my dashboard screen. The last song that played in my car was that stupid song that you kept on listening to a thousand times on repeat. The very same one you’d put on every single morning on the way to uni. I never changed it. Never even realized it was still there.”
You were about to complain how that song is not stupid, and a complete masterpiece. But he beat you to it, silencing you, and your heart lurching slightly.
“I just sat there,” he continued softly. “Staring at it, and then I saw your tumbler lying on the floor of the backseat—the one you always bring to class. I know because it’s the one that has those stupid cute stickers from your favorite video game. I don’t even know how long it’s been there. But seeing it there, hearing that song again…it hit me.”
Oscar paused, voice dropping lower. “You’ve always been there. A constant. Even when I wasn't looking, or when I was too stupid to notice, you were just…there.”
You didn't move. Couldn't move.
“I don’t know how I missed it for so long. I thought Lily was what I wanted, but when I was with her, all I could think about was—” he stopped himself, pressing his lips together. “I just knew it wasn't her. It was never her.”
Your heart was pounding as you remained standing there—staring at him as the meaning of his words began to sink in.
Oscar met your gaze again, eyes soft. “It might've taken me too long to realize it, but I think it’s always been you.”
The silence that followed was heavy but tender. It’s filled with years of friendship, stolen glances, and everything unsaid that finally found its way out.
Oscar didn't give you any chance to speak, because the moment your lips parted, ready to say something, anything, he simply reached out and took your hand. His touch was gentle, almost tentative, as if afraid you might pull away. His fingers wrapped around yours, grounding you back into the moment. Without a word, he guided you towards the dining table. You followed, still a little dazed, air thick with the quiet warmth of everything he had just said. You could only watch as Oscar leaned forward and began lighting the candles one by one. The flicker of each tiny flame reflected in his eyes, softening his features, and casting a warm gold against his skin.
It was oddly mesmerizing—the way he moved with such care, and expression tender. You stood there silently, the flicking sound of the candle lighter filling the quiet between you. Twenty-four little flames soon came to life, dotting the top of the cake like a constellation of light. And when the last candle was lit, Oscar exhaled softly, the match burning out between his fingers. He looked up at you and gave a small smile, boyish smile before he turned towards the light switch and flicked it off.
The room was instantly bathed in soft amber hues, with the only source of the light now being the flickering candles and pale blue spill of moonlight streaming in from the window. The shadows danced gently across the walls, and you swore your heart started beating louder, faster—like it somehow understood what was happening before your mind could catch up. You were about to ask what he was doing when Oscar turned back towards you, stepping closer again.
“Come here.” He said quietly, reaching for your hands again.
“What are you doing?”
“Get up.” He said softly, not answering your question.
Your eyebrows furrowed. “Uhm what?”
“Up on the table.” He said with a small smile still playing on his lips. “Trust me.”
“Oscar, there’s a cake with twenty-four lit candles on there. I’m not climbing up anywhere near that—”
“I’ll guide you.” He chuckled, squeezing your hand. “I promise I won’t let you fall. Just trust me, okay.”
“If we end up setting your hoodie on fire, I’m not responsible for anything.” You muttered.
“I’ll take my chances.” He said softly, lips quirking upward.
Oscar guided you carefully, one hand steady on your waist, the other helping you step up onto the sturdy wooden dining table. The candles wavered from the soft movement, wax beginning to melt in thin streams down the sides, but they held steady. Once you were sitting on top of the table, a little unsure, Oscar looked up at you, eyes catching the light in a way that made your chest ache.
“Okay, careful.” He said softly as he removed his sneakers, setting them aside neatly before climbing up in front of you.
“Be careful Oscar!” You warned, voice a little panicked. “If you fall, I’m not calling an ambulance. I’ll just pretend I don’t know you.”
He laughed. “You’d really abandon me like that?”
“Absolutely.”
“You’re lying.” He gave you that lopsided grin that made your heart twist.
You huffed a quiet laugh, but your focus drifted again—to the cake between you, candles’ golden glow illuminating both your faces. The warmth of the light danced across the planes of his face, outlining his jaw, cheekbones, and the small curve of his smile. And then the realization hit you again.
The cake, flickering candles, sitting on top of the table, and the soft golden haze of light. It felt familiar, like a memory you had always loved.
“Oh my god…” you whispered softly, eyes darting between him and the glowing came. “This is—”
He smiled knowingly, finishing your thought. “Sixteen Candles.” He nodded, gaze locked on you. “You loved that movie so much. You even made me watch it with you, like, five times. You kept saying it was one of the most perfect endings ever filmed.”
“You remember that?”
“Of course I do,” he said softly. “You said it was your dream birthday scene—someone showing up after everything, lighting all the candles, and just being there.”
“I can’t believe you actually remembered that.” You murmured.
“How could I not?” He chuckled quietly. “You wouldn't shut up about it for weeks after we watched it. You said Jake Ryan was the gold standard of fictional boyfriends.”
“And you said he was overrated.” You laughed weakly, shaking your head.
Oscar grinned. “Yeah. Guess I didn't know what I was talking about back then.”
His eyes softened as he took in the sight of you bathed in the golden candlelight—your face glowing softly, and the flicker of the flames reflected in your eyes. For a long, quiet moment, neither of you spoke. The air between you felt warm, delicate—suspended in that fragile space between what had been and what was finally becoming.
“Make a wish.” He said softly.
You blinked, eyes flickering from the candles back to him. He was smiling, the kind of smile that didn't need words behind it—one that felt like an apology and a promise all at once.
“A wish?”
“Yeah,” he nodded. “You have to, it’s your birthday.”
You looked down at the cake again, at the twenty-four flickering candles melting slowly into the frosting, wax dripping like liquid gold. For years, you had always had a wish ready—some small hope whispered to the air before blowing the candles out. But tonight, sitting on top of the dining table with Oscar, everything felt different. You felt full—overwhelmed, but in a way that made your heart ache softly instead of break. When you looked back up at him, your eyes glimmered with a quiet kind of certainty.
“I don’t have to.” You said softly.
Oscar frowned slightly, confused, a small crease forming between his brows. “Why not?”
“Because what I’ve been wishing for, it already came true.” You smiled faintly, voice barely above a whisper.
His expression softened completely, every bit of tension melting away. Oscar’s lips parted slightly, gaze locking on yours with that familiar warmth that used to make your heart race when you were younger, but now, it simply steadied it. You could see it in his eyes, the unspoken understanding, the apology, the realization that maybe he had always been moving toward this moment too, even if it took him a while to see it.
Oscar gently moved closer, his hand brushing against yours. Then another step, until you could feel the faint warmth of his breath against your face. Neither of you said anything. You didn't need to. He leaned in slowly, hesitating just an inch away—as if waiting for your permission, that this was okay. And in that moment, you met him halfway.
Your lips met softly. There was hesitation at first, then it became something deeper, warmer, and more sure. The world seemed to fade around you. The flicker of candles, faint scent of wax and lemon, the hum of the night—all of it melted into the quiet press of your mouths. It wasn't fireworks or fanfare, it was tender, like the calm realization of something that had always been there, waiting to be acknowledged.
When you finally broke apart, your foreheads stayed pressed together, breathing in the same small space, and smiling through the soft rush of emotions. Oscar’s thumb brushed against your cheekbone, tracing gentle circles along your skin as if memorizing it. His voice came out low and breathless when he finally spoke.
“It’s you.” He whispered.
“What?”
He smiled faintly, forehead still resting against yours, voice softer now—almost trembling with truth. “You’re the one I’ve been waiting for all of my life.”
“You really went there, huh?” You said in a quiet laugh.
“What?” He chuckled, brushing away a tear that you didn't know had slipped down on your cheeks with his thumb. “I figured it was fitting.”
“Of course you’d quote my favorite song now.” You rolled your eyes gently, still smiling.
“It’s been stuck in my head since the day I realized it was about you.”
Your breath hitched again, and for a second, you didn't know what to say. But maybe you didn't have to, because in that moment, everything you both had left unsaid finally made sense—every missed glance, every late night car ride, and every time you had chosen to stay when you could have walked away. You leaned forward, pressing your forehead against his once more, lips curving into a small, genuine smile.
“You’re late.” You whispered teasingly.
“Yeah.” He admitted quietly, smiling back at you, eyes soft and full of affection. “But I’m here now.”
The candles continued to burn between you, their flames swaying gently, reflections of the warmth that filled the quiet space. You still remained seated on top of the dining table—two people who had spent too long circling each other finally finding their way home. Oscar brushed his thumb along your jaw once more before leaning down and pressing a soft kiss against your forehead. His lips lingered there for a moment, gentle and reverent.
“You know, this is exactly how I imagined it would feel.” You couldn't help but chuckle softly.
“Then I’m glad I got it right this time.”
Then, Oscar leaned back just a little, thumb brushing your cheek once more before a sly grin began tugging at the corners of his mouth. You knew that look very well—half teasing, half trouble.
“What?” You asked, brows furrowing slightly as you studied him.
“I just remembered something.”
“What is it?” You raised an eyebrow.
“You owe me.” He said simply as he leaned in a little closer, eyes glinting playfully under the dim candlelight.
You blinked, a little confused for a second before realization dawned. You groaned softly, burying your face in your hands as you laughed.
“Oh my god, you actually remembered that?”
“Of course I did.” He said, tone teasing but light. “You told me to text you what I wanted in return for all the times I drove you to uni. I just didn't text.”
“So what?” You peeked up at him through your fingers, still laughing. “You’re finally cashing it in now?”
“Well, I’ve been thinking about it for a while.” He said, pretending to think about it. “And I’ve decided—and no, I don’t want coffee, or food, or free tutoring, or your first-born child, before you even offer it.”
“Oscar!” You burst out laughing, swatting at his arm lightly.
“What?” He asked, feigning innocence, though his grin was impossible to miss. “You said anything. I’m just narrowing down the list.”
“Alright, fine. If not any of those, then what do you want?”
“A date.” He said simply, direct to the point. “With you.”
“A…a date?” You repeated quietly, voice barely above whisper.
“Yeah.” He said, smiling. “A proper one. No car rides, no quick coffee runs between classes, no late night study sessions pretending we’re not tired. Just you and me. That’s what I want.”
“You’re serious?”
“Completely.” He nodded once, then grinned. “Unless, of course, you’d rather pay me back with tutoring. I’ll just probably get all the answers wrong on purpose just to spend more time with you.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” He said, smiling widely. “But you like me that way.”
You rolled your eyes, trying and failing to hide the smile tugging at your lips. “You really don’t forget anything, do you?”
“Not when it comes to you.” He said simply.
The words hung in the air between you, soft and unhurried, sinking deep into the quiet space that only the two of you occupied. You felt something inside you settling—peace, warmth, and something like home.
“Alright.” You said softly, smiling. “A date.”
“Good.” He whispered, gaze flicking down to your lips briefly before returning to your eyes. “Because I’ve been waiting a long time to ask you that.”
Before either of you could say anything else, the last of the candles flickered out between you—leaving the two of you standing in the soft glow of the moonlight, smiling. Hearts finally catching up to what your souls had always known.
fia’s note: i honestly hadn’t planned to make this a dad!luke series… but you guys loved it so much (and honestly, i’m kind of obsessed with it too) that i decided, why not make it a series!! so here’s your official dad!luke masterlist, grab a snack, get cozy, and prepare for all the fluff, and pure happiness that comes with snoopy, little luce, and their little family. i don’t do a taglist for this series, but if you want to be tagged just for this one, there’s a spot on my general taglist form that asks ‘are there specific series you want to be tagged in?’ just let me know you want to be tagged for ‘happiness is a blanket’ and you’ll get notifications for new chapters in this series only.
Row 14, seats 7 and 8. Your father jokes that they’re older than you are, that they’re practically part of the family. He pats the plastic armrest every match like it’s a dog that’s followed him home.
“Home sweet home,” he says as you both step into your row, the stadium already buzzing. “Best view in the world, eh?”
You smile, tucking your scarf tighter around your neck. “You say that every time.”
“And I’ll say it when I’m eighty,” he replies, dropping into his seat with a groan. “They’ll have to carry me out.”
You sit down next to him, your heart already beating a little too fast. The players are finishing their warm-up. You know exactly which one you’ll start watching.
Your father elbows you lightly. “He’s starting again,” he says. “Your boy.”
“He’s not my boy,” you mumble, staring determinedly at the pitch.
“Sure, sure,” your father says, but his grin is maddening. “The way you scream when he scores, you could’ve fooled me.”
You open your mouth to protest, but your eyes find him,Lamine,jogging toward the sideline to take a last drink of water. He’s laughing at something one of his teammates says, and then he glances up.
You swear he’s looking right at your section.
Your lungs forget how to function for a second. He shields his eyes from the stadium lights with one hand, scanning. Row 14. Your row. Your seat.
No way he’s actually,
His gaze catches yours.
It’s barely a second. A flick, a lock, a tiny familiar jolt that hits you square in the ribs. His mouth curves, just a bit, like he’s found what he was looking for.
You go rigid.
Your father frowns. “You all right?”
“Fine,” you squeak.
“You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
“Don’t be dramatic,” you say, heat crawling up your neck.
On the pitch, the whistle blows. The match begins.
It started a few weeks ago,at least, that’s when you noticed it.
He’d pulled off some ridiculous run, dribbling past two defenders, and you’d reacted before your brain could intervene. You’d stood up, hands clasped to your chest, and shouted his name like he’d personally saved your life.
When the ball hit the back of the net, the stadium exploded.
You jumped. You screamed. You beamed so hard your cheeks hurt, spinning to your father.
“Did you see that?” you gushed. “Did you,he just,he went past both of them,”
“Easy, easy,” your father laughed, grabbing your coat so you wouldn’t tumble forward. “You’ll end up on the pitch at this rate.”
When you turned back, breathless, Lamine was jogging toward the corner, teammates piling onto him.
And then, mid-celebration, he looked up.
Straight at your section.
You still remember the way his eyes seemed to find you, even in the chaos. You’d frozen, mouth parted, heart stuttering. Your scarf slipped down your shoulder. You must’ve looked like an idiot.
He’d smiled, quick and real, before letting his teammates drag him away.
You’d spent the rest of the match trying to decide if you’d imagined it.
But then it kept happening.
Warmups. Corners. Throw-ins near your side. His eyes flickered up, searching. Always toward your seats. And whenever you met his gaze, your face betrayed you,joy, panic, awe, all written loud and clear.
Your father noticed something was off.
“You’re awfully invested in that boy’s career,” he said one night as you walked home. “Think he owes you commission?”
“He’s just… fun to watch,” you muttered.
“Mhmm,” your father hummed, unconvinced. “If your smile gets any brighter, they’ll have to dim the stadium lights.”
Tonight, though, the stadium feels different. Louder. Closer.
Every time Lamine gets the ball, your stomach does somersaults.
“Go on,” your father murmurs, leaning forward. “Take him on, lad.”
Lamine cuts inside, slips past a defender, and the crowd rises with him. You rise too, your body moving before your brain. Your hands are pressed together under your chin, your eyes wide.
He shoots.
The ball whistles just past the post.
The entire stadium groans.
You exhale like someone knocked the wind out of you. “So close,” you whisper.
Down on the pitch, he curses under his breath, then glances up toward your section as he jogs back.
You’re still watching him, caught.
He sees your disappointed little wince and huffs out a breath, almost laughing, like your reaction amuses him. He gives you a tiny shrug that says, My bad.
You feel your lips curve without permission.
“Are you smiling at a missed shot?” your father asks.
You yank your scarf up over your face. “No.”
“Liar.”
Half-time comes with the score still 0–0. You scroll your phone out of habit, thumb flicking, not really looking,until a notification freezes you.
Your father glances over. “What are you frowning at?”
You open the article link with a pit in your stomach.
It’s a photo from last week’s match. Lamine in the foreground, looking up, mid-celebration. In the background, blurred but unmistakable: you, hands to your mouth, eyes shining, leaning over the railing like you’re about to leap.
The headline punches you:
WHO’S THE GIRL LAMINE CAN’T STOP LOOKING FOR?
Your veins turn to ice.
“Dad,” you whisper. “Dad.”
He leans closer, squints at the screen. “What the,”
There are other pictures in the article, from different angles. Lamine looking up. You in the background again and again, always in the same seats. Comments already piling up underneath.
He keeps looking in the same direction after he scores??
Bro found his lucky charm.
Find her @ the club, do it for science.
Your head spins.
“This is bad,” you say. “This is so bad.”
Your father reads silently for a moment, jaw tightening. Then he looks at you.
“Did you know about this?” he asks.
“No!” you protest. “I mean, I knew he… sometimes looked up. But I thought,I don’t know what I thought. I didn’t think people would,”
“Hey, hey,” your father says quickly, seeing the tremble in your hands. “It’s just some gossip article. You’ve done nothing wrong.”
Your heart drums against your ribs. “But what if people find me? What if he gets annoyed? What if,”
The whistle for the second half blows, cutting through your spiraling thoughts.
“Look,” your father says gently. “If you want to leave after, we’ll leave. We don’t have to come to the next one if it makes you uncomfortable. All right?”
You nod, throat tight. You try to push your phone back into your pocket and pretend you didn’t see it.
Down on the pitch, the players take their positions again.
When Lamine looks up this time, he finds you… smaller. Wrapped into yourself. Your scarf pulled too high, your shoulders hunched.
His gaze lingers.
You duck your head.
You don’t see his frown.
He scores in the 72nd minute anyway.
It’s a brilliant goal,low, precise, the kind that makes the whole stadium roar. Your father jumps up, swearing happily, grabbing your shoulders.
“Look at that! Look!” he shouts.
You clap, you stand, you cheer,but you don’t let yourself look at him. You stare at the big screen instead, where the replay loops over and over.
You can feel it, though. That pull.
You know, without seeing, that he’s searching for you.
You keep your face turned away.
After the match, your father threads his arm through yours and steers you toward the exits.
“We’ll go straight to the car,” he says. “Beat the traffic. We’ll talk about that article properly at home.”
You nod, still dazed, the stadium noise ringing in your ears like an echo.
You’re almost at the gate when a security guard steps into your path.
“Excuse me,” he says, and your stomach drops. “Are you seat fourteen, row seven, seat eight?”
Your father narrows his eyes. “Why?”
The guard checks a note on his phone, then looks back at you with a kind of careful politeness that makes you even more nervous.
“Player request,” he says. “If you’re comfortable, one of the players would like to meet you.”
Your brain flatlines.
Your father blinks. “You’re joking.”
The guard shakes his head. “I can escort you both. If you’d prefer not to, that’s fine too. No pressure.”
You stare at him, mouth dry. “Which player?”
The guard looks faintly amused. “I think you know.”
Your father turns to you, his expression a mix of stunned, proud, and I knew it.
“Well,” he says. “What do you think, kiddo?”
Your heart is trying to punch its way out of your chest. The article, the photos, the rumor storm,this is exactly what you were afraid of. But there’s another feeling under the fear, bright and insistent.
He asked for you.
You swallow. “O-Okay,” you manage. “Just… for a minute.”
The corridors under the stadium are colder than you expect.
Your footsteps echo on the concrete as the guard leads you and your father through a maze of tunnels, past doors with signs you don’t have time to read. The noise of the crowd above fades into a dull hum.
Your father squeezes your shoulder. “You all right?”
“No,” you croak. “I think I might be dead.”
He snorts. “If you faint, I’m telling everyone it was from the smell in the tunnels.”
You breathe out a shaky laugh.
The guard stops in front of a door, knocks lightly, then pushes it open.
“Got them,” he calls.
You step inside and see him.
Lamine is standing near a table, still in his kit, hair damp, socks half rolled down. There’s a towel around his shoulders, and a half-empty bottle of water in his hand. When he turns and spots you, his entire face brightens.
“There you are,” he says, like you’re late for something he’s been looking forward to.
You freeze in the doorway.
Your father nudges you forward. “Go, go.”
You take a few uncertain steps. The room smells like grass and tape and detergent. Your fingers twist in the edge of your jersey.
“Hi,” you say, voice too small.
He laughs, a little breathless. “Hi.”
There’s a beat of silence where you just… look at each other. Up close, the stadium lights and camera flashes are replaced by something softer. His eyes are warm, curious. Nervous, you realize with a tiny spark of disbelief. He’s nervous too.
“I’m Lamine,” he says, then winces. “Obviously. You know that. Sorry.” He rubs the back of his neck, smiling sheepishly. “I’m bad at this.”
You let out a nervous laugh. “It’s okay. I’m worse.”
He glances behind you, where your father hovers, pretending to read some poster on the wall.
“This is my dad,” you say quickly. “He, um… he’s had these seats since,forever.”
“Ah,” your father says, stepping forward to shake Lamine’s hand. “Pleasure, son. You gave us a bit of a scare missing that first chance, you know.”
“Sorry, sir,” Lamine says with a grin. “I fixed it later, no?”
“That you did,” your father says, eyes twinkling. “I’ll wait outside. Let you kids talk.”
“Dad,” you hiss, but he’s already heading for the door.
“Don’t worry,” he calls back. “I won’t go far.”
The door clicks shut.
You’re alone with him.
You stare at your shoes for a moment. “I… didn’t know you could do that,” you murmur.
“Do what?” he asks.
“Ask for people,” you say. “From the crowd.”
He shrugs, leaning back against the table. “You can. I mean, they don’t always find them. But I asked, and… they did.”
“Why?” you blurt.
His gaze softens. “Because you didn’t look at me today,” he says quietly. “Not like before.”
Your cheeks burn. “I,there was an article. With pictures. People in the comments were saying things, and I thought,I didn’t want to cause trouble. Or make you uncomfortable. Or make it weird.”
He stares at you for a second, then laughs, incredulous. “You were worried about making me uncomfortable?”
“Yes,” you insist, then falter. “I mean. Yes?”
He shakes his head, a smile tugging at his lips. “Do you know how many cameras are in that stadium? I’m used to weird. But…” His expression grows a little more serious. “I’m sorry they picked you up in it. That can’t have been fun.”
“It wasn’t,” you admit. “People were trying to figure out who I was. I didn’t reply, obviously. But it was… a lot.”
He shifts like the ground matters suddenly. “Did anyone bother you? Like… properly?”
“No,” you say quickly. “Just speculation. I just don’t… I’m not used to being seen.”
His eyes flick thoughtfully over your face. “You’re very expressive, though,” he says softly. “Kind of hard not to see you.”
Your breath catches. “That’s not a compliment,” you mumble.
“It is to me.”
You have to look away. “You keep… looking for me,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper. “During matches.”
He chuckles quietly. “You noticed.”
“How could I not notice?” you say. “You’re… you.”
“And you’re always in the same place,” he counters. “Every match. Same seat. Same scarf. Same way of… doing this.” He mimics the way you clasp your hands under your chin, eyes wide.
You want the floor to swallow you. “Stop,” you groan. “That’s embarrassing.”
“It’s nice,” he says. “It makes… everything feel less big. You know? All the noise. When I look up and see you, it’s like,oh, okay. There you are. I can breathe.”
You blink at him. “You can breathe… because I’m panicking in row fourteen?”
That makes him laugh, a proper one this time. “You’re not panicking.”
“I’m constantly panicking.”
“No,” he says, still smiling. “You’re just… honest. With your face. I score, you light up. I miss, you look like someone stole your phone. It’s,” He shrugs, searching for the word. “Real. And I don’t get a lot of that, I guess.”
You swallow hard. Something warm unfurls in your chest, mixing with the nerves.
“I thought you’d be mad,” you admit. “About the article. Like, ‘Who’s this random girl the media thinks I’m obsessed with.’”
He raises an eyebrow. “Are you random?”
“Yes!”
He looks unconvinced. “I don’t think so.”
Your heart does something painful.
He glances down, fidgeting with the cap of his water bottle. “Look,” he says, voice turning shy. “I just wanted to tell you myself. So you wouldn’t… stop. Because of some stupid gossip.”
“Stop what?” you ask.
“Coming,” he says simply. “Being there.”
He meets your eyes, and it’s suddenly so quiet you can hear your own pulse pounding in your ears.
“I play better when you’re here,” he says, like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Don’t stop coming.”
The words land with the weight of something that’s been waiting a long time to be said.
You stare at him, lips parted. “You don’t have to say that,” you whisper.
“I’m not saying it because I have to,” he replies. “I’m saying it because it’s true. You saw me tonight, yeah?”
“I didn’t look at you,” you say helplessly.
He huffs a soft laugh. “Yeah, I noticed. That’s why I had to work twice as hard. Terrible conditions.”
You can’t help it,you laugh, the tension cracking. “You scored an amazing goal.”
“And it would’ve been even better,” he says, “if I’d seen your face after.”
You want to bury your flaming cheeks in your scarf. “You’re ridiculous.”
“Maybe.” He tilts his head. “Will you come next match?”
Your instinct is to say yes. Your fear says maybe not.
“What if the media keeps going?” you ask. “What if they say… worse things?”
He considers that for a moment. “Then they say them,” he says finally. “They’ll get bored eventually. And if they don’t, we deal with it. The club can help if it gets serious. You’re not… alone in it.”
“Why would you bother?” you ask, almost to yourself.
He looks at you like the answer is obvious. “Because I like when you’re there,” he says. “Is that not a good enough reason?”
You exhale slowly.
“It is,” you say.
He smiles, relief softening his shoulders. “So?”
You bite your lip, but your face has already decided for you,your eyes bright, your mouth curling up, that traitorous glow your father always teases you about.
He sees it and laughs under his breath.
“I’ll come,” you say. “Next match. Same seats.”
“Good,” he says, his grin spreading. “I’ll look for you before kickoff this time. Not just after I mess up.”
“You don’t mess up that much,” you say.
“Mmh, tell that to my coach,” he jokes. “But it’s easier to try things when I know you’re up there, freaking out.”
“I thought you said I wasn’t panicking.”
“I changed my mind,” he says, eyes dancing. “You panic very nicely.”
You groan. “You’re never letting that go, are you?”
“Not a chance.”
There’s a knock on the door, and a voice calls, “Lamine, media in five.”
He rolls his eyes. “Yeah, yeah!” he shouts back, then looks at you, softer again. “I have to go be boring and say the same three sentences a hundred times.”
You smile. “You’re good at that. I’ve seen interviews.”
“Don’t expose me,” he pleads dramatically. “I’m trying my best.”
You laugh, and he watches you like he wants to keep that sound.
“Can I ask you something?” he says suddenly.
“Sure.”
“Next match,” he says. “When they say my name in the lineups… cheer for me, yeah?”
You splutter. “I always cheer for you.”
“I know,” he says. “But now I’ll know you know I know.”
You blink. “That’s… confusing.”
He shrugs, grinning. “Destiny usually is.”
Your heart stutters at the word, and you hope it doesn’t show on your face,but judging by the way his eyes soften, it does.
“Okay,” you say quietly. “I’ll cheer.”
“As loud as before?” he asks.
“Maybe louder.”
“Good.” He starts toward the door, then hesitates, glancing back at you. “And, uh… if it gets too much,” he adds, “with the media or the comments… tell me. Or tell the club. Just… don’t disappear without saying anything, yeah?”
You nod. “I won’t.”
He smiles, satisfied. “See you in row fourteen.”
“See you on the pitch,” you reply.
He opens the door, then pauses one last time, looking over his shoulder at you.
“And, hey,” he says. “For what it’s worth? I don’t think you’re ‘the girl in the crowd.’”
Your eyebrows lift. “No?”
He shakes his head. “You’re my girl in the crowd,” he says, a little bashful but not taking it back. “There’s a difference.”
Before you can answer, he’s gone, swallowed by the hallway.
Your father slips back into the room a moment later, eyebrows raised. “Well?” he asks. “Did you survive?”
You press your hands over your burning face.
“I think,” you say, voice muffled, “I might actually die next match.”
Your father chuckles, slinging an arm around your shoulders as you walk out together.
“If he plays better when you’re there,” he says, “you don’t have much choice, do you?”
You think of Lamine’s words, the quiet sincerity in them.
I play better when you’re here. Don’t stop coming.
You hug your scarf to your chest, heart full and terrified all at once.
'i kissed a girl' but with a down bad mattheo riddle... i was literally kicking my feet the entire time hehe
honey and venmon @riddlesrizzler
something about the almighty mattheo riddle being so down bad does something to me, maybe its also because i live in the south now idk this fic is just so adorable
mlb mattheo @hotweirdgirl
live love baseball players... ifykyk
before dating mattheo @hotweirdgirl
just love love love this awww
fuckcraft & rizzardry @kittyminion
literally so obsessed with this story. its perfectly soft, the build up is amazing, i love the overly protective father, ugh its so adorbs. especially the hint of like a domestic/suburban mattheo is so fun
mutual humiliation @yasministration
literally so cute, we love an embarrassed mattheo during quidditch lol
soft!mattheo headcannons part 2 @iamgonnagetyouback
ugh my favorite, love the detail and theyre just perfect
pretty boy problems @iamgonnagetyouback
self care night ft the slytherin boys
ghosts don't knock @serpentskissed
slytherin boys helping take care of your baby and then lost hope of him ever coming back... 10/10
he's got a staring problem @dearggntlereader
so cutsey & who doesn't love his eyes anyways
part of you knew @cipheress-to-k-pop
literally gut wrenching, sobbing, biting my nails the entire time. not what you think it is but so much better than anything i imagined. love love love.
he's a little unhinged @writingsbychlo
the fights, the impulses, the loyalty, the protectiveness we love to see it
neighbor trope @cipheress-to-k-pop
so cutsey, love the build up. nothing better than having mattheo living next door and an overly outgoing dad lol
wicked hearts @sunnyluna
they're both cruel but like theyre perfect for each other. we love a guard dog couple
ties @wbellab
this is easily one of my favorite concepts
mattheo x slytherin!reader headcannons @riddlesrizzler
obsessed with the detail and the spice at the end. literal perfection, fed into all my delusions about this man hehe
amortenia @cipheress-to-k-pop
so cutsey. reader is literally allergic to mattheo and their feelings about each other come to light in potions class
laundry mixup @redeemingvillains
had me biting my nail and kicking my feet, the ending makes me scream hehe
how the mattheo riddle loves @riddlemelater
fantastic give me 20 more just like this about this man
tattoo artist!mattheo @girllblogging777
i would set myself on fire for this to be real im not kidding.
quidditch jersey @redeemingvillains
im basically a fan page for her atp but i love this concept and i love this piece!!!! so adorable, i love drabbers about a quidditch player mattheo it brings me so much joy
toxicbf!mattheo @pizzaapeteer
i hate how much i love these teeheheh
hands @suugarbabe
ahh i love hands and i think i would love mattheo's hands.. on me.. or around me.. either or im not picky
ferrari @s1ater
the whole relationship runs on hypocrisy and toxicity but the ending makes my heart flutter and my eyes water lol
𖥻 SUMMARY ー [ sometimes, a little eye contact is all you need to catch the feels ]
𖥻 PAIRING ー [ phil foden x fem! model! reader ]
𖥻 GENRE ー [ love at first sight, fluff, suggestive content ]
𖥻 WORD COUNT ー [ 0.4k ]
𖥻 WARNINGS ー [ mentions of sex, drugs, alcohol, partying - let me know if i missed anything ]
𖥻 AUTHORS NOTE ー [ requested by @liquorsmooth "please a fic where the reader and phil foden meet for the first time at a party of a few friends that they have in common, and where they automatically feel a really strong attraction to each other so they keep eye contact all the time (and then happens whatever you’d like to!)" thank you for the idea I really enjoyed writing for foden, and sorry that this is so short recently I have been falling into a creative slump and I need something short and sweet to pull me out of It, but hope you enjoy anyway ]
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The air smelt of drugs, alcohol and sex. Three things that everyone in that room was familiar with, even Y/N. Though some may have deemed it immoral and reckless, others would have blamed it on the lifestyle. But the enticing idea of free alcohol and an escape from your problems made A-lister party a go-to hub to forget life's woes. People that attended had the media on high alert ready to cover the next scandalous piece of news, but even that wouldn't stop them from drinking the night away. And here she was, sitting in a booth with all her friends at a high-end club with one purpose. To get as drunk as humanly possible and have a pile of regrets higher than Everest by morning.
Four drinks in the model felt like she could take on the world. She wasn't wasted. Yet. But she sure as hell wasn't sober, which was probably why she took such an interest in him: buzzed hair and shirtless - a diamond in the rough. Now if she were straight-headed, Y/N would have never even dreamed of hitting on someone wearing Adidas shorts to a club. But thankfully for the mystery man, she was slightly out of it and needed a quick fix.
Admiring him from afar was her favourite activity of the night, as she tried to unpick who he was based on the clues he gave. He was fit - a model? Maybe, Footballer? Possibly. He was standing with a group of friends and one of her mutuals Jack Grealish at a pool table on the other side of the room, laughing and drinking the night away with everyone else.
But regardless of who he was. God, he looked good, pool stick in hand and a beer in the other. Y/N wouldn't mind waking up to his pretty face every morning, but she wasn't here for love. Just like he probably wasn't, but a girl could dream, couldn't she? Though it was a bit soon to be talking about love, they hadn't even made eye contact yet. So who knows what their story will be, lovers or strangers? That's left for the universe to decide.
They could be the next love story, or they could be two ships that cross in the night and never meet again. But enough with the romantics, Y/N thought as she ordered another drink. Completely oblivious that the mystery boy on the other side of the room had his heart set on her long before she even knew of his existence, he was going to make sure that they would do a lot more than have prolonged eye contact.
you had me at throat slit ⟢ OP81 series (coming soon!)
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PAIRINGS: oscar piastri x female!reader
SUMMARY: oscar was completely okay of being single, though lando says otherwise. lando had managed to convince oscar in joining a dating app—under fake name with a cursed meme for a profile pic, and mostly expecting nothing. but then he matches with you—a gorgeous girl, awkward, sarcastic, emotionally bruised, and just as skeptical about online dating. somehow, your weirdness clicks with oscar's.
REMINDERS: this is purely fiction, the way how the character is portrayed in my story does not reflect the person that is portraying my character in real life. always separate fiction from reality, and do not repost or copy my work in any way.
WARNINGS: use of y/n, face claims, photos taken from pinterest, satire, humor (dark humor), crack au, dating apps, inaccurate information, awkward, unhinged, memes are maybe a bit too much, dump accounts as form of freedom of expression, and minor typographical errors.
FACE CLAIM: liang lawrence (& others)
AUTHOR'S NOTE: it's me again! with new oscar smau. i'm really into smaus these days, and maybe i'll stick into doing stuff like this up until i'm finally okay with writing full length aus. i've mentioned this the last time, but as of the moment, writing full length aus drains me so much bc there's a lot of typing and proofreading—which can be really tiring. i'll be staring this smau once i'm done with the oscar smau that i'm currently working on.
part one ⟢ part two ⟢ part three ⟢ part four ⟢ part five ⟢ part six ⟢ part seven ⟢ part eight ⟢ part nine ⟢ part ten ⟢ part eleven ⟢ part twelve (ending) ⟢ alt. ending
yousharknotpass
izzy806
germansingergirl
tangentwithtanner
gummygunk
