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Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
Summary: your life has revolved around your younger brother for so long that you’ve forgotten what it means to be someone other than Chief Operating Officer of the Ollie Bearman Experience … Oscar is set on reminding you what it means to live for yourself
Based on this request
The rattle of a flight case over the uneven tarmac of the Imola paddock is your soundtrack.
It’s Thursday. Setup day. The air smells like rubber, ozone, and the aggressively strong espresso being pumped out of the hospitality units.
You’re a blur of lanyards and logistics.
“No, Mum, I told you, the passes are at guest collection, not the main gate. Yes, the main gate.” You’re pinching the bridge of your nose, phone wedged between your shoulder and ear. “Because the main gate is for … look, just go to guest collection.”
You hang up and immediately tap out a message to Ollie’s manager. Parents arriving 14:00. Please intercept. I’m stuck with the helmet freight.
“Y/N?”
Ollie pokes his head out of the motorhome, his hair already a mess. “Have you got the spare balaclava? The thin one?”
“Top pocket of your boot bag. Where it always is,” you call out, not unkindly. “And your hydration tablets are next to your washbag.”
“Legend. What would I do without you?” He flashes that million-dollar grin, the one that’s starting to plaster billboards.
“We are, hopefully, never going to find out,” you murmur, signing the clipboard from the freight guy.
You lean against the cool metal of the travel case, just for a second. You close your eyes. Just one single, solitary second where you aren’t Ollie’s sister or Y/N, the problem-solver. You’re just … tired.
“He’s not wrong.”
Your eyes snap open.
Oscar Piastri is standing there, holding two water bottles, looking infuriatingly cool and un-flustered in his papaya team kit. He’s just … observing.
“What?” You say, standing up straight, the professional mask slamming back into place.
“What he’d do without you,” Oscar says. His voice is calm, with that slight, easygoing Aussie flatness. “I reckon he’d be walking around with one race boot and his helmet on backwards.”
You manage a small, tired laugh. “Hi, Oscar. And yeah, probably. You’re not wrong.”
He holds out one of the water bottles. It’s not the team-branded stuff. It’s just a simple, cold bottle of water.
“You look like you need this more than us drivers,” he says. It’s a statement, not a question.
You stare at the bottle. It’s such a small gesture, but it feels monumental. No one gets you the water. You’re the one who distributes the water.
“Oh. Thank you.” You take it, your fingers brushing his. “That’s … really nice of you.”
“No worries.” He takes a sip from his own. “It’s chaos today. Everyone’s a bit feral.”
“Tell me about it. My parents are currently lost somewhere in Emilia-Romagna, and Ollie seems to have forgotten how to locate his own socks.”
Oscar smiles. It’s a small, quick thing, but it reaches his eyes. “The glamour of it all, eh? I just saw my performance coach trying to argue with a coffee machine.”
“The coffee machine is probably winning,” you say, cracking the seal on the bottle. The cold water is heaven.
“Always does.” He lingers, not in an awkward way, but in a way that suggests he’s not in a hurry. “You’re … Y/N, right?”
“That’s me.”
“You do this full time? The … all of it?” He gestures vaguely at your lanyards, the clipboard you’re now holding, the phone that’s already buzzing again.
“This?” You sigh. “Yeah. Pretty much. Chief Operating Officer of the Ollie Bearman Experience. It’s a varied role.”
“Sounds it.”
The phone buzzes again. WHERE IS GUEST COLLECTION?
You hold it up with a look of profound suffering. “I have to. This is … yeah. But thank you. For the water.”
“Anytime,” Oscar says. He watches you go, watches you switch back into ‘command mode’ as you answer the call. “Yeah, Mum, I’m walking there now, stay where you are …”
***
Two weeks later, it’s Monaco.
If Imola was chaos, Monaco is a gilded, high-stakes panic attack crammed into two square kilometres. The paddock is a floating barge. The motorhomes are stacked like luxury Jenga. And you haven’t slept in what feels like three days.
The pressure is immense. Every sponsor, every journalist, every face you’ve ever seen is here.
You’re hiding.
You’ve found a small, three-foot gap between the back of the Haas motorhome and a temporary barrier. It’s the only place that doesn’t smell like perfume or exhaust fumes. It just smells like the sea. You’re leaning against the wall, eyes closed, trying to do the 4-7-8 breathing exercise your old uni textbook recommended.
“Found your hiding spot.”
You jump, your heart leaping into your throat. Oscar is standing at the end of the gap, hands in his pockets.
“God, you scared me,” you breathe out. “Are you … are you also hiding?”
“My trainer’s trying to make me eat a quinoa salad.” Oscar says, his tone deadpan. “I’m philosophically opposed to quinoa on a race weekend. Or any weekend, really.”
You can’t help it. You laugh. A real, genuine laugh that feels rusty. “It’s … it’s a texture thing. I get it. It’s like eating damp sand.”
“Exactly. See? You get it.” He gestures to the wall next to you. “Mind if I hide here too? Just for five minutes. Before the sand-man finds me.”
“Be my guest. The No Quinoa Zone is open to all.”
He slides down to sit on a low-slung cable protector, looking completely out of place in his pristine race suit, and yet, completely at ease. You remain standing, too wired to sit.
“So,” he says, looking up at you. “Chief Operating Officer. Monaco seems like it’s testing your bandwidth.”
“My bandwidth exploded about an hour ago when Ollie’s helmet visor went missing and my dad decided to try and ‘network’ with Toto Wolff.”
“Ouch. Did you find the visor?”
“In the fridge. Don’t ask.”
“And your dad?”
“Currently being politely held captive by Ollie’s manager, thank God.”
Oscar chuckles, a low, pleasant sound. “You’re like the ultimate plate-spinner. I’ve been watching you. You don’t stop.”
You bristle, just slightly. “It’s what has to be done. It’s … it’s just family.”
“Right.” He nods, not pushing. He just watches you. It’s not a leer, not a stare. It’s analytical. Like he’s processing data. “But what about you?”
“What about me?”
“Like, when you’re not spinning the plates. When it’s not Monaco, or Imola, and Ollie is … I don’t know, asleep. What do you do?”
The question hangs in the salty air. It’s so simple, and yet it feels like the most complex equation you’ve ever faced.
“I-I sleep. I guess. Do the laundry. Book the flights for the next race. Re-stock the protein bars.”
“So, more plate-spinning. Just different plates.”
“It’s a big job, Oscar.”
“I know it is. But … it’s not you. Is it?”
You look at him, confused. “It’s … it’s my life.”
“Is it the life you planned?”
You press your lips into a thin line. You’re starting to feel exposed, like he’s peeling back a label you’ve worked very hard to stick on. “I’m not sure what you mean.”
“I heard some of the Haas guys talking,” he says, casual, but his eyes are sharp. “They said you were at uni. Before.”
You flinch. “I was. A long time ago.”
“What for?”
“Psychology,” you say, the word tasting strange on your tongue. “At Bristol.”
“Psychology.” He nods slowly. “Right. That makes sense.”
“Why?”
“You’re hyper-observant. You’re always anticipating everyone’s emotional state. You’re basically the paddock therapist, but you’re also the caterer and the travel agent.”
“It’s just … managing people.”
“So, you dropped out?” He asks. It’s gentle. No judgment.
“Ollie got his F4 seat. The big one. Mum and Dad … they work, you know? They work all the time to pay for this. They couldn’t travel. He was so young. He couldn’t just go to Italy by himself. He needed … someone.”
“He needed you.”
“He needed someone,” you repeat, firmly. “So, I deferred. And then deferring just became dropping out. It’s fine. It’s not a big deal. Look where he is. It worked.”
“It worked for him,” Oscar corrects, just as gently. “Do you miss it?”
You turn your face away, looking out at the sliver of blue harbor visible between the buildings. “I don’t think about it.”
It’s the biggest lie you’ve told all year. You think about it every time you fill out a landing card and your occupation is blank. You think about it every time you mediate an argument between Ollie and an engineer, using techniques you learned in Conflict Resolution 101.
“Right,” Oscar says, and you can hear the skepticism in his voice. “Well. My five minutes are up. The quinoa is calling.”
He stands up, brushing a non-existent piece of dust from his suit.
“Oscar?”
He turns.
“Don’t … don’t mention that. To Ollie. Or anyone.”
“The psychology thing?”
“Yeah. It’s … it doesn’t matter. It’s in the past.”
“Sure,” he says. But his eyes say, is it? “See you around, Y/N. Try and … I don’t know. Breathe.”
He walks away, leaving you alone in the No Quinoa Zone, feeling more seen, and more raw, than you have in a very, very long time.
***
It becomes a thing. A quiet, unspoken routine across the next few race weekends.
Barcelona. Montreal. Spielberg.
You’ll be running, stressed, and he’ll just … appear. He’ll hand you a coffee. “This one’s an oat flat white. You look like you’re past the point of black coffee.”
Or you’ll be pacing in the back of the garage, and he’ll walk by on his way to the grid. “He’ll be fine, you know. He’s a good driver.” And you’ll nod, and your shoulders will drop an inch.
He never pushes. He never flirts. He just sees.
He asks you questions no one else does. Not “How’s Ollie?” but “How are you?” Not “Are you ready for the triple-header?” but “What’s the first thing you’re going to do when you get home?”
You find yourself answering honestly.
“I’m going to sleep for fourteen hours.”
“Good plan.”
“I’m going to eat a curry that isn’t from a hotel room service menu.”
“Solid. Get a garlic naan. Actually, get two.”
It’s easy. It’s the easiest thing in your life.
And then, it’s Silverstone.
Home race. The pressure is suffocating. Your parents are here, Ollie’s friends are here, every junior UK journalist is here, and they all want a piece of The Next British Hope.
And you are holding it all together with duct tape and caffeine.
Ollie’s qualifying is … fine. P8. Not a disaster, but not what he wanted. He’s grumpy.
“I just … I can’t find the rhythm in the high-speed stuff, Y/N,” he’s complaining later, slouched in his driver’s room. “It’s just not … clicking.”
“You will,” you soothe, handing him his recovery shake. “You’re always good on race pace here. Just get a clean start, stay out of trouble. You’ll be fine.”
“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He rubs his face. “Are Mum and Dad sorted for dinner?”
“Yes. I booked our usual Italian place. 8 pm.”
“And the passes for the Thomas cousins tomorrow?”
“On my desk. I’ll give them to you in the morning.”
“And the …”
“Ollie,” you say, your voice finally cracking, just a little. “Everything is handled. Just focus on the data. I’ve got the rest.”
“Right. Sorry. Thanks. You’re the best.”
You walk out of the motorhome to get some air. The evening is cool. You’re just starting to un-clench your jaw when Oscar finds you. It’s like he has a You’re About To Break radar.
“That,” he says, leaning against the McLaren hospitality unit, “was a masterclass in calm-parent-voice.”
You drop your head against the wall. “I’m so tired, Oscar.”
“I know.”
“He doesn’t even see it. He just … he asks, and he knows it’ll be done. And I-I just … I do it. It’s like I’m an app on his phone.”
“A very reliable app,” Oscar says. He’s not smiling. He’s just watching you with that quiet intensity.
“I love him. I’d do anything for him. You know that.”
“I do. That’s the problem.”
You look at him. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“It means he’s twenty years old, Y/N. He’s driving a 300-kilometer-an-hour rocket ship. He’s perfectly capable of booking a table at a pub for his own parents.”
“He’s … he’s busy. He’s got pressure-”
“We’re all busy. We’ve all got pressure. Lando still manages to order his own Nando’s. I reckon Ollie can figure out OpenTable.”
“It’s just easier if I do it.”
“Easier for him.” Oscar takes a small step closer. He’s not crowding you, but the space between you is suddenly charged. “When’s the last time you did something that was easier for you?”
You have no answer.
“When was the last time you read one of those psychology books you’re pretending not to miss?”
“I-I don’t have time.”
“Bullshit.” It’s the first time you’ve ever heard him say it. The word is sharp, precise. “You make time. You make time for everyone else. You’ve got 24 hours in your day, same as everyone. You just give all of yours away.”
Tears, hot and stinging, spring to your eyes. It’s the truth. It’s the sharp, awful, undeniable truth.
“I don’t … I don’t know how to,” you whisper, and the admission shatters something inside you. “I don’t know how to not do it. If I stop, everything falls apart. His head … my parents … the whole … thing. It all falls apart.”
“No, it won’t.” His voice is low, incredibly gentle now. “It’ll just … wobble. And then they’ll learn to hold it themselves. And you’ll be free.”
He reaches out. He doesn’t touch your face, or your arm. He just barely rests his fingers on the back of your hand, which is gripping your lanyard so hard your knuckles are white.
“You’re allowed to have a life, Y/N. A real one. Separate from all this.”
You’re openly crying now, silent tears tracking down your dusty cheeks. You’re embarrassed, but you’re also relieved.
“I-I can’t,” you choke out. “Tomorrow’s the race. It’s … it’s too much.”
“I know. So. We’ll get through tomorrow.” He squeezes your hand, a tiny, firm pressure. “You’ll be the Chief Operating Officer for one more day. And then … Sunday night. You’re having dinner with me.”
“Oscar, I can’t. I have to pack up the freight, I have to-”
“Sunday night,” he says, his voice leaving no room for argument. “I’m not asking. I’m telling you. Ollie can pack his own helmet. Your parents can find their own way home. Sunday night. You and me. And we are not, under any circumstances, talking about racing.”
“What … what will we talk about?” The idea is terrifying. An entire conversation that isn’t about Ollie.
Oscar’s mouth quirks. “Pineapple on pizza. Whether Die Hard is a Christmas movie. An old psychology professor who you hated. I don’t care. Anything but this.”
You look at him, at his calm, steady eyes, and for the first time, you feel a different kind of buzz. It’s not anxiety. It’s something else.
“Okay,” you whisper.
“Okay.”
“Pineapple is a crime, by the way.”
“We’ll argue about it on Sunday,” he says, and the small smile he gives you is a promise.
***
Race day is … a race day.
It’s a blur of adrenaline, high-stress, and lukewarm coffee. Ollie has a great start. He makes up two places. You pace. He gets stuck behind a rival. You pace more. He finishes P11. Almost points. Solid.
The garage is content. Ollie is relieved. Your parents are proud.
You … you are just on autopilot. You manage the press. You hug Ollie. You coordinate the pack-down. You’re efficient, you’re professional. But something in your head has shifted.
You catch Oscar’s eye as he walks past the garage. He finished P2. He’s talking to his engineer. He sees you, and he gives you one, short, decisive nod.
At 6 PM, you’re packing Ollie’s race suit into its bag.
“Right,” Ollie says, toweling his hair. “So, team dinner at 8, then we’ll head to the airport? Can you make sure my passport is-”
“In your bag. Where it’s been all weekend.” You zip the bag with a sharp, final pull.
“Great. So, you’ll be at the dinner?”
You stand up. You take a breath. It feels like stepping off a cliff.
“No.”
Ollie stops, his phone in his hand. “… what? Why not? You always come to the team dinner.”
“Not tonight. I-I have other plans.”
“Plans?” He looks genuinely, completely bewildered. “What plans? With Mum and Dad?”
“No. Just … plans. With a friend.”
“What friend?”
“It doesn’t matter, Ollie.” You pick up your own small backpack. “Your passport is in your bag. Your flight is at 10:40. Your manager has the details. Our parents have their own car. You are twenty years old. You will make it to the airport.”
Ollie is staring at you like you’ve just grown a second head. “Y/N, are you … are you okay? Are you mad about something?”
“I’m not mad,” you say. And you realize, with a jolt, that you’re not. “I’m just … done. For today.” You walk over and kiss his damp cheek. “You drove brilliantly. I’m proud of you. I’ll see you back in London.”
You walk out of the motorhome. You don’t run. You just … walk.
It feels like the first time your shoulders have been down from around your ears in five years.
He’s waiting outside the main gate, just as he said he would be. He’s not in team kit. He’s in a simple black t-shirt and dark jeans. He’s leaning against a refreshingly non-papaya McLaren 750S.
He opens the passenger door for you.
“You look …” he says, as you slide in.
“Like I’ve been dragged through a hedge?”
“No,” he says, closing the door and walking around. He gets in. The car is quiet. No radio. “You look … lighter.”
“I feel it,” you say, buckling your seatbelt. “I just told Ollie I wasn’t coming to the team dinner.”
Oscar starts the car. “And did the world end?”
“No. But he looked very confused. Like I’d just told him the sky was purple.”
“He’ll get used to it.”
He drives you out of the track, away from the traffic, away from the noise. He takes you to a small, quiet pub in a village you’ve never heard of, twenty minutes away. It’s all old beams and horse brasses and smells like beer and fireplace.
They sit you at a quiet table in the corner.
“Right,” Oscar says, opening the menu. “Rules.”
“I remember,” you say. “No racing.”
“No racing. No drivers. No teams. No lanyards. No discussion of freight logistics.”
A small, giddy laugh bubbles out of you. “I … I honestly don’t know what to talk about.”
“Good.” He doesn’t even look at the menu. “We’ll start with the pineapple thing. You’re wrong. It’s a perfect balance of sweet and savoury.”
“It’s wet, Oscar. It makes the whole pizza soggy. It’s a structural integrity issue.”
“Only if you use tinned. Fresh pineapple, properly grilled first? It’s a game-changer.”
“You grill it first? Who are you? Gordon Ramsay?”
“I’m just someone who respects the pizza, Y/N. Unlike you, apparently.”
The waitress comes. You order. A proper Sunday roast. Oscar orders fish and chips. And a pint. You order a glass of wine. It feels decadent.
“Okay,” you say, taking a sip. “My turn. Die Hard.”
“Christmas movie,” he says instantly. “100%.”
“Wrong. It’s an action movie that happens to be set at Christmas. The themes are not festive. It’s about an estranged marriage.”
“It’s about redemption. It’s about family. It’s got Christmas music in it. It’s a Christmas movie.”
“We are fundamentally incompatible,” you say, smiling into your wine glass.
“We’ll have to agree to disagree.”
The food comes. It’s hot. It’s real. You talk about bad movies. You talk about his childhood in Melbourne, and he asks you about growing up in Essex. You talk about dogs. (He wants a golden retriever. You’re a spaniel person.)
And then, in a lull, he gets serious.
“So,” he says, setting his fork down. “Psychology.”
Your smile fades, but the anxiety isn’t there. Not this time.
“Psychology,” you echo.
“You’re going to finish it.”
It’s not a question.
“Oscar, I-”
“You are,” he says, his voice firm but kind. “Online. Part-time. One class a semester. I don’t care. But you’re going to enroll. Because you’re too smart to be … just a helmet-holder. No offense to helmet-holders.”
“I-I wouldn’t even know where to start. It’s been years.”
“You start by going to the university website. You start by sending an email. It’s just logistics, Y/N. And you’re the best logistics person I’ve ever met.”
He’s using your own job against you. And he’s right.
“Why do you care so much?” You ask, your voice small. “It’s my life. It’s my mess.”
He leans forward. The pub is noisy around you, but your table feels like it’s in a bubble.
“Because,” he says, his voice low. “I think you’re pretty amazing. And I think it’s a massive waste. And, selfishly, I want to be able to have a conversation with you about something other than your brother’s tyre degradation.”
He pauses, then adds, “And also, I really like watching you. But I hate watching you run yourself into the ground. It’s … frustrating.”
You stare at him. “You like watching me?”
“Yeah,” he says, so simply. “I do. I like that you’re smart. And I like that you’re funny, even when you’re stressed. And I like that you’re kind to everyone, even when they’re being idiots.” He shrugs, a little sheepishly. “So. Yeah. I care.”
This is the 2000s rom-com moment. The declaration. It’s not in the rain. It’s not at an airport. It’s in a pub in Northamptonshire, over a half-eaten sticky toffee pudding. And it’s perfect.
“Oh,” you say. It’s all you can manage.
“So,” he says, clearing his throat, “you’ll look into it? The uni thing?”
You nod, your throat thick. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ll … I’ll look into it.”
“Good.”
He pays the bill, batting away your attempt to split it with a simple, “Don’t be ridiculous.”
He drives you back to your hotel in silence. It’s not awkward. It’s full.
He pulls up.
“So,” you say, your hand on the door.
“So,” he echoes.
“Thank you. For dinner. For … everything. For the kick in the arse, as my brother would so eloquently put it.”
“Anytime,” he says. He’s looking at you, and his eyes are warm, and he’s not just ‘observing’ anymore. “I’ll text you. Maybe we could get another dinner. Back in London. Before Spa.”
“I-I’d like that. A lot.”
“But only,” he says, a serious look on his face, “if you send me a screenshot.”
“A screenshot?”
“Of your application. Or at least the email you sent to the admissions office.”
You laugh. “You’re unbelievable. You’re giving me homework.”
“Yep,” he says. “Someone has to. Now go on. Go and sleep. You look … well, you still look tired. But you look better.”
“Thanks,” you say, rolling your eyes.
You get out of the car. You walk to the hotel door. You turn back. He’s still there, watching you.
You give him a small wave.
He waves back.
You go inside, and as you walk to the elevator, you pull out your phone. You don’t text Ollie. You don’t text your parents.
You open your web browser. And you type.
***
The laptop screen glows in the dark of your flat. It’s been three days since Silverstone. Three days since the pub. Three days since Oscar Piastri gave you homework.
You’re staring at the Bristol University Returning Students and Course Re-engagement page. The cursor blinks, mocking you.
Please outline your reasons for withdrawal and any changes in circumstance that support your re-application.
You lean back, rubbing your eyes. What do you write? My brother got very fast in a very expensive car and I became his de-facto PA, therapist, and sock-finder?
It feels impossible. It’s been years. The academic part of your brain feels like it’s been shrink-wrapped and stored in an attic. You’re a person who manages freight logistics, not a person who writes essays on developmental theory.
Your phone buzzes on the table. A text. Not Ollie. Not your mum.
Oscar: This is a serious question. Is a hotdog a sandwich?
You can’t help it. You snort, a small, surprised laugh. You pick up the phone.
You: Absolutely not. A sandwich requires two separate pieces of bread. A hotdog is a bun. It’s a hinge. It’s a taco. Sort of.
Oscar: A taco? You’re insane. A taco has a thin shell. This is a longitudinal bread-based containment system.
You: You’re just making up words now.
Oscar: It’s what I do. How’s the other longitudinal containment system? The academic one?
He’s so casual. So clever about it. He doesn’t ask ‘Did you do it?’ He just nudges.
You: I’m staring at the form. It’s a lot. I don’t know if I can. I don’t even know if I’m that person anymore.
The typing bubble appears instantly.
Oscar: You are. You’re literally the only person in the paddock who uses the word ‘socio-political’ correctly. You’re still that person. You’re just rusty.
Oscar: Don’t think about the essay. It’s just admin. You’re the queen of admin. Fill in the ‘Name’ box.
You look at the screen. Name: Y/N Bearman. Okay.
You: Done.
Oscar: Good. Now ‘Address’. You know that one. I’ll even spot you the postcode.
You find yourself doing it. You type in your address. Your old student ID number, which you somehow still remember.
You: I’m at the ‘Reason for Withdrawal’ part.
Oscar: Keep it simple. “Family responsibilities and career support.” That’s it. It’s true.
Oscar: And the ‘Reason for Re-application’?
You: …
Oscar: “Circumstances have now changed, allowing for a return to part-time study.”
You type his exact words. They look clean. Professional. Devoid of the years and years of anxiety and exhaustion and lost identity.
Oscar: See? You’re a student. You’re just pre-enrolled.
You take a deep breath. You fill out the last few boxes. You attach a scan of your old transcript. You hover over the Submit Inquiry button.
You: I’m scared.
Oscar: I know. Do it anyway.
You click it.
The screen changes. Thank you. Your inquiry has been received. A representative from the department will be in touch.
You fall back against your sofa, your heart hammering. It’s done. It’s … started.
You take a screenshot. You send it to him.
The reply is almost instantaneous.
Oscar: Good. Now, about that dinner. Thursday? 7pm. I’ll pick you up. Wear something that isn’t a team kit.
***
It’s Thursday. 6:52 PM.
You are, for the first time in what feels like a decade, nervous for a non-race-related reason. You’re wearing a dark green silk skirt and a simple black top. You’ve put on makeup. You’ve dried your hair.
You feel … alien.You’re just checking your bag when the front door to your flat opens.
“Y/N? You here?”
Ollie. He has a key. He always has a key. He wanders in, helmet in hand, already talking.
“Look, I know I’m supposed to email the team, but you’re just better at this. This padding here,” he points, “it’s digging into my left temple. It feels weird. Can you look? And hey, where are you … whoa.”
He stops. He’s taking in your outfit. The hair. The makeup.
“Where are you going?” He asks, his brow furrowing. “You’re all dressed up. Is it a sponsor thing? Did I forget a sponsor thing?”
“No, Ol. It’s not a sponsor thing.”
“Then what? Are Mum and Dad in town?”
“No.” You pick up your bag. “I’m … going out. For dinner.”
“Dinner?” He repeats, like it’s a foreign concept. “With who?”
The old you, the Chief Operating Officer, would have said it’s fine, don’t worry, and then sat down, taken his helmet, and spent the next hour re-fitting the padding.
The new you … hesitates. You look at the helmet. You look at the door.
“Just a friend,” you say.
Right on cue, the intercom buzzer goes. You jump.
You press the button. “Hello?”
“Y/N? It’s me. Oscar. I’m downstairs.”
Your blood turns to ice, then immediately to fire. You can see Ollie over by the coat rack, frozen.
“… Oscar?” Ollie mouths, his eyes wide.
“I’ll be right down,” you say into the speaker, your voice impressively steady. You hang up.
You turn to your brother. The look on his face is a comical mixture of total, profound confusion and a dawning, horrified realization.
“Piastri?” He whispers. “Oscar Piastri? Austrian? From McLaren? That Oscar?”
“That Oscar,” you confirm, grabbing your keys.
“He’s … why is he … you’re going to … oh.” The final word is the sound of the tumblers clicking into place. “You’re going on a … with … him?”
“The padding is fine, Ollie,” you say, walking to the door. “It’s probably just new. It’ll wear in. If it’s still weird tomorrow, email your manager and have him talk to the Schuberth rep.”
“But … Y/N …”
“I’ve got to go. I’ll be late.”
“But my helmet-”
“Have a good night, Ol.” You open the door. “And please, for the love of God, don’t microwave that leftover pasta in the plastic container.”
You close the door behind you, leaving your brother standing alone in your hallway, helmet in hand, looking like his entire world has just been flipped upside down.
You feel sick. You feel triumphant. You feel … completely, terrifyingly alive.
When the lift doors open, Oscar is waiting. He’s in dark jeans and a grey Henley. He looks … normal. And great. He smiles when he sees you.
“Wow,” he says, his voice soft. “See? No team kit.”
“You clean up okay yourself, Piastri,” you manage.
“You alright?” He asks, as you walk out into the cool English evening. “You look like you just ran a marathon.”
“I just … I just left Ollie,” you say, the words tumbling out. “He had an issue with his helmet padding. And I just … I told him to email his manager. And I left. I’ve never just left.”
Oscar stops by his car and turns to you.
“And?” He asks, a small, amused smile playing on his lips. “Did the flat implode? Did he burst into flames?”
“No,” you say, a hysterical giggle rising in your throat. “But he looked … he looked baffled. Like I’d just stolen his dog.”
“Good.” Oscar opens the car door for you. “Baffled is a good look for him. Baffled means he’s learning.” He leans in, just a fraction. “How’s it feel? To be such a terrible, negligent sister?”
“It feels … terrifying,” you say, sliding into the seat. “And really, really good.”
***
The second date is better than the first.
You’re not you (the COO). Oscar’s not him (the F1 Driver). You’re just … two people. In a Thai restaurant in Islington that he’d found because “they’re supposed to have the best Massaman curry in the city.”
You’re not just answering his questions. You’re asking them.
“So, what about you?” You ask, nursing a glass of wine. “This whole life. It’s … a lot. You’re, what, twenty-three?”
“Twenty-four,” he corrects, gently.
“Twenty-four. And you live on the other side of the world, and you’re the ‘calm one’, the ‘iceman’, the ‘robot’. Does that … does that get heavy?”
Oscar stops eating. He looks at you. It’s that same, steady, analytical gaze, but it’s softer now.
“Yeah,” he says, quietly. “Sometimes. Everyone expects me to be … fine. All the time. No drama. Just get in, do the job. And most of the time, I am. But, sometimes …” He shrugs. “It’s, yeah. It’s heavy.”
“Who do you talk to?” You ask. “When it’s heavy.”
“My folks. My manager, sometimes. But, mostly I just … process it. It’s just data. Emotions are just data.”
“That,” you say, smiling, “is the most Oscar Piastri thing you have ever said.”
“Is it?” He laughs. “Probably. It’s how my brain works.”
“See?” He says, pointing his fork at you. “Psychology. You’re already back.”
And you are. You spend the next hour debating. You talk about the pressure he felt in his F2 year, and you find yourself analyzing it. Not as a fan, but as you. The old you. The real you.
He’s easy. He’s so easy to be with. He’s funny, in his bone-dry, understated way. He’s smart. And he’s kind. He’s just … fundamentally kind.
He drives you home. He walks you to the door of your building.
“So,” he says, hands in his pockets.
“So,” you echo. “Thank you. For tonight. For … not letting me stay in and fix a helmet.”
“My pleasure. I’m always happy to enable sisterly negligence.”
You laugh. “Spa, next week.”
“Yep,” he says. The mood shifts, just a little. “It’s a madhouse. That track is special. It’s going to be a lot.”
“I know,” you say, the COO part of your brain clicking back on. “I’ve already got the parking passes mapped out, and I’m pre-booking the hotel restaurant for Ollie because …”
“Y/N.”
You stop.
“It’s fine,” he says, smiling. “You’re allowed to plan. It’s what you’re good at. But … plan for you, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean will you have dinner with me there? Even if it’s just a takeaway pizza on a hotel room floor?”
Your heart does a stupid flip.
“Yeah,” you say, your voice softer than you intended. “Yeah, I will.”
“Good.”
He steps a little closer. You’re standing under the bright, sterile light of the entryway. It’s not romantic. But it is.
He doesn’t kiss you. He just reaches out and touches your arm, his fingers warm on your skin.
“Goodnight, Y/N.”
“Goodnight, Oscar.”
You watch him walk back to his car. You go inside, and your flat is quiet. Ollie is not there. The helmet is gone.
You check your phone. One text. From Ollie.
Went home. We’ll talk tomorrow. But Piastri? Seriously? He’s so calm.
You smile.
You: Go to bed, Ol.
***
Spa is, as predicted, chaotic.
And Ollie is having a weekend. A bad one.
He spun in FP2. He qualified P12. He is vibrating with frustration.
“I just don’t get this track!” He’s ranting, pacing the small Haas hospitality area. “It’s the car … it’s just not working!”
“You’ll find it, Ol,” you say, handing him a water. But your voice is different. It’s not soothing. It’s just calm. “You’ll … “
“Y/N! There you are!”
You both turn. Oscar is standing there, holding two passes. He smiles at you, then nods at your brother.
“Ollie. Tough one today.”
“Yeah,” Ollie grunts, clearly not in the mood. “Hi.”
“I snagged these from the team,” Oscar says, holding the passes out to you. “They’re for the viewing platform at Turn 11. If you, you know, want a different view for the race.”
You stare at the passes. It’s certainly a gesture. A very public one.
“Y/M, I need you,” your brother says, his voice sharp. He’s stressed. He’s defaulting to what he knows: you. “I need to talk about the setup. Before the briefing.”
You look from Ollie — tense, demanding, and scared — to Oscar, calm, supportive, and waiting.
This is it. This is the moment.
“Ollie,” you say, turning to your brother. Your voice is incredibly quiet, but it cuts through his panic. “Your debrief is in ten minutes. With your engineer. You need to talk about the setup with him. I-I can’t help you with understeer.”
Ollie just stares at you. “But … you always … you … you take the notes …”
“I can’t. Not today.” You take the passes from Oscar. “Thank you, Oscar. That’s really thoughtful.”
“No worries,” Oscar says, his eyes fixed on you. “See you later?”
“See you later.”
Oscar nods, and walks away.
You turn back to Ollie. He looks … lost.
“Y/N, what is going on?” He asks, his voice smaller now. “You’re … you’re with him. And you’re abandoning me.”
“Oh, Ollie,” you sigh, and the old instincts kick in. You reach out, fix the collar on his team shirt. “I am not abandoning you. I will never abandon you. But I can’t be your … your everything. You have a team for that. You’ve got engineers, and managers, and a PR officer. They are all paid to help you. I’m just your sister.”
“You’re more than that,” he protests.
“I know. I was. But I can’t be, anymore. Not like that. It’s not good for you. And … it’s killing me.”
The honesty of it hangs in the air. Ollie finally seems to see it. He sees the dark circles under your eyes. He sees the tension in your shoulders.
“Right,” he says, his voice thick. “Right. I … I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be sorry. Just go to your debrief. Talk to your engineer. You’re brilliant, Ollie. You don’t … you don’t need me to find the time.”
He nods. He looks like he’s about to argue, but he just nods. “Okay. Okay. So … you’re … you’re going with him?”
“I’m, yeah. I think I am.”
“Okay.” He nods again. “Right. Well … don’t tell him any of my setup secrets.”
You laugh, a small, watery laugh. “I don’t even know your setup secrets, you idiot.”
“Right.” He smiles. A tiny, real smile. “Okay. Go. I’m … I’m good.”
You watch him walk off towards his engineers. He looks taller, somehow.
You walk out of the hospitality unit, your heart feeling too big for your chest.
You find Oscar by the media pen. You just walk up to him. He’s in the middle of talking to his PR officrt. He sees you. He excuses himself for a second.
“Hey,” he says. “You okay? That looked intense.”
“It was,” you say, your voice shaking a little. “I think I just got promoted. Or … demoted. From Second Mum to Sister.”
“Good,” he says. “That’s a much more fitting title.”
“Oh,” you say, suddenly remembering. You pull your phone out. “Before I forget.”
You open your email. You show him the screen.
Dear Y/N, We are delighted to review your re-engagement inquiry. Please find attached the necessary forms to process your application for part-time study …
Oscar stops. He’s not smiling. He’s just looking at you. And the pride in his eyes is so bright, so unfiltered, it makes you want to look away.
“Y/N,” he says, his voice low. “That’s … that’s brilliant. That’s seriously brilliant.”
And then, right there, in the middle of the Spa paddock, with a thousand people shouting and cameras flashing and engines revving, he leans in.
He puts one hand on your elbow, just to steady you. And he kisses you.
It’s not a big, dramatic, cinematic kiss. It’s simple. It’s gentle. It’s quick. It’s solid. It’s him. It tastes like the Monster he’s always drinking.
He pulls back. His cheeks are, for the first time, faintly pink.
“Right,” he says, clearing his throat. “So. Pizza. My hotel room. Eight o’clock.”
You just … nod, completely dazed. Your lips are tingling. “Pizza. Eight. Yeah.”
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clark shouting "people were going to DIE" in the face of the "think of the consequences of your actions" argument is so fucking important to me bc it really IS that simple you can't look at a genocide and just twiddler your thumbs bc you're a afraid of the consequences ESPECIALLY when you can do something about it and THATS WHAT CLARK DID. WITHOUT HESITATION. WITHOUT CONSIDERING HOW IT COULD HURT HIM. bc hes a good person and in his brain its really just people were going to die so i had to step in bc what else would it be. superman i love you i love you i love you
The fandom likes to talk about how Ron was willing to let himself get hit by the Cruciatus curse in order to prevent Hermione from getting tortured. What happens afterwards, though, is that Romione shippers argue about how Harry hadn't done anything like that. After all, he was just asking Ron to shut up.
This, they claim, is evidence that Ron cares more about Hermione than Harry does. Or that Harry doesn't care about her at all.
I do think what Ron did here is very admirable, and there's absolutely nothing to critique about that. What I hate is how it turns into Harry bashing to justify shipping Romione.
First, it's important to keep in mind that Harry's comparatively more level-headed than Ron is. He's not as emotional & he rarely displays them openly (and when he does, it's in Hermione's presence, but that's something for another post).
As Harry wanted to figure out a way from the problem, he was getting disturbed by Ron screaming, which was affected his. concentration. Unlike Ron, who was reacting emotionally, Harry wanted to think about whether they would be able to escape the place. That's why he was asking him to shut up.
And that's a good thing. When you are in trouble and someone you like is getting tortured, you attempt to try and escape instead of getting carried away by your emotions.
To try and spin Harry trying to save Hermione into "he doesn't care about her" is a flat-out lie.
Honestly, if I were Harry, I'd be pretty pissed as well. Just look at it:
"HERMIONE!” Ron bellowed, and he started to writhe and
struggle against the ropes tying them together, so that Harry stag-
gered. “HERMIONE!”
“Be quiet!” Harry said. “Shut up. Ron, we need to work out a
way—“
“HERMIONE! HERMIONE!”
“We need a plan, stop yelling—we need to get these ropes off—"
Harry wants to get the bindings off and work out a way. He wants to save Hermione, instead of just screaming to the void.
If even more evidence were needed:
Hermione was screaming again: The sound went through Harry
like physical pain. Barely conscious of the fierce prickling of his
scar, he too started to run around the cellar, feeling the walls for
he hardly knew what, knowing in his heart that it was useless.
Her screaming "went through Harry like physical pain". And, also notice how he was "barely conscious of the prickling on his scar".
He's only done that once before, and that was when he was thinking about Sirius.
His love for Hermione is so powerful that he was able to block Voldemort out of his mind.
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Not the kind of dreary, grey drizzle that ruins hair and clings to silk, but the sort of cinematic rain that you’d see in a slow-motion montage sunshine breaking through clouds, droplets catching on eyelashes, the smell of earth and roses in the air. The universe, as it turns out, has a wicked sense of poetic timing.
We got married in the Lake District. Small ceremony, close friends and family, nothing too over-the-top. Just… us. Which, after ten years of red carpets, photoshoots, and press junkets, was exactly what we both needed. No flashing bulbs. No stylists lurking in the corner. Just Will, me, and a vow whispered against the steady rhythm of rain on the windows.
And now, six months later, here we were again lugging suitcases through Heathrow at 6 a.m., eyes bleary, arms full, laughing at something neither of us would remember later.
“I’m gonna miss you like mad,” Will murmured, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear as we paused at my gate.
I offered a sleepy smile. “It’s just two weeks. You’ve had press tours longer than that.”
He frowned, always dramatic when we were parting even if it was temporary. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
I kissed his cheek. “You don’t have to like it. Just promise you’ll eat something other than toast and coffee while I’m gone.”
He grinned. “No promises.”
It wasn’t glamorous, this life not the way people thought it was. The real stuff, the love, the effort, the everyday commitment that happened off camera. In the way he’d stay up until 3 a.m. just to FaceTime me from a hotel in Atlanta. In the way I’d sit through twenty different takes on a self-tape with him, even if I could recite his lines better than he could. In the way we learned to wait for each other, even when our lives were moving at a hundred miles an hour in opposite directions.
I watched him walk away once I passed through security his lanky frame swaying slightly lighter now with the weight of my carry-on that I’d made him hold until the very last second gone. My heart tugged a little, the way it always did.
Distance was part of the deal. But so was trust. And we had buckets of that.
I was sat in a trailer in Dublin, filming an indie project that made me cry when I first read the script. It was the kind of role I’d always wanted raw, flawed, fearless. It drained me, lit me up, and terrified me all at once. And Will? He was my biggest cheerleader.
He sent a voice note every morning, without fail. Sometimes it was just a sleepy “good morning, love,” and sometimes it was a ten-minute ramble about a new coffee shop he’d found or a weird dream he’d had about being chased by a giant sandwich.
But the one I got on my final shoot day made my breath hitch.
“I’m proud of you. I know you’re scared sometimes, and that you carry more than you let on. But I see you. I see how hard you work. And I hope you know, no matter what happens, you’ve already won. You’re everything.”
I blinked back tears and texted him a shaky photo of me holding the script with mascara running down my cheeks. “You’re going to ruin my last scene, you idiot.”
“You’re gonna smash it, superstar.”
Later that summer, it was my turn to sit in the audience.
Will had landed a lead in a dark, gritty crime series his first real foray into something more dramatic after years of comedy and Marvel fanfare. I watched from the wings of the BAFTA screening room as his episode aired, the tension in the room palpable. He was breathtaking. Subtle, tortured, magnetic.
When the credits rolled and the applause started, I was already halfway to my feet.
He looked for me instantly, scanning the crowd until our eyes met. And the smallest smile broke across his face private, quiet, just for me.
At the afterparty, someone asked him what inspired his performance. He didn’t say much he never bragged. But he slid his hand into mine and said softly, “Y/n keeps me grounded.”
There were harder days, too.
Like the time I didn’t get a part I’d pinned all my hopes on. A career-defining role. I’d made it to the final two, only to be told I “didn’t quite have the look they wanted.”
I cried on the bathroom floor that night, still in my audition clothes, makeup streaked and blouse creased.
Will sat beside me in silence at first. He always knew when I needed space. Then, eventually, he handed me a glass of wine and wrapped his arm around my shoulders.
“You’re not defined by the parts you lose,” he said quietly. “They missed out. They don’t even know how badly.”
I turned into his chest and sobbed like a child. “I wanted it so badly.”
“I know, love,” he murmured. “And one day, they’ll all be chasing you.”
`
We bought a house outside London not long after. Not huge. Not flashy. But it had a garden and a library nook and a kitchen where we could cook badly and dance even worse. It was ours.
In between jobs, we’d spend lazy mornings in bed reading scripts out loud. I’d make up ridiculous accents. He’d forget lines on purpose so I’d have to ad-lib and play along.
We’d write little ideas on scraps of paper and stuff them in a shoebox labelled “someday.” Films we wanted to make. Characters we wanted to become. Lines we wanted to say to each other onscreen one day.
“I want us to work together again,” Will said one night as we watched the rain roll down the windows, heads leaning together on the sofa.
“We will,” I said. “When the timing’s right.”
“I want to play opposite you as someone who gets to kiss you in the end,” he murmured.
I smiled, pressing a kiss to the side of his jaw. “You already do.”
Award season came around again the following year.
This time, it was Will’s nomination.
He looked unfairly good in his tux nervous and giddy, squeezing my hand in the car as if he was sixteen again.
I watched him all night. Watched how people greeted him. Watched how his humility shone brighter than any spotlight. He never stopped looking for me in a crowd. Never stopped making me feel like I was the only one in the room.
When they called his name as the winner, he froze.
I laughed, nudged him. “Go! That’s you!”
He stumbled onstage with wide eyes and a stunned smile. His speech was short, heartfelt, stammered and real.
And when he thanked me, his voice cracked.
“To my wife… who’s been my anchor, my mirror, my muse. I wouldn’t be standing here without you. You’re the best scene partner I’ve ever had, on and off camera.”
I cried into my champagne flute.
That night, we snuck away from the afterparty early. Back to the hotel room. Will kicked off his shoes, threw his bow tie on the armchair and sank into the bed with a groan.
“You looked like James Bond out there,” I teased.
He laughed, pulling me down beside him. “And you looked like every reason I’ve ever believed in love.”
I cupped his face. “You deserve all of this, Will. Every second of it.”
He kissed me like a promise.
There were no scripts in our hands that night. No cameras. No lines.
Just the quiet certainty that whatever came next whatever roles, whatever rejections, whatever red carpets we’d be there.
Clapping from the wings.
Waiting at arrivals.
Learning lines in bed, one eye on each other and the other on the dream we’d built together.
We weren’t just actors. We were a team.
And every day, in a hundred tiny ways, we were still choosing each other.
Over and over again.
We got the offer on a Tuesday.
I’d just come home from a late table read, hair twisted into a bun that looked more like a bird's nest than anything remotely intentional, mascara half-worn and jumper stolen from Will’s side of the wardrobe. I remember flopping onto the sofa, kicking off my boots, and hearing him call from the kitchen, “How do you feel about falling in love with me… again?”
I blinked at him, confused. “I do that every day, babe. Bit greedy, asking for more.”
He walked over, script in hand, and dropped it onto my lap. A new indie romance, small budget, great director, achingly intimate. The kind of story you felt more than watched. And there, printed clearly on the casting page:
Lead roles: Jamie and Eliza.
Attached: Will Poulter.
Offer out to: Y/n L/n.
My heart thudded. “You’re joking.”
“I swear on your secret chocolate stash I only found out this morning.”
“You found my stash?!”
“That’s not the point,” he laughed. “The point is… they want us.”
We said yes.
Of course we did.
Rehearsals started 3 months later, and it was… surreal, walking into a room where people handed us coffee and called us “the leads.” We’d always joked about it late-night fantasies, sketching ideas on napkins, “what if” stories told between mouthfuls of takeaway.
But this? This was real. Lights, marks, call sheets. A full crew watching us fall in love all over again. Only this time, with a script.
It was delicate, the story. Jamie and Eliza were friends who’d grown up together, fallen out, and found their way back to each other. There were no dramatic twists or explosive moments just stolen glances, quiet kitchen scenes, and dialogue so intimate it felt like secrets whispered under the covers.
One afternoon during rehearsals, we were blocking a scene on the couch Eliza curled up with a cup of tea, Jamie trying to apologise for something he hadn’t yet found the words for.
Will looked at me differently in that moment. Not as my husband, but as Jamie. Hesitant, nervous, full of longing. I almost forgot to speak my line.
“Still with us, Y/n?” the director asked gently.
I blinked. “Yeah. Sorry. Got a bit caught up.”
Will smirked. “Told you I was convincing.”
“Don’t let it go to your head, Poulter.”
The kiss scenes were… interesting.
We weren’t strangers, of course, but kissing for the camera had a weird sort of choreography to it. You had to find the right angle, hit the light just so, avoid squishing your faces together too awkwardly.
And yet, somehow, it still felt like ours.
The first time we filmed one, the set fell completely silent. It wasn’t steamy or over-the-top just gentle, slow, full of history.
When the director called cut, there was a beat of silence before someone whispered, “Blimey, that felt real.”
Will turned to me, eyes crinkling with amusement. “Was it real for you?”
I rolled my eyes, smirking. “Bit better than our first kiss at that dodgy pub in Shoreditch.”
“I knew you were going to bring that up!”
We dissolved into laughter, completely wrecking the take.
Some scenes hit harder than I expected.
There was one in particular Jamie and Eliza, sat on the floor at 3 a.m., tired and raw, admitting how scared they were of losing each other.
We filmed it after a long day, the crew reduced to whispers, the set dressed like a real home: worn cushions, flickering candles, a record player spinning something soft and crackly.
I looked at Will, and for a moment, I wasn’t Eliza. I was just… me. And I saw it mirrored in his eyes too.
“I don’t know who I am without you,” I whispered, repeating the line as written.
He swallowed hard, voice low. “You don’t ever have to find out.”
Even after the director called cut, we stayed sitting there for a bit holding hands in silence.
Outside of set, not much changed between us.
He still made me tea that tasted faintly of dish soap. I still stole his hoodies and hogged the duvet. We still argued over what takeaway to get on Sundays.
But something about working together made everything sharper. Like we were rediscovering corners of each other we hadn’t touched in years.
He’d lean in close between takes, forehead against mine, whisper, “You’re so bloody good at this.”
Or I’d watch from behind the monitor as he ran a monologue with trembling hands, and my heart would ache with how proud I was of him.
There was something beautiful about knowing someone that deeply and then watching them transform right in front of you.
The final scene of the film was just us. No extras, no sound beyond the wind and the hum of the countryside.
Jamie and Eliza, standing in the field where they’d first kissed as teenagers.
It was twilight. Golden hour. Perfect lighting.
I was meant to say something. A line about fate, or home, or whatever metaphor the script had crafted.
But instead, I just looked at Will.
And he looked back at me like he already knew.
The cameras rolled.
We stepped toward each other.
And in the quiet, unscripted beat between dialogue, he whispered not as Jamie, but as himself
“This feels like us.”
I didn’t answer. Just kissed him like it was the first time and the last all at once.
The director let the shot run for a full thirty seconds longer than planned. When he finally called “cut,” no one moved.
Then the crew burst into applause.
We wrapped a week later. And I cried in the trailer like an idiot.
Will found me with tissues tucked into my sleeves, blinking back tears and pretending I wasn’t sniffling like a child.
He pulled me into a hug, kissed the top of my head.
“We’ll do it again,” he promised. “Different script. Different story. Same us.”
“You really think we’ll get another one?”
He smiled. “You forget you’re brilliant. I’d cast you in everything.”
“Even as Batman?”
“Especially as Batman.”
The film premiered six months later.
We walked the red carpet hand in hand, still the same people who shared toothbrushes and argued over dishwasher stacking but also something more.
People asked us about our “chemistry,” and we smiled politely, gave the same rehearsed answers.
But when the lights went down in the cinema and the first scene played, Will reached over and laced our fingers together.
And I thought not for the first time that the best kind of love stories are the ones you don’t need to perform.
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