✶✶✶

"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?"

"I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend until the season ends."

You're sure he hit his head really hard. He must have a concussion. He must have.

"Piastri, no one's going to believe that."

"Not with that attitude, they won't."

You scoff, staring at him in disbelief.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Oscar Piastri, who you can't stand since freshman year, when both of you joined your respective teams.

Oscar Piastri, asking you to pretend to be his girlfriend until the season ends.

What the actual fuck?

"Did you hit your head?" You finally ask, leaning closer to look at him across the cafeteria table, eyebrows furrowed with confusion and a hint of worry. "Are you okay? Are you maybe hallucinating right now?"

He rolls those brown eyes of his as if you're the one suggesting the craziest thing the whole campus has ever heard.

"Look, I just need the guys to get off my back. I need them to stop saying I'm married to cricket, you need the band, why not?"

"Why not?!" You repeat, still checking his face for any concussion signs. "Piastri, if you just need your stupid friends to stop commenting on the fact that you're a virgin, maybe just go ahead and fuck someone," your voice turns bitter as you hiss out the next words, "I'm pretty sure any girl from the stupid band you keep stealing from me would be up for the challenge."

"First of all, I'm not a virgin," he glares at you when you snort, "second of all, I don't want a relationship. I want to focus on my degree and on the cricket team. That's the point of getting a fake girlfriend, I don't have to put any effort into it."

You wonder if he'd let you do a quick examination to make sure he's actually not concussed. He must be.

"No one's going to believe that," you shake your head, repeating your words from before, "it makes absolutely no sense for us to start dating out of nowhere. We can barely stand each other."

"Well, why would anyone think we're fake dating in the first place? It's not exactly common."

"Yes, because it's fucking insane," you lean even more towards him, still shaking your head in denial, "and why me, of all people? We're not friends. Why the fuck would you want to fake date me?"

"Because I'll definitely not put any effort into it if it's you, so it's not going to affect my real priorities."

You're not offended.

Okay, maybe a little bit.

"No."

He furrows his eyebrows, and you wonder how the fuck he has the nerve to look confused, "no?"

"For half the band? For one competition? No. That's not worth it."

He blinks.

"Okay. The entire band."

"No," you cross your arms and lean back against your chair, eyebrows rising as you stare at him, unimpressed, "I've done most competitions without them. It'll suck, yes, but still not worth it."

Piastri pauses. The air between the two of you is filled with tension, as it usually is. It feels like a battle, and the two of you bargain like politicians like you always have.

"Every competition for the rest of the season."

That grabs your attention.

"Every competition?" He nods and your eyes narrow with suspicion. "Every competition? Every round through nationals? Every single one?"

He nods again.

"Even if there's an important cricket game on the same day?"

His nose twitches in annoyance at the question. "If we get through the quarter and semifinals and the finals are on the same day, we split the band."

You stare at him. Wonder for the fifth time if he's having some sort of psychological crisis. If he's concussed.

The band for every competition for the rest of the season.

You see, getting the band to play at a game or a competition is a privilege team captais fight tooth and nail for. It boosts morale, hypes up the teams, and usually makes the opponent feel a little more tense.

If there were two games or competitions in the same day, fucking Charles Leclerc, who all the team captains jokingly called band captain, liked to say it was first come, first served.

And you and Oscar Piastri had been fighting over the university band ever since you got into college — and God, was it a losing game for you.

Sure, there's a slight chance other teams may need the band on the same days the two of you did, but it never usually happens. Other sports have games and competitions on other days of the week.

Cricket and swimming are the ones that share Sundays.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

"So we get the entire band for the rest of the season and split the band if you guys get to the finals."

"We will get to the finals, but yes."

There's a quiet beat as you just look at him, thinking, pondering.

"And we just have to date until the season ends?" You uncross your arms slowly.

"Fake date."

"Don't get technical on me now, Piastri."

You think you see a shadow of smile on his lips before it disappears.

"Yes, just for the next two months or so, and then you're rid of me. We can act like none of this ever happened."

"Okay," he perks up at the word, but you shoot his hope down quickly, "I'll think about it," he deflates, "I can give you an answer on Thursday."

He lifts one of his eyebrows at you.

"Charles won't like it if he has to change plans for the band too close to Sunday."

You stand from your chair, already grabbing your backpack from the floor while he watches you. You look down at him.

"That's Leclerc's problem. Thursday, Piastri."

✶✶✶

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yourusername practice day❤️

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kikagomes love youuu ♡ liked by yourusername

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freshman1 sooo cool!!

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pierregasly amazing work from our girls!!!

↳ kikagomes darling don't say it like that it sounds weird af ♡ liked by yourusername

francolapinto I leave early ONE DAY and you post pictures without me. I see how it is.

↳ yourusername yes that's exactly how it is!!!!!

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oscarpiastri Good work today as always, keep pushing

landonorris LESGOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

olliebearman THE QUARTER FINALS ARE OURS BABYYYY

freshman1 sooo cute

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"Okay, so we need to set some ground rules," you tell Piastri later that evening, when you meet at the campus café to discuss the details of this mess you've gotten into. "And we can't be long, because I have to be up at 5 for tomorrow's practice, so try not to waste too much of my time."

"You know, if you're going to be my fake girlfriend, I think you'll need to be a little nicer to me," he raises his eyebrows at you, crossing his arms and watching quietly as you order a cappuccino at the counter.

"Alright, I'll be nicer to you in public," you answer when the barista starts making your order, turning your body away from the counter and towards him, "what else?"

His eyes narrow in suspicion.

"You're serious about setting rules."

"Obviously," you roll your eyes, "I'm not letting you just do and say whatever you want about this fake relationship of ours, Piastri. I don't trust you like that."

He hums in acknowledgement, the quiet whirring of the coffee machine comfortable inside the warm establishment.

"Fine. You can't tell your swimming friends the relationship is fake."

Your eyes widen. "Piastri, I can't keep that from them. This is for your friends, not for mine, and those guys see me basically every day and know me better than everyone, even the freshmen — they're not gonna believe me if I say we just started dating out of nowhere.”

"We’ll make up a love story, I don't know," he shrugs, "but they can't know. Alexandra would tell Charles, who would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone, and then my plan would be ruined."

You sigh deeply before nodding, uncertain. You’re not sure how you feel about lying to your swimming friends — your best friends.

… but he is right. Alex would definitely tell Charles, who would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone.

"Okay. Alright, okay. I'll figure it out."

The barista calls out your name and you turn to grab your hot drink, smiling at the barista before turning to Piastri again.

"Aren't you gonna get anything?"

He shakes his head. "I don't drink coffee."

"You engineering freak," is your muttered answer, moving towards one of the small tables and immediately sitting down, watching him as he sits across from you. "Anything else?"

He seems to think it over for a second, gaze going from you to the coffee machine behind the counter and then back to you again.

"If any of my game dates don't match yours, you'll have to go watch me play. Supportive girlfriend and all."

"Well, only if you watch my swimming competitions as well," you twitch your nose at him, bringing the mug to your lips, "supportive boyfriend and all."

You don't notice the way his eyes focus on your mouth as you take a long sip. Piastri clears his throat loudly, looking away. You don't notice how a light flush paints his cheeks either.

"Sure, I can do that," he nods, clearing his throat again before his tone takes a condescending turn, "what about you? No rules?"

"Oh, I've got many rules," your smile is so forced even the barista, from the other side of the café, can see through it, "first things first, I want flowers. Once a month, at least."

His eyebrows shoot up.

"I told you I didn't want to put in any effort."

"I literally couldn't give less of a shit," you take another sip, clearly unimpressed, "I told you you're not going to be a deadbeat fake boyfriend. There's only a couple of months until the season ends, you can do flowers."

He sighs loudly, leaning his back against the chair and staring at the ceiling.

"Of course you'd be a high maintenance fake girlfriend."

"Don't piss me off, everyone knows I wouldn't have a disinterested boyfriend," your eyes are filled with amusement, "you have to make me swoon, Piastri. I wouldn't date someone that isn't willing to sweep me off my feet."

"Sweep you off your feet, got it," his eyes lingered on the curve of your smile, "go on."

"Okay," you set the mug down, "you have to pick me up from swimming practice every morning."

"Are you serious?" He all but moans, staring at you in disbelief. "You guys practice at the crack of dawn."

"It's called discipline," you snap back, "yes, I'm serious.”

He groans.

“Fine.”

“And you have to post me somewhat regularly. I'm not willing to be someone's secret fake girlfriend."

He sighs again, but nods in agreement.

"And you can't fuck anyone while we're doing this. I mean, not that I think you're capable of fucking anyone, but I don't want any gossip about getting cheated on."

He scoffs at the insult, but doesn't seem too offended.

"I wouldn't do that to you," he rolls his eyes, "obviously."

Piastri watches surprise flicker through your features.

You’re vaguely aware that Piastri isn’t devil on Earth, much less that bad of a guy. Still, you don’t expect the readiness of it — the obviously, the consideration. It sends a tingle through your chest.

You elect to ignore it.

"You have to volunteer at my lab."

"What?"

"We don't have enough volunteers for our current research," you shrug as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, taking another sip from your drink, "I'd clearly make my boyfriend do that for me. It's nothing much, we'll just make you run and do a few exercises. You'll be fine. And, at last — no kissing."

Piastri lifts his eyebrows.

"No kissing?"

"Oh, don't look at me like that," you kick him beneath the table, rolling your eyes when he glares at you, "I don't want to kiss you, period."

"That's gonna ruin our plan," he shakes his head, brow furrowed, "what, I win a game and don't kiss my girlfriend in celebration? That's ridiculous."

You ponder it for a second. A slight breeze comes through the window and you sigh at the feeling. Piastri watches it carefully.

"Okay," you concede, "you can kiss me after the finals, if you win and I'm there."

"That's ridiculous," he repeats. "Just the finals?"

You nod.

"Just the finals."

He sighs tiredly, running a hand through his hair.

"Fine, okay. But you have to be nice and affectionate with me when we're in public, even if we don't kiss. Hold hands, hugs, all that stuff."

"You're really greedy for someone who didn't want to put in effort, you know?" You lean forward slightly, eyes focusing on his.

"Aren't you the one who wants to be wooed?" There's no friendliness in his teasing, and you roll your eyes again.

"Oh, you're not gonna woo me. You'll just act like you can, Piastri."

He scoffs.

"I guess we'll see about that."

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

"You know, you have a pretty nice car."

He does. The seat is cushioned to no end, the drive is almost silent, and, even though the music volume is low, you can tell the sound is insanely good.

You wouldn't be able to say what car it is, but it did make your eyes widen when it stopped by the pool's entrance, and the silence is so awkward you can barely handle it.

Not that you feel any joy in talking to Piastri, of course. Still, the discomfort of it all is getting to you.

"Thanks," his tone is dry, but you can hear the hint of confusion in his voice.

Maybe he's as surprised as you are that you're trying to, what? Start conversation with Oscar Piastri of all people?

"How was practice?"

Your eyebrows shoot up at the question. His furrow. Neither of you expected him to keep the conversation going either.

"It was okay," you answer carefully. It feels weird to talk to him without trying to start a fight. "We're taking a rest day tomorrow so we aren't too tired for the competition on Sunday."

"Cricket takes two rest days before games," he mutters, eyes on the road.

"Are you trying to compete with me over rest days, Piastri? I didn't ask."

Well, there goes not trying to start a fight.

You're not sure why you do it. He's being exceptionally polite, and he got out of the car to open the door for you even though no one could see it, which was, perhaps, the weirdest thing that had ever happened to you.

He'd actually shown up, as well. Right on time as practice ended. You don't even think you told him what time you'd be done with swimming for the morning.

Maybe you just feel defensive. Maybe you just don't know how to act in this situation, don't know how to talk to him.

His gaze flies towards you for a mere second before focusing on the campus streets again.

"You're insane," his expression doesn't even change when he says it, and somehow that makes it worse.

Well. You started conversation and then immediately shut him out the moment he tried to keep it going.

Maybe you are insane, and you definitely feel a little bad about it, but not enough to apologize or say anything else.

The last minutes of the ride are spent in that same awkward silence. When he stops the car, you move to open the door on the passenger side, but he moves quicker — in a couple of seconds, he gets out the car, around it, and opens the door for you.

You gape at him like a fish out of water as you slowly get out the car, his hand still firmly gripping the handle.

You look around. He drove you back to your dorm building as you had asked, and only a few students walk nearby, most of them not even noticing the two of you. Some stare.

He closes the door as you sling your backpack over your shoulder.

"You don't need to do that everytime," you mutter awkwardly, feeling heat creep up your cheeks, "I can open the door by myself."

Once more, Piastri is quicker than you. He leans down and plants a quick kiss on your warm cheek, ignoring the surprised gasp that leaves your lips.

"You're insane, but you also prohibited me from being a deadbeat fake boyfriend," he shrugs, but you see the way his mouth curves in a smirk at your startled reaction. "Have a good day."

And, in a second, he's back in his car and driving away.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Opening doors and kissing your cheek.

A sophomore you're pretty sure plays in the university band flashes you a smile as she walks by, but you don't acknowledge it nor do you move. You just watch his car get smaller and smaller as he drives it away.

God, you should not have agreed to this.

✶✶✶

You're very particular about competition days.

You joined the swimming team mere months after you started university, and it felt like a much needed outlet for any frustration you felt towards everything else going on in your life. Pre-med was no joke, and you were known for being either at the pool, at the library, or at the PT research lab.

Married to swimming and school work, just like Piastri's friends say he's married to cricket. You try not to dwell on that similarity.

Swimming is where you feel most at ease — it's where you can finally breathe, funnily enough, and mornings feel incomplete without it.

Of course you're passionate about the sport. More than passionate, if your frequent angry outbursts at Charles Leclerc are anything to go by.

You see, it isn't always Piastri's fault that the band doesn't show up to swimming competitions. The cricket and swimming calendars don't always align and, even though they do align enough to annoy the shit out of you, you have to admit Piastri can't take the blame every single time.

Sometimes they have to be somewhere else, sometimes they have their own competitions, and there was even a time or two when the university dean asked them to play at a board event. It all culminates in the fact the band hasn't shown up to any swimming competitions all season, which pisses you off to no end.

The swimming team has never gotten this close to nationals, at least not in recent history. This might be the most important competition day ever since you joined the team, bright-eyed, shy, excited.

You take your breakfast like you always do — not too light to be hungry, not too heavy to vomit into the pool, a lesson freshman you had to learn the hard way. You stretch before you even leave your dorm and you check your backpack a thousand times to be sure you haven't forgotten anything, rechecking for your lucky swimming cap a thousand times more.

When you finally meet the rest of the team at the state pool, your hands are trembling more than a captain's hands should. Alex and Kika are bursting with energy, and Franco all but jumps in his own spot. The new freshmen look ready to throw up.

"Okay," you clear your throat when your voice cracks, nerves fighting to get the best of you, "this is our most important competition to date."

"Damn, no pressure," Franco mutters, shrugging when you glare his way. For a semi-freshman, you're always surprised by how much shit he says.

"If we win, we go to nationals. The band is here," you wave towards the bleachers by the side of the pool, directly next to the other teams, which you suppose is purposeful, "and everyone expects us to do at least somewhat well."

"Again, no pressure," Kika rolls her eyes with amusement and directs a soft smile to the freshmen, "we'll just do our best."

"No," you shake your head, tightening your fists to stop their trembling, looking at each and every person in your team with determination as you take in a deep breath, pushing away your anxiety, even if you still feel it, "we'll do more than our best, and we'll win. We're fast as fuck and the best swimmers in the world and this competition will be a breeze. Leclerc will play trumpets on their ears and they'll be no match for us."

Alex lets out a laugh at that, but some of the freshmen puff out their chests.

"I believe in each and every one of you," you nod. "Don't let me down, and I won't let you down either. Now, let's get ready to win."

The team lets out cheers, clapping as they start moving toward their spots around the pool, some stretching, others sighing and trying to shake out the nervousness.

"That's why she's the captain," you hear someone mumble, and feel almost guilty over how untrue that sounds.

Saying it is one thing, believing it is entirely another.

If there's someone feeling the pressure, it's you. You, who committed to being team captain before you were even a senior. You, who pushed every teammate to their limit during pratice every morning. You, who agreed to fake date your archnemesis to make sure you'd have a supportive audience at this pool.

Minutes later, the whistle sounds.

You can still hear the band with your head underwater.

✶✶✶

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swimteam Congratulations to all of our athletes for absolutely DOMINATING all swimming categories on the state competition today and therefore qualifying to NATIONALS!

And shout out to our captain @.yourusername for setting the new state record for the 800m front crawl category ❤️

yourusername FUCKING LOVE YOU GUYS I'M SO HAPPY!!!!!!! ♡ liked by swimteam

oscarpiastri What a great job from the team! ♡ liked by swimteam

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francolapinto first full season and already going to nationals maybe i'm a good luck charm? ♡ liked by swimteam

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yourusername feeling actually insane. what a crazy fucking weekend. thank you guys for everything @.swimteam ❤️ WE'RE FUCKING GOING TO NATIONALS

also thank you @.charles_leclerc and the whole band for being there, couldn't have done it without you

kikagomes BEST CAPTAIN THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEEEEEEEEEN ♡ liked by yourusername

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↳ yourusername ❤️

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✶✶✶

When you leave the pool on Tuesday, Alex and Kika walking beside you, Piastri is already waiting outside.

Piastri is waiting outside with flowers.

You stop dead in place at the sight, gaping at him as you hear Alex and Kika gasp.

Not any flowers, either. Pink camellias and a few white gardenias, all wrapped up in brown paper and a nice white bow. He smiles at you so wide when he sees you that you feel your cheeks grow warm.

"There's my girl!" He walks towards you in wide strides, immediately leaning down to kiss your face. You just stare as he puts the delicate flowers into your hands and turns his head toward your friends. "You guys did great on Sunday. Are you excited to go to nationals?"

Alex and Kika can't seem to speak, staring at him in utter shock as you look down at your flowers.

You suppose you did ask for it, yes. You didn't expect him to deliver, though, at least not like this. Perhaps some simple roses. Maybe daisies.

The silence stretches. Piastri clears his throat.

"Well. Should we... Go?" He looks at you when he asks it, uncertain, but you just look down at the pretty bouquet sitting between your hands.

He says your name quietly and that's what snaps you back into reality.

"Yes. Yes, of course," you shoot a smile to your friends, barely registering their shocked glances to each other, "I'll see you tomorrow, guys!"

The girls watch as he opens the door for you and walks around the front of the car to get into the driver's seat, waving at them before closing his own door.

"So," the car starts to move, "how was practice?"

You blink down at the flowers, and then back up at him.

"You got me flowers."

"Yes, I did," he nods and glances at you, "I didn't know which ones you liked, so I just picked the ones I thought looked nicer. Are they okay?"

You look down at the flowers again. Beautiful, fresh, colorful, staring up at you brightly.

"You could've just gotten roses or something."

"Nah," Piastri shakes his head, eyes focusing on the road, "roses are too basic, and we've already come to the conclusion that you're high maintenance."

"That's..." you open your mouth to speak and find yourself at a loss for words, "thank you?"

"Don't thank me yet," he glances at you again, "I have a favor to ask you."

You groan, setting the flowers down on your lap as your stare at him, grateful for the sudden annoyance that can distract you from how fucking flustered you are.

"Another one, Piastri?"

"Look, Lando is throwing a party this weekend to celebrate our quarter finals, since we couldn't celebrate on Sunday after getting the news that Jack won't be able to play for the rest of the season. I've told him I'm seeing someone, so they said I should bring you."

"Someone? You haven't told them it's me?" Your eyes narrow at him, gripping the flower stems a little tighter.

"No, I thought you'd prefer it if we told people on your terms," he glances at you again, "hence why the party could be a good place for it."

For what feels like the thousandth time during this car ride, you blink at him.

"That's surprisingly considerate."

He rolls his eyes.

"I am considerate, just like I am nice," you watch as he sighs, "you can invite the swimming team if you want."

"I never took you for a party guy," your eyes turn to your flowers again, chest tightening at how lovely they look, at how the colors complement each other.

"I'm not," Piastri agrees, and your focus moves to the way his hands turn the steering wheel, taking a right, "but it'd be awkward if the team captain doesn't go to the team's celebration party, you know? And, again, it'd be a good place for us to make it official."

"Make it fake official," you mutter, forcing yourself to look back at the flowers.

You don't miss the way his lips curl into a teasing smile. You hate the way your face tingles with warmth.

"Don't get technical on me now, L/N."

A chuckle escapes you, and his smile grows wider. He turns a left and you notice you're on your street.

"Fine," you sigh tiredly, "but you're picking me up for that too."

He laughs back and, for some reason, you hate it.

"Of course."

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

"You know, you could've just said we needed to meet to align what story we're telling everyone, you didn't need to scare the crap out of me."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic."

You throw a pillow at Piastri, who sits on your desk on the other side of your room, chair moved so he can look at you. You huff when he catches it.

"Besides, if it was something worth getting worried about, you're not exactly the person I'd be texting. We're not close like that."

You think you see hurt flicker through his expression, but it's gone before you can be sure.

Piastri has never been in your dorm room before.

Your roommate is out for the day, and never in his life did Piastri think he'd ever be alone in your room with you.

The dorm is surprisingly untidy. For all your talk of discipline, there's clothes hanging from the desk chair, a little pile of shoes on the floor. Your desk table is a complete mess — papers everywhere, books on top of each other, your sunglasses too close to the edge. By the desk, there's a duffle bag filled to the top with clothes, a couple of swimming goggles, a clean swimsuit, and an assortment of swimming caps.

"The party is tomorrow night," you remind him, "I won't be able to escape Alex and Kika there. What are we gonna tell them?"

"Well, I don't know," he crosses his arms, not a hint of emotion on his tone, "maybe you just fell for my crazy charm and begged to go out with me?"

You laugh so loudly the sound rings in his ears, and Piastri can't help but smirk.

"No one is going to believe that," you shake your head and he doesn't take it personally, "we need to think of something better."

There's a beat of silence as the two of you try to think of a good story to explain how, miraculously, you got together.

You and Oscar Piastri. Well, that would be hard to explain, wouldn't it? You hadn't liked him for years now, and what could have possibly changed that?

"Maybe we kissed at Gasly's party a month ago," he suggests, and you arch your eyebrow.

"The one where you looked uncomfortable the entire time and left early?"

He tilts his head in surprise. "You noticed?"

"I mean—not like that," you roll your eyes, but there's no denying the warmth on your face, "I just saw you a couple of times, that's all."

There's another beat of silence, and you wonder if you can swallow back your words and choke on them.

"Okay," he nods slowly. "Maybe you saw me leaving, went after me to see if I was okay, and we kissed."

"Why would I check up on you?" You blurt out and immediately wish you could swallow those words, as well.

"Because you're nice to people," he says quietly, looking away from you, "so maybe you were just being nice."

It's stupid, but you feel a pang on the left side of your chest.

"Yeah, okay. That seems fair," you swallow, and your throat hurts, "I was drunk and you looked sad and pitiful, so I kissed you."

There's a slight lilt to his lips. "You kissed me?"

"Obviously," you match his small smile, "I wear the fake pants in this fake relationship, Piastri. I kissed you."

He lets out a snort and your smile widens.

"Sure, okay. What then? You asked me out?"

"No, I didn't," you lean back against your bedrest, head turned to look at him, "I kissed you and you were so overwhelmed with joy that you asked me out on the spot."

Piastri really laughs this time, and you allow yourself to grin at him. He notices and grins back.

"Did you say yes?"

You shrug, but the smile stays on your face. "If you looked pitiful enough, I might have."

"Oh, so you only accepted because I looked pitiful?" The teasing tone to his voice sounds nice. You've never heard it from him, not without any annoyance behind it.

"Obviously," you throw another pillow at him and he catches it again, "I have a soft spot for sad men."

He throws the pillow back and you catch it clumsily. He shakes his head and lets out another chuckle. "Of course you do."

"We hung out in secret for a while," you keep the story going, resting your chin on your hands as you look at him, thoughtful, "I wasn't sure if it was serious or not, and you're married to cricket."

He nods, still smiling. The flowers he gave you on Tuesday are on top of your bedside table, he notices, inside a jar filled with water and still holding up. They bring some color to the space. He feels flattered you actually still have them.

"Maybe—" he hesitates, face falling, and you gesture for him to continue. He clears his throat, "maybe that day when you messaged me about the band, my favor was for you to be my girlfriend officially."

You study him for a second. The deep brown eyes, his strong jaw, his lips no longer forming that smile you were growing to enjoy. He looks a little embarrassed, a little uncomfortable, just like he had that night at Gasly's party. Some strange part of you wants to see him grin at you again.

"That's a good idea," you nod slowly. "Would make the timeline add up."

"Exactly," he nods back.

That awkward silence settles in again, the one that fills his car when he drives you back to your dorm, the one that swims between your text messages.

You don't know what it is. There are times when you talk and laugh and chat like normal people — acquaintances, at least. Other times, it seems you've never met before, like you just have no idea how to act with each other.

You don't know how to act with each other. It's been years of angry glances, sarcastic answers, underhanded compliments. Mainly from your part, you realize, even though you know for certain that he has gone after his way to get the band when he knew you wanted it for a swimming competition.

Even then, is that sufficient reason for the weird relationship you two have always had?

Piastri seems to be asking himself the same questions, because the next words out of his mouth are, "why do you hate me so much?"

You blink at him, surprised by the question.

"I don't hate you, Piastri."

"I mean, you sort of do," he crosses his arms again, almost as if trying to make himself smaller, "I know you're... Intense, but you don't seem to have this much of a problem with other people."

You think it over for a few seconds. It's true. While you've had issues with almost everyone in the student athletic association and in band, with Piastri it's always been personal — it's not just sports and business like it is with others.

"I mean, you do make it your mission to steal band from me all the time."

He shakes his head, "you know it's more than that. Yes, I do try to steal band from you every Sunday. I know how much you like the band, and in a selfish way I guess I want to upset you in the same way you upset me by— I don't know, just being mad at me all the time."

Your eyebrows furrow and your voice goes a little quieter. "It upsets you?"

"Of course it does."

You look at him closely, his arms still crossed, clearly uncomfortable sitting in your dorm, asking you questions that haunted him since freshman year.

"It's stupid," you murmur, and he immediately leans forward to listen, interested, "you pranked me in freshman year."

Piastri looks at your startled, eyebrows shooting up. "What?"

"When we started university," you start, feeling so embarrassed you wish you could bury yourself in a hole, "I met you at one of those welcome cocktails, do you remember?"

He nods, confused.

"Well, we talked a bunch that night. I had a lot of fun. I thought you were really cute, too," you look away, the embarrassment increasing tenfold as you avoid his gaze, cheeks glowing red, "so I asked for your number, and you gave me a fake one. I tried to text you and it just didn't exist. Never felt that humiliated in my life," you laugh humorlessly, "I know it's stupid, but I just could never really like you after that. It was awful because you were always so nice to everyone, and I didn't understand why you did that. You could've just said no, you know? And then the following year I became more involved with the swimming team and you were just a dick about the band. So yeah, I guess that's how it started."

When you finally gather the courage to glance at Piastri again, you don't think you've ever seen him look this confused in his life. It makes you feel even more embarrassed, the way his eyebrows furrow with no understanding.

"I remember that night," he concedes, and then shakes his head in denial. "We talked, and I gave you my phone number and you never reached out until sophomore year, when we started talking—well, when we started fighting over the band."

It's your turn to look confused.

"No, you didn't give me a real number, Piastri. I had to get your number from someone else later."

"I did not give you a fake number," his voice is solid, firm, and he stares at you with certainty. "Maybe you heard one of the numbers wrong due to the party noise, or I mixed something up, I had just changed numbers at the time. But I did not give you a fake number. I wanted to talk to you."

You stare back at him, unsure on how to answer. You weren't hurt by that anymore — it happened years ago and, at this point, you didn't care. But it was the starting point of your distaste towards him, and it had tainted the first following interactions. The image of him that stuck with you had been that one — smiling Piastri, sweet and polite, giving you hope and butterflies and a fake number, a dead end.

Polite enough to not be cruel to your face, to let you feel the humiliation and embarrassment on your own on the next day, seeing every message refuse to go through.

And to know that that wasn't what had happened? That maybe it had all been a silly misunderstanding, and you held a grudge over nothing?

Well, that was awkward.

"I—well, it doesn't matter," you try to shift the topic, letting out an uneasy chuckle, "it was years ago, and it's not like I'm still upset at you because of that. Nowadays, my only issue with you is the band and the fact that you're always a little shit about it."

"It does matter," he presses, and you notice the way his finger grip the edges of your desk chair so tight his knuckles go white, "it matters to me. I did not give you a fake number. It wasn't a prank."

"Piastri—"

"I promise you I didn't. I wouldn't have done that, even if I didn't want you to have my number, and I did."

"Piastri, it's fine," you insist, still avoiding his gaze, "I can promise you I'm over something that happened when we were 18." You pause. "But it's good to know you didn't do it on purpose. Makes it a little less embarrassing, I think."

He doesn't answer, just studies you quietly. Maybe he's waiting for something. You're not sure what it is. Your heart beats loudly inside your chest. You suppose this shouldn't change anything, but it does.

Not the fact that he didn't mean to give you the wrong number, no, but the fact he cares so much about it. About you knowing he wanted to talk to you, that he gave you the right number, that he waited for you to text him.

"So," you clear your throat, face flaming red, "the party this weekend."

✶✶✶

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oscarpiastri incredible night out with my girlfriend, the state record holder for 800m front crawl

tagged: yourusername

yourusername LMAOOOO

yourusername looking good piastri ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

↳ landonorris dating the guy and still calling him by his last name my man can never win

↳↳ yourusername it's my brand at this point

francolapinto still can't believe you refused to kiss for the camera i just wanted to capture this monumental moment

↳ yourusername weirdo

username1 can i say that as a fellow colleague i ALWAYS thought you guys would look cute together ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

kikagomes CUTIESSSSS ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 2,741 others

yourusername coffee date

tagged: oscarpiastri

kikagomes the hard launch i can't ♡ liked by yourusername

kimiantonelli you guys are like parents to me ♡ liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux did you guys go grab coffee immediately after the party 😭😭😭

↳ yourusername perhaps

oscarpiastri ❤️❤️❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername ❤️❤️❤️

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landonorris i can't believe you guys are really dating we thought he was lying ♡ liked by yourusername

✶✶✶

A week later, Piastri waits for you to get ready for lab after bringing you to your dorm.

"I said I'd volunteer to help with your research," he explains when you stare at him quizzically, shruging as if it's just obvious.

And you guess it is. He did say he'd do it.

Besides, getting a ride to lab does feel quite nice. The awkwardness and silences from that first week seem to be dissipating slowly after you two managed to actually enjoy being together at Lando's party, even if you didn't do much besides dance with your friends and let him put his arm around your back a few times. You ask about cricket, he asks about swimming. He tells you about his engineering degree and how excited he is to get a job in the market, and you tell him all about doing physical therapy as pre-med and about how much work you're putting into it. He listens. He asks questions.

You find yourself enjoying those few minutes between the pool and your dorm more than you ever did. Worst of all, you find yourself looking forward to the way he laughs.

You're not friends, per se. You barely text outside of quick "I'm here" or "waiting for you" messages when he comes to pick you up, and your conversations don't ever stray much from your sports and your classes.

But it's nice to talk to him normally, to talk without feeling like there's a ticking bomb waiting for you to start an argument. You don't even feel angry or irritated at him anymore, not even when he jokes around too much or says something stupid.

When you arrive, your colleagues are absolutely ecstatic that you’ve brought them what is, essentially, a lab rat. Piastri barely introduces himself before they have him hooked up to a bunch of wires, monitoring his body’s responses as they make him jump, run, and do a thousand little exercises, moving his arms this or that way, flexing his legs.

You have to admit his calm demeanor and politeness are somewhat captivating. He’s extremely nice to everyone in your lab, and he asks them for details and information on your research, which, as everyone knows, is enough to make any academic’s heart soar.

Oscar smiles softly at you whenever you’re the one to come check on his wires, tell him to move in a specific manner. He obeys solemnly, calling you “doctor” and chuckling when you roll your eyes at him, unable to mask your grin.

Your colleagues make him promise to come back in the following week. He laughs and agrees, planting a kiss on the top of your head and telling you to text him when you get home before leaving.

You still have a smile on your face after he's gone, making notes and studying the data with a lightness on your chest. When your professor clears her throat and your eyes meet hers, your face is bright.

"So, that was your boyfriend, huh?" She smiles knowingly, looking you up and down.

"Yeah," you smile back, glancing back at the numbers and lines on the lab computer, "you know me, I had to force him to volunteer."

She chuckles at your answer, leaning her hip against your work desk.

"I can tell he really likes you," you turn your face towards her again, "just by the way he looks at you. You've got that man hooked, Ms. L/N." She claps your shoulder. "Good luck with that data, let me know when you're done so I can look it over."

You try to smile back, try to take it in stride. She gives you a wink before walking away, asking someone else a question and leaving as if your heart wasn't breaking a little bit.

Oscar must be good at this pretending thing, if even your lab professor thinks he's in love with you. You do nothing but smile a little more at him and actually look him in the eye, while he's the one giving you cheek kisses, opening doors for you, and laughing at every joke you make.

You're not sure why it bothers you, but it does. A lot.

✶✶✶

Another week later, you're preparing for the first round of nationals.

And Oscar has started to visit your dorm.

The first time it happens, it's a Monday. During the ride back from the pool, he asks if it'd be a good day for him to volunteer at the lab again, because he did promise he'd come back and he isn't sure if he'll be able to do it another time. You tell him he can wait for you to get ready inside your dorm instead of outside, in the car. Your roommate is leaving for her morning classes when the two of you arrive and shoots you a knowing look when she closes the door behind her, but doesn't say anything.

You don't say anything either. You just let him into the messy room, let him sit on top of your bed and between your pillows, let him ask questions about some of the books on your desk.

He keeps coming back, starts coming in after swimming practice and driving you from your dorm to the physical therapy building as well. You start asking questions back. What's his favorite book, is his dorm also a little untidy, who's his favorite teacher.

You tell him about your lucky swimming cap — the only one you wear during tournaments, the one you can't compete without, the one you check your duffle bag for a million times before leaving your dorm on competition days.

He tells you he has a lucky pair of socks for cricket games.

"Do you wash them?" You ask him then, wrinkling your nose, a smirk on your lips.

"Only when we lose," an amused grin covers his face, and it opens up with laughter as you gag, throwing a pillow at him that he quickly catches.

"You're nasty," your whole face scrunches up with disgust, shaking your head as if trying to shake the information away.

"Hey!" He objects between chuckles, smile bright. "If it works, it works."

Around the same time, the lingering touches start. You suppose it makes sense, considering the fact you're technically dating.

Oscar starts sitting with you on the cafeteria, holding your hand on top of the table, leaning his shoulder into yours. The tender kisses don't stop, they increase in frequency — on your cheek while he waits for you to get into the car, on your forehead when he leaves you after lunch, on the top of your head while you're hanging out with others.

You don't go out on dates. You don't have to — everyone knows how busy your lives are, so no one questions the way you're never seen out for dinner. Even then, it feels adequate. You're seen together everywhere, and you actually show up to one or two cricket team night practices to watch them play and wait for him before he drives you back to your dorm after a hard day.

Neither of you mention the way his hand sometimes searches for yours while he drives. Neither of you mention the fact he kisses your cheek even when there's no one around.

You're not sure when Oscar Piastri went from your archnemesis to your sort of touchy friend. You're not sure when you started texting him about annoying teachers, boring assignments, muscle aches from swimming. But you do, and he answers every time — he entertains you, makes jokes, asks questions, complains about his own classes.

Oscar Piastri becomes your friend.

And he isn't there during the first round of nationals because the cricket team has a friendly game to practice for the semifinals in the following week, but he texts you a string of four-leaf clover emojis for good luck and asks you to send him a picture wearing your lucky cap, which you do with a big smile on your face.

Oscar is nice, and considerate, and funny, and charming. He's more on the quiet side, yes, but he's so expressive and attentive that you just can't help but think that, if he didn't steal the band so often and you hadn't developed a grudge from a misunderstanding, maybe you could've been friends through the entirety of your graduation years.

Maybe this could've been real.

You try not to dwell on these thoughts, but it's impossible. You can't stop yourself from looking forward to the small kisses, the hand holding, the hugs, the car rides, the lunches, the talking in your dorm. The lines become blurry — how much are you really friends, and how much is it just pretending?

✶✶✶

"So, you and Piastri, huh?"

You look up from your duffle bag, hair still dripping wet with pool water.

Alexandra stares at you from a few feet away inside the locker room, drying herself calmly. Some of the other girls chat, energized from a productive practice and the good results from the first round of nationals, and none of them pay attention to you.

You clear your throat.

"Yeah," you look back down, trying to find the clean shirt you know is somewhere among the mess of your belongings, "Piastri and me."

Alex closes her locker carefully before walking closer to you, tone careful.

"Why didn't you tell me anything? I mean, you're my best friend, and I never thought—" she furrows her eyebrows in something between frustration and confusion, "I guess I just didn't see it coming."

"Oh, come on," you try to smile it off, finally picking up your shirt and standing straight to look back at her again. Your chest clenches for a reason you can't quite explain, "why are you asking me that now? We've been together for, what, a month?"

"I have to admit I thought it was a joke," she crosses her arms, "you've never liked the guy, and you didn't mention it even once."

"Of course it's not a joke. I mean, if it was, why wouldn't I tell you?" You cross your arms again, feeling strangely defensive even though you knew from the start that it would be difficult to hide the truth from Alex and Kika, specially Alex.

They knew everything about you. Why didn't they know you had been apparently seeing Oscar Piastri for an entire month before the two of you were officially dating? You didn't have an answer for that. They would've known if it was real.

"I don't know. Why didn't you tell me you were going out with him?" Her eyebrows furrow further, asking the exact question you don't kno how to answer. "I just don't understand why you kept it a secret. It's not like I would judge you or tell anyone or anything. You know that, right?"

"Of course I know that," your fingers tighten over the shirt they're holding, "I—it was just complicated. I didn't know if it was just a casual thing, you know?" You lean into the excuse you and Oscar had thought of weeks ago. "And he was too preoccupied with his degree and cricket and everything. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it if it wasn't anything serious."

"Oh, please," Alex rolls her eyes, "are you kidding? If you guys have always looked at each other the way you do, there's no way you thought it could be casual."

For a second, your entire body tenses, brain sending out sirens inside your head. You blink, and Alex looks at you expectantly.

"I—hum—what do you mean?" is all you can muster, feeling your face grow warm.

"You're joking, right?" She stares at you like you're stupid. You feel like it. "That man looks at you as if you hung the sun, the moon, and the stars in the sky. Whenever he has lunch with us, he just has eyes for you the entire time. Even when other people are speaking, he just keeps stealing glances at you. And you may not even notice, but he goes bright red whenever you smile at him. And the door opening? The cheek kisses? You cannot fool me into thinking you ever thought it could be casual when he's clearly head over heels for you."

A beat passes by. You just stare.

"And that's not even mentioning the way you look at him," she continues pointedly, "it's like he's the funniest, most brilliant person in the world, when, come on, he's nice, but he's still just Piastri."

"Oscar doesn't look at me like that," you answer late, mouth not quite catching up with your thoughts.

But did he? You never noticed. Did he look at you like that? Was he looking at you like that the whole time?

Was it even real? Did he look at you like that because he's supposed to be your boyfriend or because he actually couldn't help it?

No, it had to be because of your whole scheme. Oscar—Oscar was just now becoming your friend, he didn't—he couldn't—

Despite her growing irritation, Alex couldn't help but smile softly.

"He's really got you hooked, huh? I didn't think you'd ever be able to actually call him by his name."

Oh.

When did you start calling him Oscar? When did he become Oscar in your thoughts, and not just Piastri?

Did you look at him like that?

As if sensing your trouble, your phone starts to buzz. When you look down at it, laying on top of your open bag, his name pops up.

"He's... waiting for me outside," you stare up at Alex again. "I need to change and go."

"Look, you're my best friend," she repeats, small smile falling, "I just feel like there's something weird in all this, and I want you to know you can count on me, okay? I wanna hear all about this love story of yours. I just—I'm just really confused, honestly. Why didn't you say anything before you two started dating?"

Your phone buzzes again. You lean down to grab your bag, gesturing randomly towards the door.

"I'm gonna go change. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Why are you leaving like this?" She calls out, but you're already moving.

"I'm not," you call back, walking backwards so you can look at her, "I just can't do this right now."

You disappear before you can hear her response.

Ten minutes later, you're inside Oscar's car. He looks you up and down, your hair still dripping wet after running out without properly drying it, your eyebrows furrowed in deep thought, your mouth a straight line.

"Is everything okay?" He asks as he closes his door and starts the car.

"Alex cornered me to ask why I kept our relationship a secret from her."

You watch the way Oscar tenses.

"What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything," you shrug, looking out the window, "I sort of just ran away and left her at the locker room."

He snorts at that, and even though you still feel tense, you can't help but smile at the sound.

"Why would you run away?" He asks with amusement, shaking his head.

"I didn't know what to say!" You throw your arms up and, despite yourself, you feel the panic and discomfort from the conversation with Alex wash away in his presence, smile lingering on your lips.

"You could just tell her what sounds more believable," he suggests, but the smirk on his lips makes your eyes narrow teasingly, "that you fell for my unbelievable charm."

You laugh and he grins, glancing at you from the driver's seat.

"Oscar, no one would ever believe that."

You move your eyes from the window to his face, finding his own eyes mid-glance towards you. He sees your smile.

For the first time, you notice the way his cheeks turn pink.

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

When Oscar parks his car in front of your dorm building on Saturday, you’re already waiting for him, face warm as you watch him grab his phone to text you, barely aware of your figure standing outside. He’s usually the one who waits for you.

You watch him look towards the sidewalk lazily. You notice that he’s already in his cricket uniform, shoulders straight, ready for the game. His demeanor is calm, but you’ve heard him grumble enough to know how important this is to him — how much he wants to win.

The moment his eyes meet yours, you watch him blank, skin growing impossibly red as he looks you up and down.

You’re wearing his jersey. His number. His name on your back.

The moment Oscar sees you, he’s usually out of the car, opening the passenger door. This time, he stares. You almost feel self-conscious under his wide gaze, his mouth open, expression painted with surprise and something you can’t quite read.

For a moment, you think it’s awe.

You aren’t sure that's not just wishful thinking.

He snaps out of it when you start walking towards the car, stumbling over himself as he climbs out of the driver’s seat to open your door. His fingers touch the small of your back as you turn it to him while you get inside, and it sends an electric current through your spine. He closes the car door and walks over to get into his seat.

Oscar sits down, turns his head to stare at you again, skin bright red, eyes wide. You feel yourself shrink under his intense gaze.

“Do you… not like it?”

His eyes widen even further.

“What? No, I—hum—you—that’s my—hum—” somehow, his face grows even redder, and he clears his throat before speaking again, finally taking his stare away from you. “You look great. I’m—yeah. I love it,” he starts the engine and grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. Your eyebrows furrow slightly, but a feeling akin to amusement starts to crawl up your throat, warmth creeping up your chest. “How—where—”

“I asked Norris if you guys had a spare jersey so I could surprise you,” you answer calmly, watching the way his jaw works, the way he stares straight ahead as the car starts to move. “He told me he had the perfect one.”

He looks flustered.

And, God, you enjoy it. You savor it. It makes your heart soar.

Oscar Piastri is gripping the wheel, deep scarlet, stumbling over his words because of you.

You don’t dwell on what it means. You try not to think too hard about it or about how much you like it. But you notice the way he keeps stealing glances, the way his neck burns red whenever he looks at you, the way he can barely speak the entire drive.

Oscar Piastri is your archnemesis.

“Beautiful, loving, and supportive girlfriend, huh?” You tease after a couple of minutes, turning your head to look at him. Somehow, his face turns an even deeper red.

“Shut up,” he mumbles in response, unable to hide his sheepish grin when you cackle at his answer.

And it's at that moment that you realize it, sitting on the passenger seat, watching him grin, wearing his colors, his jersey, his number, wishing he had his hand on your thigh the same way he did when the two of you gave Kika a ride after practice on Wednesday.

That moment while he groans something about annoying swimmer getting on my nerves and glances your way just to find you already studying him, while his fingers flex against the steering wheel, while he looks you up and down and blushes again at the sight.

It hits you hard, makes your breath catch, turns the corners of your vision fuzzy.

You're not sure when it happened, you're not sure how. You could barely stand him and, a month later, he's the one who makes you laugh, who gets you to relax after tense days with a cheek kiss and the sound of his voice as he drives you around. A month ago he was just Piastri.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Oscar Piastri, who has pissed you off at every given opportunity since freshman year, who stole band every Sunday, who was never anything but annoying.

Oscar Piastri, who sits on the desk chair inside your dorm and catches every pillow you throw at him.

Oscar Piastri, who the colleagues in your lab adore and call their favorite volunteer.

Oscar Piastri, who smiles at you and lets his hand linger on the small of your back and kisses your forehead to say goodbye — never your mouth, because you told him not to. Never your mouth, and he still manages to make the soft kisses against your temple feel more intimate than any make out session you've ever had.

Fucking Oscar Piastri. Just Oscar.

You're not faking anymore.

✶✶✶

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yourusername MY BOY IS GOING TO FINALS BABYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY (still unsure how this sport works tbh)

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↳ kimiantonelli hoping the swimming gods listen to you

kikagomes CUTIESSSS OMG OMG OMG ♡ liked by yourusername

✶✶✶

You're very particular about competition days, and Oscar Piastri being attached to your hip feels like the weirdest and most welcomed disruption in the entire world.

He carries your bag for you while you find the rest of your team, cleans your swimming goggles when you aren't looking, kisses the top of your head softly before you put your lucky cap on, squeezes your hand when he finally has to leave your side.

None of it feels fake and most of it happens when you're sure no one else is looking. None of Oscar's friends are here to take note of how kind and caring he is towards you, except Charles and Pierre, who are both too busy with their own girlfriends.

It makes the soft spot he's been carving for himself inside you bigger.

The band is there, yes, but his cheering is the loudest thing you hear whenever your head comes up for air.

He doesn't need to do all of that. He does it anyway.

You don't dominate — the team does well enough, managing a few podiums, but no wins.

It's not the best prospect for the final round. You know so. The team knows so. You speak briefly about it, tell them it was good enough, that you'll train harder and do better next round.

Even then, Oscar hugs you close when you can finally go up to him, already out of your swimsuit and into warm clothes, pressing a kiss against your temple, and you feel any worry in your body melt away.

"You guys did amazing," he reassures as he holds you close, and you snort.

"You don't know much about swimming," you retort, but there's no bite to it.

"Well, I know the front crawl categories are only in the final round, and that's your specialty, right?"

You smile softly against his shoulder, breathing him in for a second before taking a step back.

"We'll see," you sigh as his hands linger on your arms, thumbs circling slightly, "it's a shame you won't be there. You were almost louder than the band."

Oscar chuckles at your teasing, and you almost miss the way his skin turns pink as he looks away from you, putting his hand on your back and starting to guide you towards the exist.

"About that, there's been talk about bringing the cricket finals forward by a week or so. I'd be—well, I'd be free to come, then."

You blink at him, but his eyes stay straight ahead.

"What? Isn't that really uncommon? Why would they do that? Did something happen?"

He clears his throat.

"I asked."

You blink at him again, stopping right in place. He takes a single step before he notices and turns to you.

"You asked?" You repeat, eyebrows furrowing, heartbeat skyrocketing.

"I did," he answers sheepishly, hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck, "I just—I'd like to be there. For the final round. And I'd like you to be there for the cricket finals as well."

You feel the air leave your lungs, heart ramming against your ribcage. He finally meets your gaze, and the look in his eyes is so intense you feel worried your legs might give out underneath you.

"Why?" Your voice cracks in the middle of the word, and his eyes turn impossibly soft. The sight makes your heart flip inside your chest, fingers trembling.

"You know why," is his quiet answer, hand reaching out so his fingertips touch yours, sending an electric current through your body while he keeps looking at you like that — like there's no one else in the entire world, like this is the most important thing ever, like this is real.

You open your mouth to speak when Franco calls your name from a couple of feet away.

The two of you look towards the sound to see Franco, Kimi, Alex, and Charles walking your way. You ignore the way Alex's eyes narrow, try not to remember she can probably read your expression like a book.

"Captain!" Kimi smiles as the four of them come to a halt in front of the two of your, "the band invited us to grab a bite together after this. Do you wanna come? Piastri too, obviously."

"I—yeah, sure, why not," you let out a breathy laugh, chest feeling impossibly tight. You can't get yourself to look at him properly, body tingling at the way you can feel him stare at you. "Oscar?"

He clears his throat again, but his voice comes out raspy. "Yeah, yeah, of course."

If anyone notices the tension between you, they don't mention it. Kimi asks if Oscar could give him and some of the other freshmen a ride, and you don't say anything while your fake boyfriend, who apparently asked the cricket organization to reschedule the final game's date for you, drives you and a bunch of freshmen to a restaurant nearby.

Neither of you mention it afterwards either, when he drives you home and the two of you are quiet for the entire drive.

You don't let him open the door for you when he parks in front of your dorm building — you almost throw yourself out of the car, ignoring the way he calls your name as you grab your duffle bag and speedwalk to your building.

You don't go straight to your dorm. Your mind is racing and you don't want to interact with your roommate right now, so you sit down in the building's empty lobby and breathe.

And then you do something you don't expect yourself to do.

You call Alexandra.

✶✶✶

"Why the fuck would he ask you to fake date him?"

"I don't know!" You throw your hands in the air, hair still sticky with pool water as Alex stares at you from the other side of the screen, shaking her head in disbelief. "He said he wanted his friends to stop annoying him about being married to cricket or something like that."

"I don't buy that for a second," she rolls her eyes, "why would he ask you of all people? No offense, but it's not like you guys had a good relationship or anything."

"I don't know, okay?" You repeat, throwing yourself back on the lobby's couch. "I don't know. I just wanted the damn band, and then he had to—I don't know, open every door for me and kiss my cheek. I don't know."

"Okay," you can hear her breathe deeply, "okay. I guess the reasoning behind it doesn't matter anymore. You're in love with him."

Your cheeks grow warm.

"I think 'love' is too strong a word, Alex."

"Is it now?" She rolls her eyes again. "If it's just a crush or whatever, why are you freaking out?"

"I'm not freaking out."

"Sure."

A quiet beat passes by.

"What are you gonna do?"

You sigh, closing your eyes tightly, hand coming up to your forehead.

What are you going to do?

"I don't know. Maybe I should call it off?"

"Maybe you should tell him."

Your eyes open wide and you sit up on the couch, glaring at the image of Alexandra on your screen.

"Are you insane? I can never do that."

You watch her shrug.

"Why not?"

"It's all fake, Alexandra," you answer as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, "he's gonna think I'm fucking crazy."

"You are fucking crazy," she points out, not even reacting to the way you huff, "you accepted to fake date a guy you couldn't stand just for band privilege and then proceeded to fall in love with him. That's fucking crazy."

"Thanks," your tone is bitter, but she takes it in stride.

"But he's even crazier for asking you in the first place, for doing all of this. I think you should tell him."

You sigh again.

"I don't know. He's become sort of a friend, you know? I don't want to make things weird as fuck."

"Things will be weird as fuck regardless when you fake break up. Things are already weird as fuck now," you chuckle humorlessly, and her voice softens, "look, I told you that day in the locker room—he looks at you like you're the only person in the whole world. You're telling me he's changing game dates for you when you know doing that is a pain in the ass—for fuck's sake, he probably likes you too and this hasn't been fake for a while."

Another quiet beat passes by as you roll her words over inside your head.

“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” She finally asks when you don’t answer, a hint of hurt on her tone.

“Oscar said you’d probably tell Charles, and Charles would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone. Afterwards, everything felt too complicated.”

Alex offers you a sad chuckle.

“I—well—maybe.” She sighs. “I won’t tell anyone now, though. Not when I know what you actually feel for him.”

You sigh back.

“Thank you.”

✶✶✶

You don’t tell him.

You can't. Whenever you try, his eyes meet yours, and it feels like throwing a rock on a dormant volcano, like taking something good and staining it.

You don’t tell him on Tuesday, when he picks you up after swimming practice and the two of you have gone back to sharing awkward silences. He doesn’t come up to your dorm when he drops you off. You don’t ask him to.

You don’t tell him the following days, when he tries to start a conversation and every one of your answers feel hollow, even when you don’t mean them to.

You have a couple of weeks before the season is over and this scheme ends. The thought hits you like a truck, almost harder than the realization that you had feelings for him in the first place — how is it gonna be after it’s done? Are you supposed to pretend it never happened? To act like friends? To act like it hadn’t become real for you? How would you tell your friends that things between the two of you are done? How would you tell yourself?

These questions haunt your every waking moment to the point you can barely look at him.

So you don’t tell him. And you just hum in acknowledgement when he mentions that they did bring the cricket finals forward, so he’ll be able to watch you swim during the final round of nationals, and you keep not inviting him up to your dorm and slipping out of the car before he can react.

And it's supposed to be fine, right? Because you couldn't stand him before, and it's all fake, and it's stupid to be upset by it.

Except you are upset, and none of it feels fake, and you actually miss the fragile friendship you were building before everything seemed to go wrong.

(And was it even fragile, really? It didn't feel fragile when he made you laugh so much your eyes got teary, when you smiled at each other inside his car, when he held your hand, when he kissed your face, when he spent time with you in your dorm, in the lab, around campus. Was all of that fragile? You aren't sure.)

What you don't expect is for Oscar to be waiting for you with a bouquet of baby's breath and red tulips, feet tapping against the concrete as he stands next to his car when he shows up to pick you up for the cricket finals.

"Oscar..." you sigh deeply at the sight, and your chest clenches when his face falls at your tone.

You’re wearing his jersey again, his name hanging from your back like it means something. It does mean something.

He notices it immediately — eyes traveling up and down your figure, face growing pink despite the awkwardness of it all. He clears his throat before speaking, arm already moving to open the passenger door for you.

“Ready?”

You swallow dryly before nodding.

Less than a couple of minutes later, the two of you sit in dead silence as he starts the car. You look down at your flowers.

Baby's breath and red tulips. You can't help but notice that, once again, he didn't go for plain roses — which would've been fine and were just what you expected. You didn't even expect him to actually meet your "flowers once per month" requirement.

But, God, he met every requirement and then some.

“So,” Oscar clears his throat again, bringing your attention back to him, “are you excited?”

You hum. “I—yeah. Are you?”

“Yes,” he nods with so much intensity you can’t stop a small smile from forming on your lips, “We have worked really hard to get here.”

“You have,” and it’s so awkward it pains you after an entire month of easy conversation, exchanged smiles, loud laughing. “You’ll do great.”

“Are you okay?” The words blurt out of him as if they’ve been lodged in his throat for a week, which they probably have been. “You’ve—you’ve been… Distant. All week.”

“I’m fine,” is your firm answer, leaving so little room for question that Oscar only manages to glance at you before focusing back on the road.

The rest of the drive is spent in awkward, awful silence. You study your flowers — fresh, bright, sweet, beautiful, so much more than you ever expected. He studies you — wearing his jersey, so close yet so far away, quiet in a way you haven’t been in weeks.

When you arrive at the cricket field, he opens your door for you and tells you to leave the flowers inside the car so you don’t have to carry them around. You place them down carefully, trying not to damage the petals or the leaves, and you walk side by side until you have to part ways — Oscar, towards the rest of his team, you, towards the bleachers.

As usual, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek as goodbye. There’s no one there to see it. Your hand reaches out for his.

“Good luck,” you say quietly, squeezing his fingers against yours, “you’ll do great.”

He nods once, game nerves starting to build underneath his skin. He kisses your forehead this time. There’s still no one there to see it.

“I’ll see you after the game.”

“Okay,” you hum, pulling him for a quick hug before you slip away towards the stands.

The match starts less than half an hour later. You sit close to the band, so low on the stands you’re basically level with the field, a couple of feet away from the grass. You wave to Leclerc before leaning forward as the game starts. 

Oscar and the others start fielding, which you’ve learned means they need to keep the other team from scoring. Oscar yells out orders and directions as they move across the field — you watched him do it during the semifinals, and it still feels weird to see him change like that. Your soft-spoken Oscar, taking command of the team with so much naturality no one can even question it.

When it’s finally their turn to bat, your body is so tense from the expectation you can barely breathe. You know Oscar tends to be one of the last few batters, but even from the bench he calls out to his teammates, cheering when they bat well, cheering when they score another run.

You find yourself cheering as well, singing alongside the band, rooting as Lando manages to score 4 runs and Ollie scores 3. There are a few times when Oscar turns to look at the stands from his spot on the bench. You meet his gaze and he smiles, nervous but excited.

It takes quite a few minutes before Oscar gets back on the field. He’s wearing a jersey that looks exactly like yours, helmet well positioned on top of his head. You cheer louder when he steps on the grass, and he turns to look back at you. You shoot him a thumbs up and, even though everything is weird and awkward, he still grins.

And you still cheer.

His teammate bats first. The two of them manage to cross each other 3 times before the other guy gets bowled out, and your eyes keep traveling to the scoreboard.

As well as the team has done, they’re still outscored by 5 runs. As Oscar prepares to bat, you hold your breath. You’re already rolling the motivational speech inside your head — you guys did great, second place is still amazing, you’ll get it next year — when Oscar hits the ball.

And it flies outside of the oval field.

You don’t know much about cricket. You know it has some similarities to baseball. And you know what a fucking home run looks like.

You’re already screaming when the bench and the bleachers explode in cheers, the six points effectively winning Oscar the cricket championship.

It takes a couple of minutes before the referee declares the end of the match, and you watch with a grin as the players on the bench run towards the field, jumping on top of each other as they celebrate the win. The band claps and cheers beside you, and you glance at them before looking back towards the field and seeing Oscar running straight towards you.

Your heartbeat picks up immediately, and you’re already standing up, already leaning on the barrier that separates the audience from the cricket field when he reaches you, hands coming up to your waist as he pulls you towards him, hugging you tight.

His uniform is damp with sweat, and he holds you for a few seconds before jumping over the barrier, getting dangerously close, fingers reaching up towards your jaw, eyes looking down at your mouth before looking back up into your eyes.

You expect him to just do it. You told him he could, right at the start of this mess, if they won the championship. When they won, he had corrected you.

Instead, he whispers, out of air, his breath caressing your lips, “can I?”

The question undoes you in a way you could never prepare yourself for. It makes your heart burn, your skin flush, your body tingle, and you barely feel yourself moving — you just watch it happen. Your hands come up to the collar of his jersey, and, in a second, you’re pulling him in, shoving your mouth against his with an urgency you’ve never felt before in your life.

The world melts away. You can only feel Oscar’s hands on your jaw, then on your waist, then tangling in your hair. His firm body presses against yours, and he tastes of salt and sweat, and you don’t want it to end.

It lasts a second, a minute, an hour. Either way, it’s not enough.

When he pulls away, your lips follow, chasing his. It’s the cheering from the team that snaps you back into reality, the hoots and delighted laughs that make your cheeks burn red as the boys start clapping each other on the back, throwing cricket balls at Oscar in celebration.

You let out a laugh that comes out like a breath, and he grins boyishly at you in a way that turns everything around you golden — his hair, his eyes, the sky, the feeling in your chest. He kisses your cheek tenderly before turning towards the team, jumping the barrier again and throwing himself at them. You smile as they all bump into each other, jumping in place and cheering.

After that, time stretches. You chat with Charles as the boys go into their locker rooms to shower and change, and, when they come out, you hear them talk about throwing a celebration party next Friday, about Instagram posts and trophies and the next season. 

Oscar smiles warmly at you when he reaches you again, pulling you against his side as he says goodbye to the others and starts guiding you towards his car, hand lingering on the small of your back.

The flowers are still waiting for you on the passenger seat when he opens your door. You take them carefully, placing them on your lap as he walks around the car, slips in, and starts the engine.

He starts speaking as soon as the car starts, going nonstop about the game and how fun it was and how happy he is that they won, that you were there, that the band was there, that they’re the cricket champions. You smile brightly at his enthusiasm, but then something inside you dims.

The season is over.

He doesn’t notice the change in you until he parks the car right by your dorm building. When he does, he seems to quiet down as well, studying you hesitantly before asking for the first time since you stopped inviting him, “can I go up with you?”

You release a tired sigh, unable to look at him, focusing on the flowers on your lap.

“You don’t have to, Oscar,” your voice is quiet, sorrowful, “the season is over.”

It hits him at that moment, his face falling before his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“No, it’s not. You still have the final round of nationals next weekend.”

“Oscar,” it sounds like begging, but you don’t know how else to say it, “the deal was for you. The season ended for you. We don’t need to drag this for another week,” your eyes sting, “it’s over.”

An awful silence takes over the car. The two of you just sit there, and you feel something like grief settle in your chest.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet, tentative. “It doesn’t have to be.”

Your head snaps up to look at him, face contorting with warning. “Oscar.”

"Can we talk? Upstairs?"

His words sound so raw, so vulnerable, that it makes something inside you break.

"Please?" He adds, and it just makes everything worse.

You sigh again, voice as quiet as his.

"Okay."

Tension builds between the two of you during the elevator ride up to your dorm, and you let out a relieved sigh when you see your roommate isn’t home for the day, leaving the small room empty.

You're still holding onto your flowers as you sit down on your bed, side by side, your fingers gripping the green stems as he turns his head to look at you.

"So," he starts after a few seconds of awkward quiet, "what's up with you?"

You blink at the question.

"Nothing," you answer, and you can taste the lie on your tongue.

"No, it's not nothing," he shakes his head in denial, eyebrows furrowing, studying you intently — the way your body is tense, the way your knuckles hold the flowers, the way you keep avoiding his gaze. "We were doing fine, and now you can't even look at me. Back there — we kissed, and for a second it felt like everything was fine and we could be friends, at least, and then you start talking about ending things and being distant again. What's wrong? I feel like I'm dating a ghost."

"Well, except you're not dating anyone, right? Maybe that's the problem."

Oscar blinks down at you.

"What?"

"We're not dating," you answer, gripping the stems so tight you can feel its ridges marking your palm and fingers, "that's the problem. I—," you stop yourself, face growing hot with embarrassment.

In a moment, his entire demeanor changes. His body tenses up, his fingers flex against his thighs.

"Why?" He leans towards you with so much intensity you can't help but meet his stare, heartbeat picking up at his eagerness, the way his expression seems to beg for something you can barely understand. His voice is low, and it sends a pleasant shiver through your spine. "Why is that the problem?"

"You know why," your voice cracks right down the middle, and you swallow dryly, "you know why," you repeat, clearly this time, breath hitching as he leans even closer.

"I—," he answers quietly, and you can't take your eyes away from him, from the way he looks back at you. He clears his throat, "don't do this to me."

"Don't do what?" You whisper in return, suddenly hyper aware of how close he is.

"Don't— don't make it sound—," Oscar shakes his head almost as if he's waking himself up, leaning away from you. You let out a breath as space grows between you. "Why haven't you been talking to me? Why have you been ignoring me for the entire week?"

You sigh deeply, finally able to look the other way.

"I got too attached," you admit, hands fidgeting with the flowers before you sigh again and stand up to lay the bouquet on your desk. "I didn't—I don't know how to deal with that."

You left the bed hoping it would help with the weird tension hovering around the room. It doesn't.

He stands up, following you around the dorm, and, when you turn your back to your desk, he's right there, arms crossed, looking down at you. He's not as close as he was before, but he's close enough to make your heartbeat skyrocket again.

"And why didn't you say anything? Why did you let me kiss you like that if you—if that’s how you feel?"

"You know why," you say for the third time, fingers gripping the edge of your desk table. "I didn’t want to ruin it when it’s so close to ending. I didn't want to—"

"Admit it wasn't fake anymore?"

You stop. You stare at him. He stares back.

"Yeah."

He lets out a shaky breath.

"You mean that?"

He looks uncertain, almost hopeful. Something about it makes your heart burn inside your chest, quiet but insistent. It feels like it's meant to happen — like every road, every argument, every smile, every touch, every laugh led to this, to this moment, to the way Oscar stares at you as if you're holding his heart in your palm, as if he's begging you not to crush it.

And he's holding yours in his.

"Yes," your answer comes out like a prayer, airy and fearful, "I haven't been faking it for a while."

He chuckles quietly, and the sound turns your insides molten. His hand comes up to your jaw just like it had in the cricket field, and he cradles your face hesitantly, afraid of being pushed away.

"I don't think I was ever faking it at all,"  he confesses, and your breath hitches when his nose touches yours, "I think I've been in love with you since freshman year, when we talked at that cocktail party and I spent weeks wishing for you to call."

You watch him intently. He breathes in deeply.

"You swept me off my feet the day we met and I just couldn't get over it, even when we didn't get along well. I guess the reason I even asked you to pretend to be my girlfriend is because I couldn't imagine even pretending to have feelings for someone else."

You smile softly and watch the way his cheeks turn pink at the sight. It immediately weakens any resolve you might have, any doubt, any fear.

"Good", is all you whisper in return, and then you slot your lips against his once more.

This time, it isn’t urgent, quick, or rushed. Oscar sighs into your mouth, and the feeling sends sparks down your spine and up your neck, something hot and sweet running through your veins.

He hums when your fingers come up to tangle themselves in his hair, and the hand that isn't holding your jaw moves to your waist, gripping you firmly but delicately, strongly but carefully.

His lips travel down to your neck, leaving a burning trail on their wake, and you tug at his hair lightly, making him sigh again.

"So much for 'no kissing', huh?" He mumbles against your neck, and you can't help the snort that leaves you before your hands move to his collar, pulling him away from your neck so you can look at him.

"Shut the fuck up, Piastri," and then your mouth is on his again, feeling the way he smiles cheekily against you and then feeling the way his smile dissolves as your tongue touches his lip.

He sighs once more when your tongue touches his, arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer. Your bodies collide, and you can feel every inch of your skin burning.

You kiss him again and again and again until both your lips are red and swollen, until his hands travel under your shirt, until his hair sticks up in five different directions.

You can't stop yourself. You don't want to.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Oscar Piastri, in love with you since freshman year.

Oscar Piastri, kissing the air out of your lungs, holding you close, sending sparks through your body.

Oh, you're in too deep.

✶✶✶

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check out my masterlist!

Number one: the loop resets every day when he falls asleep. 

It doesn’t matter if he makes it past midnight; doesn’t matter if he drinks an absurd and frankly dangerous amount of Red Bulls and drives from Monaco to Woking in one caffeine-crazed night; doesn’t matter if he flies home to Australia after the race, pinching himself to stay awake for the entire twenty-hour flight. The second his eyes close, he wakes up back in Monte Carlo, the sunlight streaming through his curtains. 

Number two: he can alter the day. 

There are some things that are always the same, of course. The team polo on his chair. The rain on the hairpin. The offhand crack Lando makes about him having no social life — a joke that was funny the first time, but gets increasingly cruel every time it repeats. But things can change, too. He can walk a different way through the paddock. He can have different conversations, though nobody remembers them when the day resets. He can drive the race differently, drive it better. Although, even in 55 races (his gearbox crapped out before the start of the race on Day 16), he hasn’t won yet. 

Number three: he can’t die. 

Can’t even get injured, really. He’d gotten a couple bruises and scrapes that seemed to heal overnight, but he’d actually confirmed the theory just a couple loops ago. He made a desperate push to pass Charles on the Nouvelle Chicane, and the back end of the car just… slid out from underneath him. There was a moment, brief and terrifying and calm all at once, that he thought that might be it. The only way out. Then he slammed into the barrier, and the carbon fiber crumpled like paper around him. It’s all bits and pieces, what he can remember after that — fire licking up the back wing, the frantic radio messages in his ears, the flashing lights of the safety car, the med staff swarming the track. Someone he’d never seen before pulling him out of the car, speaking to him in a slightly panicked voice. Blinking up at their face through the haze of pain before he lost consciousness. When he opened his eyes again, he was back in his bed on Sunday morning, not a scratch on him. 

The analytical conclusion Oscar has come to, after 56 days of testing, note-taking, and driving in circles both literal and existential, is that he’s trapped. Inexplicably, inescapably trapped in a day that never really changes, and he can’t for the life of him figure his way out. 

When he gets to the paddock on Day 57, everything is the same. He takes pictures with a few fans as he walks in, jogs slightly to catch up with Lando up ahead, who throws an arm around him like it’s second nature and claps him on the back. They qualified P2-P3, a solid result for the team. (In the first grand prix, on what Oscar’s now calling Day 1, Lando surprised him, pipping him to second place after an absolutely vicious overtake at the first corner. Oscar hasn’t let him pull that move again for 56 days.)

Today, he just chats idly to Lando as they walk about the upcoming race, about team strategy, about the stupid TikTok that marketing is forcing them to do later in the day. Then they round the corner towards the team hub, and Oscar nearly trips over thin air, because someone is standing there. 

No one is supposed to be standing there. Oscar’s learned to control variables, gotten used to experimenting and predicting what’s coming next, because nothing ever changes until he changes it. And never, not once in the fifty-six Sundays that came before this one, has a stranger been standing in front of his driver’s room, spinning their lanyard around their fingers with their eyes fixed on him like they’ve been waiting for him. 

“Hey, Piastri,” the stranger says, voice tight but polite in the way that his own gets when he’s trying not to freak out in public. He walks closer, and panic slices cleanly through him. Because you’re not a stranger. He knows your voice, your face. You’re the person who pulled him out of the car after the crash. The last thing he saw before the loop reset. 

“Can I ask you a weird question?” you continue, voice pitching higher, teetering on the razor’s edge of fear.

He thinks he might forget how to breathe. “Shoot.”

“You crashed two days ago,” you say, and his pulse spikes under his skin. “Pretty spectacularly, actually. I pulled you out of the car, but you were already going under. I was—I was sure you were dead.” You pause, running a hand through your hair. “Cried about it twice. It was, like, the worst day at work ever. And now…” You trail off, like you’re afraid to say it, like you think Oscar is going to laugh and call you ridiculous. “I think I’m going insane, or else I’m having the worst recorded case of deja vu in human history, because this is the third day in a row I’ve woken up on Monaco race day, and no one remembers anything that happened the day before.”

“That’s not a question,” Oscar says, dumbly, heart hammering beneath his ribs.

You look up at him, eyes wide like he holds the keys to the universe. “Yeah. My question is: what the hell did you do to me? And how do I make it stop?”

For once, Oscar’s got no answer. Just a cold, creeping realization settling into his chest. 

Number four: He can pull people into the loop?

DAY 58

Oscar’s rational. He’s reasonable. He doesn’t believe in magical thinking: he believes in statistics, logic, in systems that can be measured and tested and solved. Oscar works hard for what he achieves. He doesn’t ever let himself hope, doesn’t think there’s a need for it when you have skill and diligence on your side. 

But when he wakes up the next morning before his alarm, staring up at the ceiling like he has every day for the past 58 days, he really hopes you’ll be at the paddock. 

Which, statistically speaking, is not likely. The rest of your conversation yesterday had… not gone well, to say the least. He’d tried to ease you into it quietly, carefully, like a doctor delivering bad news to a patient. He’d pulled the small McLaren notebook from his back pocket, frayed at the corners now, dog-eared from overuse. He’d held it out to you, as if it might bridge the gap. “Here. I started this on Day 3. It explains everything.”

You hadn’t taken it. You’d just stared at him like he’d sprouted three heads. 

“It’s not just you,” Oscar had said, as gently as he could. “It’s the same Sunday for me, too. This is the 57th time I’ve lived it.”

You’d let out a laugh, shaky and high-pitched. “That’s—that’s not possible. You’re joking.”

“I assure you, I’m very much not,” he’d said dryly. “The first time I ever saw you was Day 55, after the crash. And this morning, you’re here. That’s never happened before.”

You’d blinked, color draining from your cheeks, fingers tightening around your badge like you were about to bolt. “So you think it’s my fault?”

“No,” he’d assured you, instantly. “No. I don’t know why it’s happening. We’re just both… stuck. That’s all.”

“You sound like you’ve made peace with that,” you’d said, crossing your arms over your fireproof scrubs, and something in Oscar’s chest had ached at the way your voice trembled around the words. 

“Not made peace with it,” he’d shrugged, pasting on a smile that didn’t quite fit on his face. “Just ran out of ideas.” Just haven’t won yet. Haven’t proven myself yet. 

“This can’t be happening,” you’d muttered, knuckles going white where you clutched at your medical badge. “This isn’t real. I’m dreaming. Or we’re both concussed, or something.”

“I get it. I freaked out at first too,” Oscar had replied. 

“No, you don’t get it!” you’d snapped, eyes all wildfire. “We’re trapped in time, and you’re acting like it’s another day at the office?”

He’d had to bite back his smile. “Well, it sort of is another day at the office. For both of us.”

“I’m going to fix this,” you’d said, ignoring him. “I’m going to get myself out of this.”

“I’ve tried everything. Tested everything,” Oscar had started to explain, but his voice died in his throat when you looked at him. Really looked — bottom lip stuck out slightly, color high in your cheeks, gaze shaky but defiant. The sight of you made his brain go still. 

“No way can you test your way out of this. You might have started this, but I’m going to finish it,” you’d said, and stormed off without waiting for another word. 

So. The chances don’t seem great that he’ll see you today. But when he gets to the paddock, he still walks past the medical centre to see if he can catch a glimpse of you, scans every face, just in case — the team members, the med staff, the engineers, every person in the paddock holding a camera or a clipboard or a latte. He even searches the grandstands, is almost late for the driver’s parade. He’s halfway through making up some stupid excuse to Lando before he realizes it doesn’t matter, he won’t remember it anyway. 

You’re not here. 

It’s to be expected, really. Oscar tried to break out of the loop by force when he first figured it out, too — stayed up for a full 24 hours after the race, drove as far as he could out of Monaco, wrote down every little detail he could remember about Day 1 and tweaked it as much as he possibly could over the next few days. None of it works, but you don’t know that yet. He gets it. It’s fine. 

Except there’s something about your absence that makes his chest ache. 

The lack of you unsettles him in a way he’s not used to. It’s an odd reaction, Oscar can admit to himself. He doesn’t actually know you. But he’d gotten used to being the only one stuck, found a way to exist in the repetition. Until yesterday, for the first time in nearly two months, when the world suddenly cracked open just enough to let someone else in, to remind Oscar what it was like to be seen. And now, just as suddenly, you’re gone again, and the loneliness feels so much worse than it did before. 

He races like shit, somehow gets passed by drivers who have no business overtaking him on a circuit that makes it nearly impossible to drop places. Not that any of it matters. 

Not without the only other person who might remember it.

DAY 60

“Osc, where are you going?” Lando asks when he turns right toward the team hub and Oscar starts walking to the left. They’re leaving the morning strategy briefing, which has quickly become Oscar’s least favorite unskippable part of the day (and he’s tried — the team always tracks him down, explaining that it’s crucial he attends. He doesn’t know how to tell them strategy is somewhat pointless when you’ve done the actual race every single day for two months.)

“Med centre,” he answers without thinking. It’s become part of his routine over the past few days. Brush teeth, call mum, shave, drive to the paddock, look for you. But of course, no one else knows that.

“Med centre? Oscar? Are you okay?” Zak’s voice rises about an octave, behind them, and Oscar has to resist the urge to roll his eyes. 

“He’s fine, he’s just aura farming,” Lando giggles, and Oscar’s mouth twists into a grin instead. In a day that loops over and over again, he has to find moments that aren’t completely monotonous. He’s taken to setting up jokes for Lando, letting him hit the punchline. Oscar always laughs, even though he knows exactly what his teammate is going to say half the time. Seeing the pleased smile on Lando’s face is good enough for him to keep doing it. 

“Thinks if he walks around the paddock locked in, it’ll add to the whole vibe,” Lando continues, egged on by the grin on Oscar’s face. “Mate, you know the only reason people think you’re mysterious is because you never actually go anywhere.”

The smile fades. Well. It’s nice to know that even when Oscar’s acting weirder than normal, the joke about how he’s the most boring guy in Monaco sticks around. 

“Whatever, man. See you later, yeah?” Oscar mutters, hopefully sounding good-natured enough as he goes. He’s got more important shit to do anyway — namely, tracking you down.

He walks by the med centre exactly six times, nearly trips over himself when he sees someone swinging their paddock pass around their fingers. But it’s still not you. He’s starting to worry you’re not coming back. Or maybe, he thinks as he walks dejectedly back across the paddock, you figured out how to get out. And now he’s stuck and alone. By the time he opens the door to his driver’s room, shutting it behind him and leaving himself in the darkness, the surroundings are the perfect fit for his blackened mood. 

“So, that didn’t work,” you say from somewhere inside, and Oscar nearly jumps out of his own skin. 

“Jesus Christ,” he breathes, flipping the lights on to see you sitting cross-legged on the only clean spot in the room, the small bed he uses for mid-practice naps, eating Tim Tams. The absolute audacity you have to invade his space, sit on his bed, eat his snacks — he should be annoyed. But for some reason, the sight of you makes just relief spread through his body. “You came back,” he says breathlessly, immediately regretting how stupidly eager the words sound coming out of his mouth.

“I’m back,” you confirm, grinning up at him unfazed as you pop another biscuit in your mouth. “And I think I owe you an apology for how I spoke to you last time. I may have overreacted a little.”

“S’alright,” he says affably. “I did the same thing at the beginning.”

“You drove a moped off the cliff at Pointe-Saint-Martin to see if you could hit the water hard enough to shake yourself out of the loop?” you ask.

Oscar just stares. “You did that?”

“Kind of a mix of Groundhog Day and Palm Springs,” you shrug. “Thought if it worked for them, it might work for me, but I just ended up half-flooding a boat and seriously pissing off a fisherman.”

“Probably needed to drive faster then,” he replies. You roll your eyes in response, but you’re smiling. He can’t quite tell how to read you. It leaves him feeling off-kilter, like when the car snaps around a corner in a way he’s not expecting.

“Clearly taking lessons from time-travel movies didn’t work. But you’re still stuck here too, and I don’t think either of us can do this alone. Time to compare notes, Piastri.” You waggle your fingers in the space between you. “Hand over the book.”

He pulls the notebook out of his pocket automatically, passes it to you. Watches quietly from the doorway as your eyes scan over the pages. He doesn’t mean to stare, he really doesn’t. But your hair keeps falling in your face, and you keep tucking it behind your ear impatiently, and something about the sight makes Oscar’s heart stutter in his chest a little bit.

You look up suddenly, and Oscar goes pink to the tips of his ears, shaking his head slightly as if to clear the thought from his brain. “You weren’t kidding,” you say. “This is extensive. Borderline obsessive.”

“Borderline?” he deadpans, and you laugh. It’s a light sound, almost musical. Oscar can’t remember the last time he made someone laugh without planning for it in advance.

“Okay, completely obsessive,” you agree cheerfully. “But also kind of impressive.” He doesn’t quite know what to say to that; he settles for sitting carefully next to you on the bed as you flip through a few more pages. “You really think winning is the way out?”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s the only thing that makes sense. The only goal I haven’t managed yet. Once I get it perfect, it’ll have to end.”

You grin. “That’s such a driver answer.”

“I do happen to be a driver,” he replies dryly, and you bump your shoulder against his. 

“Yeah, but not everything’s about the checkered flag, Piastri,” you say, handing the notebook back to him. He clutches it in his lap, hands curling around it like a lifeline. “What if it’s about… changing? Growing? Something that matters more than racing, at least.”

Nothing matters more than racing, Oscar wants to say. But you’re looking at him like you’re trying to figure him out, running over what you know of him in your mind like he’s a puzzle you’re desperate to solve, and he wants to say something that will make you realize you’ve been looking at the pieces all wrong. To unbalance you the way you do to him. 

“Here’s what I’m thinking,” you say, leaning forward, elbows on your knees, and Oscar realizes he’s been silent far too long. “You keep trying to win the race, and I’ll help however I can. But only if you agree to try things my way too. Half careful, half chaos. Deal?”

Oscar hesitates, and you raise your eyebrows like you’re daring him to say no. “Okay,” he says, pretending it’s a reluctant confession. “Deal.”

You grin, and Oscar has the distinct feeling he’s lost ground that he didn’t know was up for grabs until you extend your hand out to meet his. “Shake on it.” 

When he takes your hand, your fingers are warm against his, and something shifts in the air. Nothing big. Probably no one else would feel it.

If Oscar believed in things like that, he’d almost say the loop was taking notice. 

DAY 63

Oscar walks away as quickly as he can. Behind him, Lewis Hamilton is yelling, because someone has dyed Roscoe a shocking papaya orange. Non-toxic, pet-safe, temporary fur dye, of course — the bulldog will be completely back to normal in a few days, no worse for the wear. 

Not that Oscar has anything to do with it.

His phone buzzes in his pocket as he picks up his pace, and he pulls it out to see a notification from you: well done agent 081. come to the pit wall to receive your reward :)

The two of you text, now. You’d scrawled your number on a fresh page of his notebook in a glitter gel pen before you left his driver’s room the other day. The messy cursive, the careless heart drawn next to it, stood out against Oscar’s cramped, boyish handwriting. “So we can talk strategy,” you’d said, easy as pie. “Scientific purposes only, of course.”

He’d traced his fingers over the numbers later, at home after the race (P4, nothing to write home about. His lines were perfect, but his front right tyre got stuck on the car during his pit stop, and it all unraveled from there). Spent a little bit too long trying to think of something to say, ended up just sending Hi, this is Oscar Piastri. 

You’d responded immediately: i figured lol. u dont need to be so formal oscar!!! 

Then another, before he could overthink again: meet me tomorrow at medtent before the race. time for chaosssss >:)

When you said chaos, you meant it. That first day, you’d convinced him to hang signs reading CAUTION: VENOMOUS SNAKES all over the Red Bull garage. (“It’s a metaphor, Oscar,” you’d insisted. He had to admit, seeing Christian Horner scream into his phone until he turned purple was kind of worth it.) The next day, it was reprogramming the Alpine coffee machine so it only dispensed hot water. Oscar had told you it was stupid, but watching Pierre get increasingly frustrated, his accent getting thicker and thicker as he tried to explain the problem to any mechanic who would listen, he’d laughed so hard he’d doubled over, tears pricking mercilessly at his eyes. 

You’d leaned against him, wheezing like you couldn’t catch your breath from how hard you were giggling, and that was the moment, Oscar thinks. The moment he knew you were friends.

He doesn’t remember the last time he’s made a friend. 

When he gets to the McLaren pit wall, you’re sitting on the base of it, head tipped back, soaking in the Monaco sun. You place a hand on your brow, squinting slightly like you’re trying to make him out, and then you wave him over.

“So. Now that we’ve done my idea, what’s your plan today?” you say, pulling two sandwiches wrapped in Ferrari-red napkins out of your bag and tossing the larger one to him. You’ve started sneaking into the different hospitality suites before lunch, figuring out which garage has the best to offer and forcing Oscar to rank them with you. “It’s caprese, by the way,” you add as he catches it. “Scuderia knows what’s up.”

“It’s gonna be a clean start. Pit stop at lap 39 to switch to wets. Overtake Leclerc late,” he repeats automatically as he unwraps the sandwich, taking a bite. It’s good — fresh mozzarella, a perfectly ripe slice of tomato. Miles better than the chicken salad bites McLaren insists on. 

You hum around a mouthful of your own. “You tried that already,” you point out as you swallow. “Like, four times now.”

“Five,” he corrects, and you shake your head fondly. Something about the gesture makes his breath catch in his chest. “But, uh, I’ll tweak the timing a bit. Try an overtake in the tunnel, or something.”

“You know it’s okay if you don’t figure it out right away, right?” you say, taking a sip from your water bottle.

Oscar sighs, running a hand through his hair. “That’s the problem. We have all the time in the world.”

You scoot closer to him, knee settling against his. “Well then… play the long game. Maybe don’t drive yourself crazy over the race before you even start, okay?” Oscar huffs a laugh under his breath. But he doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t pull away from you, either. 

“Well, well, what’s this?” someone drawls very poshly from above. Oscar looks up, and there’s George Russell towering over them both. He’s wearing that stupid Mercedes cooling jacket, a deeply self-satisfied smirk on his face. Oscar knows George thinks he looks sick in the jacket. Oscar thinks he looks like an oversized alien. “Don’t tell me you’re making friends with the med staff, now.”

You smile sweetly up at George, despite the fact that he’s essentially just referred to you as the help. “Russell, right? Nice to meet you. What time does the mothership leave?”

Oscar snorts, nearly choking on his water. 

George, to his credit, doesn’t miss a beat. “Toto usually beams me up around midnight,” he replies, deadpan. 

You laugh at that, bright and unguarded, and something twists uncomfortably in Oscar’s chest. It’s not jealousy. He’s not jealous. It’s just that he’s supposed to be the one who makes you laugh. Not George Russell, with his perfect hair and dimples and ridiculously plummy accent. 

George notices Oscar’s scowl, and the smile on his face stretches even wider, if that’s possible. “Not friends, then,” he sings teasingly. Oscar goes red up to his ears, staring into the middle distance and taking another aggressive bite of his sandwich. “See you at the driver’s parade, Piastri.” 

As George saunters off, you turn your head to watch him go. “He’s kind of funny,” you muse. “In a weird, wax-figure-come-to-life sort of way.”

“Debatable,” Oscar mutters. 

“Relax, Osc,” you grin, leaning back on your elbows and letting the sun stream down on your face. You nudge your knee against his, and he feels it everywhere. “You’re still my favorite.”

The pit stop goes off without a hitch, but even with the perfect weather strategy he can’t seem to get past Charles in the back half of the race. He’s P2, again. After the race, you text him a YouTube compilation of all of Charles’ angsty radio messages from seasons past set to sad violin music.

Somehow, the loss doesn’t sting as bad as it usually does. 

DAY 71

Someone is pounding at his door when Oscar’s eyes open. It’s so different that for a minute he thinks he broke out of the loop, somehow. But when he checks his phone, it’s still May 25, just about an hour and a half earlier than normal. He drags himself out of bed to the door, pulls it open, and there you are standing on the other side, sunglasses pushed to holding a white paper bag filled with pastries and two cups of coffee. You’re not dressed in your usual race gear, switching it for a filmy black sleeveless top and denim cutoff shorts that expose miles of your bare skin. 

Oscar is suddenly, painfully aware that he’s only wearing boxers. You seem to be realizing that fact, too, if the way your eyes drag torturously down his bare chest is anything to go by.

“Hey,” he croaks, cheeks flushed as he takes you in. “What are you doing here?”

You clear your throat, looking back up at him. Your eyes meet, and for a moment the air sparks between you, electric. Then you just smile mysteriously before you push your way inside, handing him one of the coffee cups as you go. “New pre-race hypothesis. Get dressed and come with me.”

Ten minutes later, Oscar’s sitting in the passenger seat of your tiny, beat-up car, watching the sun rise through the windshield. You’re an unexpectedly cautious driver, too slow around the corners, hands planted firmly at 10 and 2, eyes fixed on the road. It’s nice to know that even after weeks of spending May 25 together, you can still surprise him. (Even if his hands are itching to take the wheel from you, see just how hard he can push the Mini Cooper down these famous streets). 

You pull to a stop near the harbor, the car’s brakes squealing at the effort. Oscar makes a mental note that when you both get out of the loop, he needs to take you to a mechanic. Or maybe a dealership.

“C’mon,” you say, getting out of the car and walking towards the dock. You’re moving in that sort of effortless way you do when you have a really ridiculous idea, the kind of way that makes Oscar follow you against his better judgment because he just wants to see what you’ll do next. He’s jogging slightly to catch up, sipping at his coffee, when you slow ahead of him, touching your pockets like you’re looking for something.

“Hold this for me?” you ask as he catches up to you, passing him your cup. At the moment he takes it with his free hand, almost reflexively, you pluck his phone out of his hoodie pocket and toss it over the railing. 

“What the fuck,” Oscar says flatly, watching it land with a soft plop! in the azure water. 

You toss your own phone in after his. Oscar grabs the railing, watches the twin black mirrors swirl around each other, sinking deep into the harbor. “So I might’ve lied a little,” you say sheepishly. “This isn’t a pre-race hypothesis. This is an instead-of-race hypothesis.”

“You’re not serious,” he says, and you just grin, wild and unapologetic. 

“Oscar Piastri’s first-ever DNS,” you sing, turning and walking down the dock towards a frankly massive boat, waving off the dockhand like you own the fucking thing and starting to untie the knots holding it to the dock. “You coming or not?”

Unleash The Lion, the stern reads in script as big as his head. 

You’re going to commandeer Max Verstappen’s fucking yacht. 

“Max will kill us, you know,” he says as you step onto the back of the boat, pulling yourself up to the deck.

“Max won’t remember this tomorrow,” you reply over your shoulder as you rifle through the boat’s glove compartment. 

“He could,” Oscar protests, mostly just to argue, because he likes the way your eyes flash when he challenges you. “Who knows? This could be the day the loop resets. Then I’ll get fired, and we’ll both go to jail.”

You grin down at him, wicked light gleaming in your gaze as you dangle the keys over the side of the boat. “Monaco prison is probably pretty nice. D’you think they’ll let us be cell mates?”

He sighs, looking up at you. The morning light kisses off your cheekbones, your skin glowing golden and sun-warmed. How is he meant to say no to you, looking at him like that? “I hate how persuasive you are,” he grumbles halfheartedly, taking your hand and climbing up the back until he lands ungracefully on the deck. 

“No, you don’t,” you reply cheerfully, turning the key in the ignition. The yacht roars to life, and you pilot it out of the harbor with confidence that feels somewhat unearned, given you’ve basically stolen the thing. 

That’s the problem, Oscar thinks. He really, really doesn’t. 

An hour or so later, you’ve lowered the anchor, far enough out that no one will catch you for the day. Monaco is a distant speck behind you, though if Oscar squints he swears he can still see the paddock. You’ve pulled him to the bow of the boat, laying next to each other on deck chairs with a pilfered bottle of champagne between you. Your sunglasses are sliding down your nose, the boat rocking gently in the waves. It might be the bubbles talking, might be the fact that his edges have been softened by sun and champagne and you, but Oscar can’t remember a better day in a long time. 

“Not bad for our first grand theft yacht,” you say, and Oscar laughs in spite of himself. “Although next time, we should probably bring sunscreen.” You look over at him with such fondness that it makes his heart squeeze in his chest, and touch your finger to the tip of his nose, gently. “You’re gonna be scorched.”

He’s warm, but it’s definitely not from the sun. “I’ll be fine,” he says, aiming for a light tone. You touched his nose, and he’s melting down like a complete weirdo. Get it together, Piastri, he tells himself. You’re a Formula One driver, for god’s sake. 

You don’t seem to notice. You just hum, unconvinced, then go quiet for a beat. Too quiet. The kind of quiet Oscar’s learned to recognize as very dangerous when it’s coming from you. 

“I’m bored,” you say, finally. “New plan.”

Oscar sits up so fast he nearly knocks over the champagne bottle. “This isn’t enough for today?”

You just smile mischievously at him. “Wanna go for a swim?”

“We don’t have bathing suits,” he says, dumbly. But you’re already peeling your shirt over your head, stripping to your underwear, and racing barefoot on the hot wood, your laugh trailing in the air like the kind of song he wants to learn every word to. 

Oscar’s brain short-circuits somewhere around seeing your bare shoulders. He has to stare at the sky and think about Zak Brown for a minute before he can strip off his joggers and follow you. 

When he climbs the ladder to the top, you’re already at the edge, toes curled over the lip of the roof, the sea breeze teasing at the ends of your hair. You look over your shoulder at him, eyes dancing, and then you leap. 

It’s not graceful by any means, but you look glorious — arms thrown wide, a yell of pure exhilaration tearing out of your lungs as you plunge feet-first into the sparkling ocean below. Oscar scrambles to the side, watching for you to come up. For a second, there’s silence. Then, you resurface with a whoop that seems to echo to the horizon, and you’re smiling so wide it makes his chest ache. 

“Come on!” you yell, treading water fifty feet beneath him. “Don’t make me swim all the way back to push you off.”

“You’re insane,” he calls back, but there’s no heat in it. Just that strange, subtle warmth still blooming in his chest. He steps to the edge, glances over his shoulder once at Monaco sparkling like a jewel on the coastline, at the tiny smudge that might be the paddock, that might be his real life. 

And then he jumps. 

For one perfect moment, he’s airborne — weightless, untethered. Free. The wind rushes by him, salt air biting at his sunburnt skin, and then the sea swallows him whole. The water is cool, soothing around him, and when he surfaces, gasping for air, you’re already swimming towards him with a smile on your face. 

“I didn’t think you’d actually do it,” you say breathlessly. 

“More to me than meets the eye, I guess,” he replies, steadying his eyes on you, and your cheeks flush under his gaze.

The rest of the day passes in a haze of warmth and motion. The two of you let your skin dry in the sun, pass another bottle of champagne back and forth until there’s nothing left, talk about everything and nothing. He tells you about his first karting race, how he was older than all the other kids when he started and cried because he still didn’t think he was ready. You tell him about a trip you took to Japan when you were younger, how you took pictures of the temples on your digital camera and still dream of the scent of the cherry blossoms in the air. 

Later, as the sun starts to sink over the horizon, blue bleeding into soft pinks and golds, you sit together on the bow, your legs dangling over the edge, shoulders touching. Oscar’s tongue feels looser than usual, whether it’s the champagne or whether it’s you to blame, so he doesn’t think, just asks the question that’s been playing on his mind all day. “Why do you think you’re in the loop?”

You turn to look at him, like it’s the last thing you expected him to say. “What do you mean?”

“Well, I have to win the race,” he says, and you roll your eyes fondly. “But — what do you have to do? Why are you here?”

You’re quiet for a moment. “I suppose there’s something I have to learn, too.”

“Like what?” Oscar asks, pressing his shoulder against yours. 

You sigh, staring out at the horizon. You don’t look at him when you speak. Oscar wonders if you won’t, or you can’t. “I’ve always been good at a lot of things,” you say. “But I never committed to anything. I just kept bouncing from place to place, from project to project. Now, I love working here, but it just feels like I figured it out too late, and now I’m stuck. To get a permanent job with the team, I’d have to go to med school, and…” you pause, teeth sinking into your lip. “What if I try and fail? What if I’m average?”

Oscar opens his mouth to respond, but no words come. Instead, he watches the way the fading light reflects in your eyes, golden catching on the edge of something tender and raw. He wants to tell you you’re not average, you’re brilliant. That the past few weeks with you in the loop has been the most alive he’s felt in months, maybe ever.

But he doesn’t.

“Today is the first time I’ve ever done anything like this,” he says, the words falling ungracefully off his tongue. “Taken a risk like this. Everything in my life has been planned out. I made it to Formula One off of being consistent, composed, controlled. I’m perfect because everyone expects it. But — racing used to be fun. I used to love it.”

You tilt your head toward him slightly, enough that he can see the pout of your bottom lip. “You don’t love it anymore?” you ask softly, like he’s a scared animal you’re trying not to spook. 

Oscar shrugs, chest tightening. “Feels like I’ve been trying to win for so long that I forgot why I wanted to in the first place.”

“Maybe that’s what the loop’s for,” you say, leaning back on the cushions. “Not to win. To find the joy again.”

There’s a long pause where neither of you speak. The silence feels suspended, like the whole world is holding its breath along with you both. Oscar lies back next to you, his heart thudding a little too hard in his chest for such a quiet moment. 

You both lay there for a while as the stars slowly reveal themselves one by one, scattered like glitter across the indigo sky. You start pointing out constellations, making up ridiculous stories that make him laugh lowly, helplessly. He’s lying close enough to you that your arms are pressed together, breath syncing in the quiet. 

When he turns to look at you, you’re already looking at him, eyes half-lidded, and you’re so beautiful in the moonlight that it almost makes him lean in to kiss you. But something holds him back. Fear, maybe, or uncertainty — not knowing if you feel it too, or if it’s the champagne, or the loop, living another borrowed day that doesn’t quite feel like his own. 

He looks back at the sky. You sigh next to him, shifting closer so that your head rests on his shoulder, and his heart stutters in his chest.

He doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak. Just watches the pale moon reflect off the waves until he drifts off into the blackness.

When he opens his eyes next, he’s in his apartment, sunlight streaming through his curtains. Oscar swears under his breath, picks up the phone that should be sitting at the bottom of the harbor. Sunday, May 25. Just like always. 

He flops back onto his bed, pressing a pillow over his face. His skin is still sticky from the salt water. It’s not even the fact that he didn’t break the loop that hurts today. 

It’s waking up without you.

DAY 80

Oscar’s nervous, which is completely irrational. He’s lived this day eighty times now. Done press completely hungover, slipped past Charles Leclerc on his home track, crashed full-speed into a barrier and nearly died. But none of that made his palms sweat the way they’re sweating now. 

You’re in his apartment. You’re having dinner in his apartment. 

The race had gone fairly spectacularly for him, all things considered. He’d made a few mistakes, taken the chicane a little too wide, and still Charles barely beat him. Oscar’s about to figure it out, the perfect race so close he can almost taste it.

You, on the other hand, had quite the busy day. Stroll’s crash started it, but in lap 60 there’d been a major pileup at the back of the race — one of the rookies hitting the brakes just a little too late, slamming into another driver. By the time he found you after the race, you looked exhausted, muttered something about how you wished this particular loop was over already, couldn’t fathom the idea of driving home, cooking dinner for yourself, going to sleep alone. 

Oscar invited you over before he could think too hard about it. 

He drove you back to his place, cooked dinner while you showered — some pasta dish his mum had taught him ages ago, surely worried that he’d try to survive in Monaco solely off of frozen dinners and takeout. He’s dug up some candles from a dusty box in the closet, uncorked a bottle of wine he thinks Charles gave him for Secret Santa last year, and is just putting the plates on the table when you emerge from his room, fresh-faced and hair damp. You’re wearing one of his McLaren hoodies and a pair of bike shorts, and for a moment Oscar forgets how to form sentences. 

“Smells amazing,” you say, sitting on the floor across from him. “Thanks.”

You chat idly for a while, but Oscar can’t shake the feeling that the air between you feels different tonight. It’s in the way your laugh sticks in his brain longer than usual, the way he can feel his gaze searching your face like he’s trying to memorize it. It’s almost simmering, like there’s some invisible boundary you’re about to break through. Things have been different since the day on Max’s boat — the glances between the two of you weightier, the touches softer, gentler. But there’s something about tonight that feels inevitable, like the weeks of being together are all pinpointing into a logical, tidy conclusion. 

“You’ve barely touched your pasta,” you point out, nudging your knee against his under the table. 

Oscar just shrugs, a smile tugging at the edge of his mouth. “Not hungry.” He is actually, the feeling turning to a pleasant ache in his stomach. If he’s honest with himself, he’s just too busy looking at you to bother with the food. 

You raise your eyebrow, slurping up a noodle. It leaves a small smudge of sauce on the edge of your mouth. “You okay?” 

“Hold on,” he says, leaning over the table. “You’ve got —”

You flush, hand flying to your cheek, but Oscar’s already there, leaning over the table and brushing his thumb against your lip carefully. You blink up at him, breath catching slightly, and then, unmistakably, your eyes flick to his lips. The moment stretches, fragile and loaded like the night Oscar stargazed with you, and he’ll be damned if he’s going to make the same mistake twice. 

And then — because he’s been thinking about it for hours, days, weeks — he kisses you.

Your lips are soft, warm against his, and you taste like vanilla lip balm and red wine. His hand comes up to cup your jaw, and you let out the tiniest sigh against his mouth before kissing him back. It’s slow, soft at first, then deeper, like the buildup of all the days circling each other has finally burned down to this single point of gravity, rooting you both to the spot. Your hand tangles in the hair at the nape of his neck, like you’re trying to pull him closer to you. 

It’s perfect. And then you break away, foreheads pressed together, and Oscar opens his mouth. 

“Well, that’s a new variable,” he breathes, dazed, and you flinch away from him like you’ve been slapped. 

“Oscar,” you say, voice sharp, and for someone with world-class reflexes and awareness he’s definitely caught the shift in your tone too late. “You just kissed me, and your first thought was fucking data?”

“No, I —” he stops, runs a hand through his hair like he’s trying to reset his brain. “That’s not what I meant.”

You breathe out disbelievingly, the sound shaky as it leaves your lungs. “Yes, it was,” you say flatly, standing up, and Oscar scrambles to his feet after you. 

“No,” he pleads, but you’re already heading towards his bedroom, throwing your things back in your bag. “I just thought, if the loop’s trigger is emotional…”

“Don’t,” you spit, words like venom. “Don’t reduce this to numbers and logic. Don’t treat it like it’s another page in your stupid fucking notebook.”

He opens his mouth to try to fix things, but nothing comes out. Even from across the room, he can see the tears slipping down your cheek, and he knows the damage is already done. 

“I thought it was real,” you whisper. “I thought we were real. And the first time you actually let yourself feel something, you turn around and treat it like evidence to be catalogued.”

“It was real,” he blurts desperately, and you scoff. “Please,” he begs. “I’m trying, I’m just — I don’t know how to do this. It’s — it’s never mattered like this.”

Your lips press together, jaw tight, and Oscar can still taste the red wine against his mouth. “Well, maybe don’t kiss me again until you figure it out.”

You don’t wait for him to reply. You turn on your heel, slamming the door behind you and storming down the hall like you’re leading an army of one to battle against his stupid, broken heart. 

Oscar doesn’t know how long he stands there staring at the door, the silence ringing in his ears, before he blows out the candles. He leaves the dishes on the table, crawls into his bed and stares at the ceiling. The notebook sits on his dresser, taunting him, but he doesn’t reach for it. 

Nothing about this day is worth remembering anymore.

DAY 81

Oscar doesn’t remember falling asleep, but he wakes up to sunlight through the curtains and silence and the distinct feeling that his chest has been scraped hollow. 

He’s never felt more stupid in his life. He had you, in his apartment, lips pressed to his, the thing he’s been dreaming about doing for weeks, and he completely fucking bottled it. 

But if there’s anything to learn from being in a time loop, it’s that he’s got a chance to fix things. To learn from his own mistakes, and do something better. He sits up in bed, watching the boats in the harbor for a long moment. Then he gets up, gets dressed. Leaves the notebook sitting on his dresser, untouched. And goes to find you.

Except, clearly, you don’t want to be found. He searches the entire paddock, but you’re like a ghost. Your station at the med centre is empty, half-cleared out like you came to work before deciding seeing Oscar would hurt too much. You’re not in his driver’s room, stealing his snacks, or by the pit wall watching the team principals flit around with a scary kind of efficiency. He even tries going to the med centre HR to ask for your address, but the woman behind the desk is very particular about her employees’ privacy, won’t give him your contact information no matter how many times he drops that he’s a driver, just hands him a pamphlet about respecting workplace boundaries. 

The day wears on, sun arcing high in the sky, and Oscar has to accept he’s not going to see you before the race. Maybe he’ll crash on the first lap, he thinks. Knock himself unconscious, reset the loop. He doesn’t care what it takes. He just has to find you.

Like a vision, or some sort of twisted prophecy, he turns the corner to the garage, and you’re standing there. Always standing where you’re not supposed to be, he thinks for a moment, mind racing wildly. The thought feels hysterical in his head. You’re wearing your fireproof scrubs, eyes red-rimmed, arms crossed over your chest, and you look like fate. Or his future. He’s not sure which. Oscar doesn’t waste another second before he runs to you. 

“It was real,” he blurts, before you can open your mouth to speak. “I think it’s been real for me since the minute you pulled me out of that car. I’m shit at feelings, and I’m sorry, because I’m about to be even worse at—” he gestures between the two of you, the confession he’s word-vomiting into the space between you. “—this, but... I’ve spent my whole life being cool, calm, collected, trying to perfect things, trying to keep everything under control, but I can’t control love, and you fucking — you turn me in circles, and I don’t want to live another day, of the loop or anything else, without you around.”

You just stare at him, and he runs a hand over his face. Out of all the ways he’d been thinking up to profess his love while he was looking for you, this had to be one of his worst. Did he even say it? He thinks back, unsure. 

“I love you,” he adds, sighing. “In case that wasn’t clear. I’m really fucking in love with you.”

“You’re an idiot,” you say to him in response, voice trembling. 

“I know,” he says, helplessly. “But I’m yours. If you’ll have me.”

You shake your head, but there’s a ghost of a smile on your face. “Of course I’ll have you,” you say, eyes bright with tears. “I’m really fucking in love with you too.”

Oscar files the sound of your voice saying those words somewhere deep in his chest. Closes the distance between you and smashes his lips to yours. It’s not sweet, not soft — it’s raw, wanting, hot with need. You squeak against his mouth, your hands flying up to cup his face, and when your tongue slides against his, his knees actually buckle.

You’re both giggling when you come up for air, dazed and giddy. “Wow,” you say, fingers resting against your lips, like you can’t believe it’s real. “Glad I came back in time for that.”

“Yeah,” Oscar breathes. “What took you so long?”

You look up at him, a ghost of a smile on your lips. “Well, I wasn’t gonna show up because I was still pissed at you,” you crack, and he laughs. “But then I decided I couldn’t let you drive alone. And I was late,” you say slowly, “because I just applied to med school.” 

His heart skips a beat in his chest. “You did what?”

“You were right,” you say simply. “I’m not stuck. And maybe I’ll fail spectacularly, but I’ll never know if I don’t try.” 

“I’m so proud of you,” Oscar says, and you just smile. Someone from inside the garage is calling for him. He’s running out of time.

“It’ll be a colossal waste of time if we don’t break out, though,” you huff out a laugh. “So now it’s on you.” You pause for a moment, pressing a kiss to his cheek.

“You got this,” you say, and for once Oscar believes it. “Go have fun out there.”

Ten minutes later, he sits P2 on the grid, heart beating hard in his chest. For the past 80 days, he’s been in this exact same position, obsessing over the perfect line, how to time the pit stop, where he can shave a tenth of a second off his time. 

Today, when the lights go out, Oscar’s thinking about you. 

He lets Lando pass him on the first lap again, for the first time in eighty days. Drives like a maniac to pass him back three laps later, waving to him as he goes. It’s a risky move; Tom is half-screaming, half-laughing at him through the radio, and Oscar’s cheeks hurt from smiling underneath his helmet. He nearly takes it on two wheels around the Tabac corner, back skidding out from underneath him. The car is responsive as he pushes to the limit; the drive feels messy, imperfect, alive. He’s never had so much fun in a Formula One car.

When the last lap starts, he’s leading the race. The sun’s starting to come back out again, the rain drying on the track. Oscar’s cruising. 

By the time he gets to the hairpin, Charles Leclerc is in his mirrors. 

It’s an all-out battle to the finish, red car and orange dueling side by side. Oscar presses his foot to the pedal as hard as he can, thinks if this race is the one that breaks the loop, it’ll probably go down in history as the most exciting Monaco GP of all time. 

They get to the Nouvelle Chicane, and Charles slices around it with the elegance of a ballerina, the power of a heavyweight fighter. Oscar’s in his dust before he even knows what’s happened. 

He finishes behind the Ferrari by a half second, and he’s never been so happy to lose.

He pulls into parc ferme, rips off his helmet, searches the crowd wildly. The paddock is bustling. It takes him a minute to spot you running towards him, your scrubs unzipped to your waist, smiling and crying all at once. 

This time, Oscar doesn’t wait. He jumps off the car, reaches you in three strides, and kisses you like he’ll never get the chance again. It’s all adrenaline and aching sweetness, teeth knocking, the taste of tears on both your lips like you’re both tumbling toward something you can’t name.

You break away first, pressing your forehead against his, chest heaving as you try to catch your breath. “You were amazing,” you say, voice hoarse. “I’m sorry you lost.”

“I don’t care,” Oscar laughs wetly, because it’s true, and because eighty Sundays ago he would have died before he said something like that. “That was the best drive I’ve ever had.”

“You found the joy,” you say, a giggle bubbling out of you. 

The sound nearly coaxes a laugh out of him too, but he shakes his head instead, smiling at you softly. “I found that a long time ago. Standing outside my driver’s room spinning their med badge like a weapon.”

You make a noise at that, somewhere in between a sigh and a sob, and he pulls you into his chest, holding you like you’re the first-place trophy. “I love you, you know,” he says into your hair, and he can hear you mumbling the exact same thing into his race suit. 

You walk back to Oscar’s apartment together, a silent agreement that he’ll skip the post-race interviews, just this once. You sit on the balcony he never uses, watch the sunset over the harbor. He doesn’t let go of your hand for a single moment, like he needs to feel your touch under his fingertips to remind himself he’s still here.

“D’you think we did it?” you mumble later when you’ve both found your way to his bed, voice slurring around the edges from exhaustion. “Broke the loop, I mean.”

“Dunno,” Oscar says, his fingers brushing through your hair slowly. “I’ve thought we did, before, and obviously we hadn’t.”

“Me too,” you say, but there’s something hanging in the air between you. An unspoken confession, like you’re both afraid to jinx it. This time feels different. 

You yawn gently, burrow tighter into his side, and his heart feels like it might crack open in his chest. “M’getting pretty tired,” you say. “So I think whatever the answer is, we’ll know pretty soon.”

There’s silence, for a moment. What do you say when your entire universe hangs in the balance?

“If this was the last day, if we really figured it out,” Oscar says finally, breath catching in his throat as he stares at the ceiling, “I really liked spending forever with you.”

DAY 82 DAY 1

Oscar wakes up to the beep of his alarm and the sound of rain on his roof. 

You’re there, too. Curled against his body, still asleep. Oscar watches the steady rise and fall of your chest, listens to the soft sounds of your breathing. You smell like that jasmine perfume you started wearing around Day 68 and you’re snuggled in one of his old McLaren hoodies and you’re so real that he thinks he might die of happiness. 

It is Monday, May 26, 2025, and Oscar Piastri is so in love with you that he’s stooped to watching you sleep like a total weirdo and using ridiculous hyperbole to describe his feelings instead of waking you up to tell you the news. He nudges you gently, and you stir. 

“Osc?” you mumble disbelievingly as your eyes flutter open, like you’re not sure if you’re still dreaming or not.

“We did it,” he whispers back to you, and the smile on his face is starting to hurt his cheeks. “We’re out.”

You don’t even respond — well, with words, anyway. You just drag his face to yours, kiss him like you’re making up for 81 days of lost time. You still taste like vanilla, and your mouth, your tongue work against his in a way that makes it hard to think of anything else. 

“We’re out,” you repeat as you pull away from each other. You’re looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky, and Oscar can’t resist kissing you again. Small pecks this time, scattered from your lips to your cheekbones, each one like a drop of water for a man dying of thirst. He thinks absentmindedly that kissing you might be his new favorite thing.

“God, I can’t believe this is real,” you giggle as his lips brush down your collarbones, and Oscar laughs, because he was just thinking the same thing about you.

“I love you,” he murmurs against your skin, and you sigh it back sweetly, your pulse thrumming beneath his lips. 

-☆

your.username

liked by dancingwiththestars and others

your.username Guess I’m a pro? ✨

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dancingwiththestars - Spoilers!

↳ your.username - Can’t help it!!

user1 - THIS IS HUGE

user2 - PRO Y/N??

user3 - We all saw this coming but it’s still so surprising to me

user4 - Oh My GOD! I’m SO excited to see who you’ll dance with

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your.username

liked by dancingwiththestars and others

your.username Anyone else keep seeing this number? 🤔

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dancingwiththestars - It’s a magic number!

user1 - SUBLIMINAL MESSAGING?

user2 - It’s an angel number! symbolizes growth

user3 - Oh my God I think I know who it is

user4 - Is she hinting at smth??

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dancingwiththestars

liked by your.username and others

dancingwiththestars Guess that duo! Reveal will be on September 3rd 👀

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user1 - DEFINITELY Y/N! She was the one posting about the #3

user2 - Y/N for sure, but who else?

↳ user3 - Based on the third image I’m getting athlete. Like 3 is a jersey number

↳ user4 - Okay quick everyone list athletes with that number

user5 - Russell Wilson is #3

↳ user6 - Nah they don’t have the same build

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dancingwiththestars

liked by danielricciardo and others

dancingwiththestars The Photographer and his Muse! We’re so eager to introduce our newest (and smiliest) duo : Pro Y/N L/N will be dancing with former F1 driver, Daniel Ricciardo!

tagged danielricciardo, your.username

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user1 - AHH STOP he’s so cute!!

user2 - AWWW LOOK AT THEM

user3 - I can already tell he’s gonna be fun to watch

↳ user4 - Oh you don’t even KNOW

user5 - BIG DAY FOR F1 AND DWTS FANS!!

↳ user6 - I’M SCREAMING

↳ user5 - MEEE TOO!!

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your.username

liked by dancingwiththestars and others

your.username We have two pros on our team. Don’t tell the others… 🤫 (Yes, I have seen the dancing videos. No, I’m not impressed)

tagged danielricciardo

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danielricciardo - What do you mean you’re not impressed 😢

↳ your.username - I’ve seen you do better… 😁

user1 - I’m starting a rumor

user2 - I saw them dance once and now I’m convinced they’re dating because holy hell

↳ user3 - SO much chemistry

user4 - So this is how he chooses to live our retirement

user5 - Y’all have my vote

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f1gossippofficial

17.5k likes

f1gossippofficial Could Daniel Ricciardo really be dating his #DWTS partner, Y/N L/N? Fans seem to agree.

tagged your.username, danielricciardo

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user1 - This is the first time I also agree w this page. They DEFINITELY have chemistry

↳ user2 - Y/N could make it seem like she has chemistry with a rock! She’s just a really talented dancer

user3 - IDK! There’s more to their relationship than just dancing I think. Either they’ll end up super good friends forever or they’ll be married next week

your.username - Never in my life did I think I’d be posted on an F1 gossip page…

↳ user4 - OH HELP SHE’S HERE

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[YOUTUBE VIDEO] Official Podcast - Episode 2: One-Hit Wonders Night Breakdown | Dancing with the Stars

[COMMENTS]

user1 - 7:48 he’s crushing so hard

↳ user2 - I think their relationship is gonna come down to Y/N. To me it looks like Danny is already in, but she’s trying to be professional

↳ user3 - I agree… Which is sad because they’re SO cute

user4 - 8:19 “not yet” oh Danny you’re so astronomically down bad

↳ user5 - Can you blame him? Y/N is actually fucking beautiful

user6 - “There’s nothing… at least not yet” translates directly to “I’m madly in love but she hasn’t shown signs of being interested.” I feel for him

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danielricciardo

liked by your.username and others

danielricciardo My muse

tagged your.username

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your.username - Simultaneously overdressed and underdressed 😪

↳ danielricciardo - 📸

user1 - Yeah someone got cracked

user2 - Posting a solo picture of her on his instagram?? That’s how you KNOW he’s down bad

user3 - This might be the airball of the century

↳ user4 - Coming from DANNY? That man could pull anyone

↳ user5 - Except Y/N, apparently

user6 - Please be a soft launch please be a soft launch

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your.username

liked by danielricciardo and others

your.username Happy accidents ✨

tagged danielricciardo

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danielricciardo - 🤩❤️

user1 - Oh they’ve BEEN dating

user2 - I KNEW IT

user3 - YES!!

your.username - I love my Danny 🥹

↳ danielricciardo - 🥹😍

You’ve known Oliver Bearman since you were younger. He was your neighbor growing up, meaning that every day they sent you outside to enjoy the nice weather, which came with having to play with the awkward, lanky boy next door. But eventually, your dynamic developed to be more than your parents trying to push you to hang out together: The two of you became friends. Throughout his various passions, you were there to support him. The same applied vice versa– He was there for you, too.

But still, discovering he was part of an underground racing circle came as a big surprise to you. Oliver’s passion for cars was nothing out of the ordinary. From before he could walk, he always had his heart set on vehicles. But this line of work came out of the blue. 

Today was your first time attending one of his races. He explained that in The Garage, which was the apt name of the circle given the vast underground parking garage they occupied, there were levels of racing. There was official street racing, which took place in the city with the help of their built-in race engineers to evade authorities and avoid busy streets, and there was indoor racing on the track they had built into the lot. Your first race would be the latter, given that it was easier to watch and less stressful. Ollie knew you well, and he knew you’d be worrying the entire time if you’d never seen him race before.

“I’m so glad you came,” Ollie greeted as he pulled you in for a side hug. You smiled as you embraced your lifelong friend in such a foreign place. The Garage was quite lively, but it seemed to be composed primarily of racers and regular visitors rather than outsiders like yourself. That wasn’t too surprising, since what they were doing was considered illegal – only trusted friends, family, and racers were allowed in. “Follow me.”

“Yeah, okay.” You trail after Ollie, feeling like a lost puppy in such a place. A few people side-eyed you, murmuring amongst themselves. Sure, it was probably just your anxiety talking, but it felt like they were whispering about you. Nonetheless, you keep a brave face, your posture perfect as you follow along. Ollie takes you to an auto shop where his car is parked, with a mechanic lying underneath on a creeper. Only his legs were visible, clad in a grease-covered uniform. “This is your car?”

“Yeah–”

“Ow!” The man who had been beneath the car yelped after hitting his head against the chassis. He slowly rolls out, cradling his noggin with tears brimming in his eyes upon the initial pain. You wore a look of worry, fighting your instincts to help the poor fellow.

“And that’s our mechanic, Kimi.” Ollie’s quick to help, thankfully. He offers a hand to help Kimi up. “You good?”

“Yep, just fine,” he says through gritted teeth. His gloved hand falls back to his side, one eye shut as if he’s still handling the pain of banging his head. You could only imagine how much that would hurt. Ollie, however, looked like he was holding back a laugh. Kimi pushes his goggles up, dark brown eyes drifting towards you.

It feels like it happens in slow motion.

He lays eyes upon you, and instantly his heart is thundering in his chest as a rosy red color creeps up from his neck to the tips of his ears, then settles gently across his cheeks. “Wow,” he whispers under his breath. Ollie snaps his head in Kimi’s direction, one brow raised. “I mean— Wow, wasn’t expecting someone else— Aha… Ha.” He swallows thickly. “Hello!” He extends his hand quickly, but retracts it almost instantly to take off his filthy glove, tossing it aside, and then once again extending his hand.

“Kimi, this is my best friend, Y/N,” Ollie introduces you as you give an easygoing laugh, shaking the boy’s hand. He does so with extreme enthusiasm, his palm gripping yours tightly. “They’ve come to watch today’s race.”

“I thought I was your best friend,” Kimi objects, releasing your hand to give a rather pathetic pouty face to his friend. To you, Kimi just seemed like a hyperactive, somewhat anxious sweetheart. However, Ollie knew him well, and he knew this was abnormal behavior for Kimi. Something was up. Something was making him nervous, and he was willing to bed what that something was.

“Not when Y/N’s around.” 

“We can share him,” You say, lips curling up into a friendly, warm smile. Kimi glances at you and then immediately glances away, letting out a high whistle as his eyes scan over the garage. Odd. “So… Where’s a good spot to watch?”

Kimi opens his mouth, but then Ollie nudges him with his elbow. He brushes past him to his car as he says, “Kimi will show you.” He opens the driver’s door and slides into the seat, the engine coming to life as he turns the key. “I gotta head down there. I’m already running late.”

“The race doesn’t start for–”

“Seeya.” He slams the door shut, interrupting Kimi’s protest before he can finish. You both step aside to allow Ollie to drive his car out of the shop and to the track, leaving both of you alone in Kimi’s shop. 

You turn to him, rocking on your heels, hands jammed in the pockets of your sweatshirt. Ollie had been right when he told you that The Garage was cold, because even with the thick, outer layer you had on, the frigidness of your surroundings was biting at your cheeks and nose, turning them a lushed color. How could a place possibly be so chilly and warm all at the same time? Perhaps there was a scientific explanation, but before you could spend too long questioning it, Kimi speaks.

“I’ll show you where to watch from, c’mon,” he gestures for you to follow him, and after a second, you do. It’s impressive to you how easily he navigates the maze that is The Garage, given that there are various pathways and turns. There are small stations and office-like areas spread out around the garage, each with its own designated parking space for drivers to store their cars and keep their belongings. Like cubicles, but for cars. This kind of office would be a lot more fun to work in. Kimi leads you to some stands, formatted like bleachers, that surround a large indoor track. You’re absolutely stunned by the amount of space they have. Sure, it’s smaller than your typical track, but for something indoors… It’s terribly impressive. “You can sit anywhere here.” He’s fidgeting with a wrench he had carried along with him, spinning it in his hands. 

“Is it better to sit in the front or in the back?” You gaze over the span of the sitting area. There are a few groups scattered about, but they all seem to be closely connected, deeply engaged in conversation with one another while they wait for the race to start. You can see Ollie lingering around the various cars down on the track, including his own. He’s talking to some of the other racers, by the looks of it. Obviously, he’s too far away to hear anything. “Or the middle…”

“Do you wanna know my secret?” You’re surprised at Kimi’s sudden question. When you look at him, he clears his throat and averts his gaze with a little shrug. “I mean, like my secret spot. You can see all the cars super well, and you can see them go around this turn where the cars always spark, which I think his neat, so–” He stops himself from rambling. “Just… C’mon!” He grabs your wrist and tugs, but then quickly lets go, his hand falling back to his side anxiously. He quietly hopes he didn’t weird you out.

You didn’t find it weird in the slightest. Of course you didn’t. Yet, Kimi continues to worry.

He leads you to a seat in the furthest corner of the stands, pushed cozily against a wall. It seems like an inconvenient spot at first, but then Kimi takes you to a few seats in the back row, and suddenly you’re able to look over the entire track without any issues. “Ahh…” You look over the view in awe, the track lit by bright overhead lights that hung low enough to impact the view. It was incredible, really. You felt insanely lucky to even be in such a scenario. Suddenly, Ollie’s career seemed like a blessing. “This really is a good spot.”

“Told you.” 

You take a seat, unfolding the small square blanket you had brought with you. It was only big enough to cover your lap, but that was enough to make you feel more comfortable in your spot, warding off the cold that threatened to harm you. Kimi, however, took a step away, causing you to perk up instantly. “Are you not going to watch?” He slowly turns around, looking a little bewildered. He glances at you, then at the track, and then down at yourself.

“Uh… I mean, I thought maybe you’d want to just enjoy it on your own– Plus, I mean, I’ve seen this plenty of times, so it’s no big deal if you watch without me, don’t feel obligated to… To invite me. You know?”

“Oh,” you nod, lips pursed. “Well, if you want to stay, I don’t mind. It would be helpful to have someone who knows all about these cars commentating for me.” Honestly, you probably didn’t need it. But you didn’t want to watch a race by yourself, and it seemed like his two cents would prove to be handy. 

“Yeah,” He nods, slowly walking back. He sits down, one seat away from you, like he’s trying to keep a respectful distance. It’s a sweet gesture, even if you wouldn’t have minded either way. A friend of Ollie’s was essentially a friend of yours, so you could have sat shoulder to shoulder without any complaints on your end. Nonetheless, you don’t make a fuss in case it’s just for his own comfort. 

Indeed, he was quite the companion throughout the race. Kimi made sure not to overexplain things. He figured it would be annoying if he were rambling about everything, especially if you already knew, and there was no need for his incessant talking. However, when you asked a question, he always provided the most detailed and lengthy response. It was simple – you just asked about how they knew when their fuel was low or when their tires needed to be swapped, to which he gave a fully detailed explanation about how street racing didn’t exactly require tire swaps in the same way traditional racing does. Still, it’s all available through their engineer, which was featured in a small button on the dashboard. Except he explained every little detail, from what gave him the idea to implement the engineers, to how he built everything, which you really didn’t mind because he did it all with such a big smile, hands waving around animatedly.

By the end of the race, you weren’t sure what you saw more of: Ollie’s impressive maneuvering, or Kimi’s boyishly huge grin as he explained some random topic. You were happy to congratulate Ollie on his placing— third, if you recall correctly— even though you barely saw him the entire night.

“What was that about?” Ollie asks long after you’ve left, leaning against one of the counters in Kimi’s shop with that knowing grin on his face. His companion had a feeling this would come eventually. He was anything but subtle. Truthfully, he considered it to be a miracle that you hadn’t noticed his pathetic pining.

Still, he tries to remain clueless as he leans over the hood of a car, hands buried within the components as he effortlessly works on an upgrade. He knows the workings of every vehicle like the back of his hand. “What was what about?” His voice is steadier than it had been earlier, now free from the worries of impressing you.

“Don’t play dumb.” Ollie sips from his long straw, the water working its wonders to hydrate his parched body. He’s casual. Not upset, not bothered, but just curious. “What’d you think of Y/N?”

“They’re nice.” He’s too quick with his answer, and he knows it. He just hopes that Ollie doesn’t pick up on it, because then he’s screwed. So he tightens a bolt, working quickly as if it’ll make time pass faster. “Just met them, mate. Can’t really form a… Definitive opinion.”

Yeah. Ollie doesn’t buy it. Not in the slightest. Instead, his grin seems to widen when he sets his drink down, leaning back on his palms and crossing one leg over the other at the ankle. He watches Kimi work, taking in every sign of anxiety. His hard swallow, his sweating face, his flushed cheeks, his shaking hands. All abnormal, and all very telling.

“Sure.” He leaves it at that.

For now.

The next time Ollie asks you to visit the garage, you quickly say yes, even if it’s just a casual hangout. You had really enjoyed the vibes last time, and you wanted to see further into his secret life. So you showed up, greeting both Carlos and Isack with huge grins as you drove your little Volkswagen Beetle into the garage, parking it right beside Ollie’s modified sports car, giggling to yourself at the visual difference.

You step out, gathering your things into a small bag that you sling over your shoulder. You navigate through the confusing garage until you stumble across Kimi. He’s not at his shop, but instead standing beside a sleek car with some red highlights painted on the sides. He’s not alone, either. An older man with navy blue eyes and ashy blonde hair, relatively short, is standing in front of him, talking about something you don’t quite understand. It’s racing-related, but it feels like an entirely different language to you.

But Kimi spots you, and he instantly freezes. You managed to get a glimpse of his true colors: casual, lax, and charming, but it all fades once he realizes you’re watching. His friend, noticing that he no longer has Kimi’s attention, stops talking and looks over his shoulder at you. You feel embarrassed and guilty for interrupting, playing with the buckle on the strap of your bag. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to interrupt,” you say, awkwardly rocking on your heels.

“It’s okay,” Kimi says quickly, his hands behind his back as he fidgets with his fingers. The blonde man watches, his expression blank as he observes the terribly awkward interaction, the second-hand embarrassment seeping in. “What are you doing here?”

“Looking for Ollie,” you say softly, followed by a sigh. “He invited me, but I can’t find him.”

Kimi opens his mouth, and he internally panics because no sound comes out. He slams his fist against his chest, coughing awkwardly and playing it off like he had something in his throat. 

This earns a raised brow from the other man, who had practically faded into the back of the conversation. 

“He should be, uh… At the repair shop.” He runs a hand through his curly mop of hair. “Saw him there last.”

“But his car isn’t parked there?” You tilt your head.

“He just hangs out there sometimes.”

“Right. Because you’re his best friend when I’m not around.” You crack a little smile at your own joke. Kimi does the same, looking down.

“Exactly, yeah.”

“Well,” you kick the ground with the toe of your shoe. Could this be any more tense? “I’m gonna head over there. Thanks.” Kimi watches you leave, heading in the complete opposite direction because you really have no idea where you’re going.

“Who was that?” Max asks, making Kimi jump. He had completely forgotten he was there to begin with. 

Kimi exhales slowly, trying to calm his racing heart to a normal pace. “Ollie’s friend. Y/N. It's their name. Yeah.”

He surveys Kimi carefully, crossing his arms over his chest.

Kimi knows he’s screwed.

“Go help them.”

“Huh?”

“They’re totally lost. You should go help them.” Max pulls his phone from his pocket, scrolling mindlessly as he leans against the hood of his car. “I gotta head out soon anyway.”

Kimi hesitates, but then he nods and sprints off in the direction you had left. It takes him a moment, but eventually he stumbles upon you, looking entirely lost as you wander the labyrinth of cars and cliques. 

“Y/N!”

You instantly spin around when you hear your name, looking visibly relieved to see a familiar face. “Oh, Kimi, thank goodness. I am totally lost, like… I thought I had this place figured out, and then I instantly ended up in a palace I’ve never been to before.” Admittedly, you feel embarrassed, but you remain brave in the face of danger with your head held up and shoulders back. You follow along when he gestures for you to do so, keeping close as you trail behind the man.

“I could tell,” he says in an uncharacteristically teasing manner, at least for you. You had only seen the shy, bumbling, idiot-like side of Kimi. But even now, it’s short-lived as his embarrassment creeps back up on him. “It’s okay. It took me forever to get used to this place.”

“Were you always their mechanic?” You ask suddenly, feeling prompted by his previous statement. It was unclear to you if Kimi had been there since the beginning or if they had recruited him along the way. Surely a street racing circle wouldn’t work without a resident mechanic. Or, maybe it would. Who’s to say? Definitely not you. That’s why you asked.

“No, there are some other mechanics. I’m just…” He hesitates, glancing back at you briefly before adding, “I’m just the best.” He was nervous to act so boastful around you. Thousands of worries went through his mind. He suddenly felt anxious that his ego’d almost gross you out, or that you’d just disagree with him. Instead, you let out a sweet little laugh that made his heart flutter in such an uncomfortable way. “What’s that laugh for?” He inquires with a dorky, lovesick smile. It’s a wonder how you manage to remain oblivious to his feelings when he looks at you like that.

“It’s just funny to think that you’re the best. You’re so young. It’s impressive.” 

You’re complimenting him.

Someone pinch him.

“Thanks.” 

When you arrive at the repair shop, Ollie is sitting in a chair, looking casual as he plays a random mobile game on his phone. He doesn’t even look up when you first arrive. It takes a dramatic wave in front of his face to have his head craned back, looking up at both of you with a big, open-mouth smile. “Hey, glad you could make it.” He stands to greet you with a short side hug, just like always. 

“Yeah– Oh! Do you have a phone charger? My battery is practically drained,” You say, head somewhat tilted down in shame. Your phone was a slightly older model, which meant the battery tended to drain at an insanely fast rate. He nods and reaches for a cord, extending it to you. Ollie then tilts his head like a confused puppy when you shake your head no. “I need one of the magnet ones.”

“Why?”

“My charging port doesn’t work, so I have to use those ones. Do you not have one?” He shakes his head, and you deflate a bit, pocketing your phone once more. “It’s fine, I don’t really need it anyway.”

“I can fix it,” Kimi suddenly blurts out, looking sheepish when you both quickly turn to him. You blink in surprise, a mixture of both happy and timid. Ollie clenches his jaw. Not out of anger, but just in an observing way as he scans Kimi over once. Then twice. “I mean, if you want.”

“Yeah, Kimi can fix it,” Ollie agrees, nudging you towards him. You slowly reach for your phone and extend it to the generous man.

“If you’re sure.”

“Yeah, it’s no big deal. I can fix cars; surely I can fix a phone.” He turns away, stepping into the open shop and setting your phone down on his workbench. He then begins to rummage through his messy, disorganized toolbox, already knowing exactly what he needs. “Just give me a sec.”

You look at Ollie, who’s already staring at you. You’re initially alarmed at his intense gaze, shifting with discomfort. “Hm?”

“Nothing,” He whispers, turning aside with an unmistakable cheeky grin. 

“You’re weird,” you whisper back defensively, because you feel like he knows something about you that you don’t. He had such a knowing expression that you managed to convince yourself there was no way he didn’t. What has been going on with you lately? 

Maybe Kimi’s nerves were rubbing off on you. Yeah. That’s it.

“Ollie,” Kimi calls without even turning, one hand extended behind him as he waits for something. “Charger.” The taller one sets the cord down in Kimi’s hands. He then plugs it into the outlet right beside him, the phone lighting up as soon as it’s plugged in as well. You gasp, eyes lighting up. “See? Easy fix.”

“Thank you!” You’re unnecessarily excited about this. “Oh, this has been so annoying the last few months, I’m so glad I can charge it normally now.”

Kimi seems to be beaming with confident pride, his chest somewhat puffed out. “You’re welcome. Anything else you need fixed?”

“No, no, that’s alright—”

“Liar,” Ollie interjects, rolling his eyes playfully. “The aircon in their car needs fixed. Same with the window; it won’t roll up. And the radio stopped working, so only aux works.”

“Ollie, stop,” you say rather bashfully. The last thing you wanted was to take advantage of Kimi’s kindness. He probably had enough on his plate as is.

“What? You’ve been complaining nonstop. Just let Kimi fix it.”

“I just don’t want to be a bother. You have better stuff to work on, right?” You look at the man in question, who’s sitting on a stool in his shop, patiently waiting to speak.

He blinks. Not responding. Staring off into the distance, actually.

“Kimi!” Ollie snaps.

“What— Oh, sorry. What?”

“Can you fix Y/N’s car?”

“It’s fine, really, I don’t-”

“Yes.” He can’t get the words out quickly enough. Kimi perked up, staring at you with somewhat wide eyes. He’s clearly very excited, and it’s in such a way that it makes your heart rate pick up. Just barely, but still. “I mean… Yes, of course I can, it’s no issue.” Is he deepening his voice?

“Only if you’re absolutely sure.”

“Oh my God, just bring the car in!” Ollie says with exasperation, tired of the two of you dancing around the topic like it’ll kill you just to be straightforward. Kimi gives a sheepish laugh at Ollie’s comment, nodding his head. You’re a little embarrassed, but you scurry off the way you came to retrieve your old shitbox of a car. 

He fixes it all in one day. He does more than fix it, actually. He repairs the leather seats and the part of your door that has been peeling off, revealing the interior of the car’s shell. He fixed the air conditioner, added a heated seat feature, fixed the window, and fixed your radio. He fixed every issue he saw, and when you got your car back, it was like it was brand new. But the best addition of all?

You came back from a lunch outing with Ollie. Kimi said the repairs would take a while and that you should get something to eat in the meantime, so you did. But upon arriving at the shop, you nearly thought he was working on a different car. The outside, which had previously been a soft pale yellow, now had flowers painted on the sides. Intricate and delicate— Not a single mistake. Probably a stencil or a decal, but still impressive. 

“How did you…” You trail off, in awe at the sight of your vehicle. You had been dreaming of getting work like this done to your car for ages now. You always wanted a cute bug, and now it was right before you, with the exact design you wanted.

“Ollie told me,” Kimi said as if he could read your mind. “It was a straightforward addition. I mean, really, it took me like two seconds to do so, I figured, why not?” He looks at you with uncertainty in his eyes. “Do you like it?”

“I love it.”

He loved the way your eyes twinkled when you said that. He loved the way you gave him a brief side hug, which he was too astonished to return, before getting in to see all the upgrades he had made. He loved the way you thanked him a million times, trying to insist you’d pay after he kept telling you it wasn’t necessary. 

He loved you, and he felt like a fool because he barely even knew you, which is why he was okay with accepting the fact that you didn't love him back.

Yet.

For once, you weren’t coming to The Garage for Ollie.

You were here for Kimi.

He had invited you to come when you mentioned knowing nothing about cars, telling you that he would happily lecture you on everything you needed to know. You were able to navigate to his repair shop at the very least. Despite all the confusing twists and turns, you showed up without even having to ask for directions this time. Kimi had taken the time to clean the garage in preparation for your arrival. He even washed his face, meaning this was probably the first time you were seeing him not covered in oil and grease.

But when you arrived, someone else was there. He was taller, like most people in the garage seemed to be compared to Kimi, with brown hair that was swooped off to the side. You stood to the side, patiently waiting for them to wrap up their serious conversation. Kimi, who had yet to notice you, wore a serious expression, his deep brown eyes intently focused on the man in front of him, his arms crossed over his chest. Something about him in such a state seemed different. He looked so softly serious, his expression painted with solemnity in such a nice way.

“I just need a way to be able to view tire life better. There’s no censors out in the city, so it’s hard to tell,” the stranger reasons. You can make little sense of what he’s saying, but you can only assume through what knowledge you have that this guy is an engineer, and he’s asking Kimi for some modifications.

“I can figure something out, Oscar,” Kimi says firmly. His voice is rid of shakiness or anxiety, unlike how it is whenever he’s talking with you. You tap your foot gently, observing how he communicates so clearly with this Oscar character. Then his gaze drifts away, and every ounce of confidence leaves him. Because he sees you. “Y/N!” His voice practically raises an octave, and his body stiffens; his hands flex at his sides.

Oscar turns, and admittedly, he’s quite the handsome man as he surveys you. He gives Kimi a knowing look that you can’t quite decipher, but he seems to shrivel up under the gaze of his companion. “Hi,” you say with a shy wave, stepping forward timidly. “Am I interrupting?”

“Uh-”

“No, I was just leaving,” Oscar says with a warm smile, patting Kimi on the shoulder. “Thanks for listening to my suggestion, Kimi. Talk to you later.” Oscar makes his exit, leaving the two of you alone in his shop. Kimi clears his throat, hands clasped behind his back in that anxious manner he tended to default to.

“So… Cars,” he says, making you giggle. The sound has his heart pounding in his chest and his eyes lighting up. It was adorable. “Come on, look at this.”

He beckons you over before popping the hood of the car that was sitting pretty in his shop. You join him by his side, your shoulders brushing in a way that makes Kimi shudder. You watch closely as he rolls up his sleeves, his strong arms highlighted in the gentle glow of the overhead lights. You can examine nearly every muscle this close, surprised at his hidden strength. He never seemed like someone who would be particularly jacked, and yet he was. It shocked you to your core.

So, he spent a reasonable amount of time pressed up against your side, pointing out engine components and other findings within the car, and explaining how they worked in the context of racing. He was in his element, a wisp of hair falling over his face and framing his beauty. Kimi looked so entranced in his explanations, his voice so soft compared to how loud he tended to be. You listened with practiced patience, surprised at how sincere he seemed about everything. It was clear this was Kimi’s passion based solely on how he described it all. He was beautifully intelligent. It stunned you.

“Is this what you always wanted to do?” You ask suddenly. Softly. You’re afraid to shatter the tenderness of the moment by raising your voice too much, so it feels like a whisper of a query. 

“Not always, but for a long time, yeah.” He looks at you finally. It was the first time he had since he instructed you to lean over the engine with him, his cheeks dusted a rosy color. By now, he would be stuttering like a fool over every syllable, but for some reason, your closeness eased his mind. He felt calm in your presence despite his racing mind. He couldn’t think about anything but you and whatever questions you asked. “I used to be a racer myself.”

“Why’d you stop?”

He smiles. It’s a toothy grin. “I was too good.”

“Really?”

“No.”

“Oh.” You laugh, he smiles. It’s a routine at this point.

“I just liked working on the cars better. That’s all.” He shrugs easily and then pushes himself away to stand up straight. You just look at him over your shoulder, patiently watching to see his next move. “Were my explanations great?”

“Oh, fantastic,” you say exaggeratedly. “I’d rate you five stars. Out of five, to be clear.” You stand up straight, looking down at your hands that were now stained with grease—just a small glimpse into Kimi’s everyday. “Really, though. Thank you. I feel like I actually understand all of this now.”

“No problem.” Kimi opens his mouth, but he’s, of course, interrupted. 

“How was your date?”

Both of you freeze. Ollie is standing in the entrance, leaning against the doorway. He has a little smirk on his face. The type of smirk that makes you want to punch him right in his smug face, but you refrain, mainly because you’re too embarrassed.

“It was not a date,” Kimi says quickly, tugging on his sleeves like that’s going to help him hide from prying eyes. You nod eagerly, pushing your hands into your back pockets as you rock on your heels, looking anywhere but either of the men in the room with you.

“Sure it wasn’t,” Ollie says sarcastically, rolling his eyes and pushing off the door. He decides to give you both a chance to save face, nonetheless. “You heading out, Y/N?”

“Yes,” you nod. “Heading out. Yeah. Thanks, Kimi, for the–” You nearly said date. “The hangout.”

“Yep. Anytime. We can hang out anytime.” He watches you leave, looking equally flustered, and once you do, he huffs and turns his back to Ollie. “What’s wrong with you?!”

“Not my fault you’re both clueless.”

“What are you talking about?”

The next official race you came to watch was, once again, an indoor one. Ollie’s car had been experiencing some issues already, explained thoroughly by his engineer, who had already processed all the data to give to Kimi, so the two of you were sitting closer to the track this time, perched behind protective barriers in the small pit lane. As expected, about halfway through the race, his car was already needing repairs.

They filled it with fuel first and foremost, and then when the time came, he pulled over where Kimi was stationed, popping the hood to allow the mechanic to do his work. You patiently waited, smiling to yourself as he grumbled curses and incoherent sayings underneath his breath. He was mostly talking to himself as he quietly explained every issue the car was experiencing, now able to fully understand the problems it had been experiencing during the last few practice sessions. This was serious stuff.

“Done,” he finally mumbles, pulling his hands back to shut the hood. As he does so, his gloves are clipped on a sharp edge, tearing through the fabric. He doesn’t take note of the dense, crimson fluid flowing from his fingers until after the hood is shut and Ollie is sent back onto the track. Kimi looks down, eyes widening as the blood seeps out and spreads through the fabric of his gloves. “Ah, shit,” he curses, holding his own wrist for support.

His concerned tone piques your interest. You weren’t able to see the blood, so your mind immediately went to worst-case scenarios. Was there more wrong with the car? Had someone crashed when you were looming away? No, instead, Kimi turns around, and when you see him cradling his hand, you instantly understand the source of his worry. You search around for the first aid kit he brought down there with him. It was for safety, even if he had been sure nobody would need it. Injuries weren’t unheard of during races. However, he certainly never expected the one needing aid to be himself. You locate the white box and crack it open, all while he hops back over the barrier to stand beside you.

“Let me see,” you instruct carefully, holding your hand out. He places his palm face up in yours, the red liquid still flowing out with growing severity. “Sit down.” You move the stuff that had been in the seat next to you, allowing Kimi to take a seat as you carefully remove his glove. You apply some antiseptic to a cloth and gently dab it over the cut. It was small, unlikely to require any stitches, but if you didn’t care for it now, there was a possibility that it would become infected. He hisses, teeth clenched, while his other hand grasps the armrest, trying to divert his attention from the sting. “Sorry,” you whisper, loosening your grip on his wrist. “It’s gonna sting.”

“It’s okay,” he spits out between gritted teeth. “Let’s just get it over with.” He doesn’t sound rude when he says it, just a little stressed at the idea of being in any more pain. You nod with understanding, because you wouldn’t want to be in this situation either.

You grab the tweezers from the box, leaning in closer to remove any specks of dirt and debris from the small cut. When it looks clean, you take your time applying an antibiotic paste and then wrapping his palm in bandages. “There,” you say as you tear the end of the bandage off and tuck it in. “You should be more careful next time.”

“Thanks…” He examines your work, in awe at how calm you managed to stay in a situation that had become increasingly stressful for him. When he looks at you, you’re still smiling so gently. It wasn’t helping with the swirl of emotions he had been feeling. “How’d you know how to do all that?” 

You shrug. “I don’t know, I just got stressed. I think my adrenaline moved me to help you.” 

“Adrenaline?” He sounds abnormally shocked. “You looked so calm!”

“Wouldn’t help you if I was freaking out, now would it?”

He feels somewhat enlightened by your statement. You were stable, like his rock. In every stressful encounter, you were there to calm his mind, acting as a source of relief when his thoughts were racing. He smiled, but didn’t respond. Kimi just looked down at his bandaged hand and smiled.

Over time, you had begun to befriend a lot of familiar faces around The Garage. Max enjoyed how happy you seemed to make Kimi, though he never directly expressed that to you because he knew it would embarrass the younger boy and probably jeopardize his own friendship with Kimi. Oscar liked how casual and calm you were, easily able to match his energy and keep the vibes very soothing. George was fond of you because you seemed like a genuine person.

Of course, there were more, but on top of Ollie and Kimi, they are your closest friends for now. You arrived at The Garage early that morning, walking in like you were part of the group now, because to a lot of them, you were. You sat on a stool at Kimi’s shop, waiting for his eventual return. He had never gone a day without a visit, even when sick. He always stopped by for some reason. Sometimes he had to really dig for that reason.

Today, he seemed all too jolly as he walked in, a rather beautiful girl at his side. You observed their conversation from far away as an uncomfortable feeling settled deep within. Your body felt unaturally warm, and for some reason you had a sour taste in your mouth that made you feel somewhat nauseous. Surely it was just your mind playing tricks? Or maybe you were genuinely sick. Yeah.

But she was leaning in so close, and she was making him laugh like she said the funniest thing in the world, soft, slender hands brushing along his sturdy bicep.

You were just sick. That was it.

And then she was giggling, and he looked entirely enamored by everything she said.

You don’t feel well. You should probably go home to rest.

She said something that made him shift in that familiarly cute way, his eyes looking away from hers as he gave a nervous laugh. That’s how he acted around you, always anxious and boyishly shy in a way that made your heart stutter. What was this? Jealousy? No. It couldn’t be.

Kimi wasn’t yours, and you weren’t his. Plus, you’ve never felt romantic about him. You’ve never thought about his soft lips on yours or his strong arms holding you in a sweet embrace, his shy voice whispering sweet nothings to you. You just wanted to see him happy. That was all.

Which was why you had to leave. Before even saying hello to Kimi, or really anyone in the garage, you were gathering your things to head back to your car and leave without another word. You gave one last glance over your shoulder, seeing Kimi scurrying away from the conversation with a little frown etched into his features, probably shy from whatever cute, flirty pickup lines she had used on him. Before anger could sneak up on you, you walked right into something.

Or rather someone.

“Everything okay?” George asks, steadying you by both of your shoulders. You look up at him with the face of someone who’s been caught off guard, unable to really get your words out. Instead, you just nod. “Where are you going?”

“I’m just… Heading home,” You say, trying to stay casual about it. “I’m not feeling well all of a sudden.”

George nods thoughtfully, glancing over your head and behind you to Kimi’s shop. You’re worried that he can just take one look at you, and suddenly, George has you all figured out. That’s certainly how it feels, his calculating gaze slowly dragging back to your face. You try to conjure up what he’ll say in your mind, thinking of hundreds of responses to thousands of possibilities.

“Did you say hello to Kimi?”

That wasn’t even an option in your mind.

“Oh, uh,” You take a small step back, wishing the ground would open up and swallow you whole. “No? Was I meant to?”

He shrugs. It’s casual. “You should. He loves talking to you.”

Compared to everyone in The Garage, who was painfully aware of Kimi’s feelings, George wasn’t exactly subtle. While people like Max tried to push the two of you together gently, George leaned toward giving you both the harsh shove you needed. When the others said ‘Kimi thinks you’re nice,’ George would probably say something more like ‘The kid’s madly in love with you.’ He was tired of you guys avoiding the subject.

“Loves talking to me?”

And despite all his efforts, you’re still just as clueless as always. He sighs. “Yep. A lot. So why don’t you go say something before you leave?”

Maybe you should. It would be rude of you to ignore him altogether just because of some feelings getting in the way, but at the same time, you really just can’t bear the idea of facing him right now. “Maybe tomorrow. I need to go.” You brush past George before he can get the chance to object. The older man pinches the bridge of his nose and shakes his head. 

“Idiots.”

Although you feel bad, you try to keep some distance from Kimi. You’re dealing with so many emotions, and being near him doesn’t make it any easier, so although you really do miss hanging out with him, you remain as far away as you can without ruining your friendship entirely. Ollie is, of course, immediately suspicious of you. He could barely keep you away from Kimi lately, and now all of a sudden, you seem to run away at the mere suggestion of visiting him. 

He instantly asks Kimi about it, interrogating his friend. Had he done something to make you uncomfortable, or even scared you off with his annoying habits? Yet, Kimi was just as clueless as he.

You don’t suspect a thing when Ollie invites you to the shop. He tells you that Kimi’s out for the day because he’s terribly sick, and while you’re hesitant to think he won’t show up at all, you end up going anyway. The Garage is relatively empty, probably due to the late hour. Anyone who was there was just there to casually hang out or to have one of the other mechanics work on their cars. The vibes were casual, which is just what you were looking for.

But the second you step foot into the shop, the door slams shut behind you. You turn around, hoping to see Ollie right behind you as he had been moments before. But instead, the doorknob shakes, and he’s nowhere to be seen. “Ollie?” You ask, clearly frightened by this scenario. You bang your fist against the closed door, jiggling the knob, which is now locked. “This isn’t funny, open the door!”

“I’m not letting you out until you guys talk it out!” He calls from the other side of the door. You can see his silhouette through the opaque window, but that’s about it. Of course, his statement confuses you.

You guys?

You turn around. 

Kimi’s standing there, looking frightened when you spot him. How you hadn’t noticed him before, you’re not entirely sure, but he’s standing beside a car covered with a tarp, looking as anxious as ever. He had been getting better with his emotions lately, but it seemed that in your attempt to distance yourself from him, it had basically reset the poor boy. He felt just as nervous and awestruck as he did the first time he saw you.

“Hi,” he says, waving with a sheepish smile. 

“Did you guys plan this?” You ask, tapping your foot anxiously with your hands on your hips. 

Kimi raises both of his hands, quickly shaking his head. “No– No! I don’t even know what he’s talking about.”

“Kimi had no part in this,” Ollie adds from outside the door.

“Why are you still out there?” You’re feeling so frustrated in your current situation, because nothing is making sense, and you’re also locked inside a building with the exact person you’ve been trying to avoid. “What do you mean, talk it out?”

“Your feelings! Why have you been avoiding each other and shit?”

“That’s none of your business!”

“So you have been avoiding me?” Kimi asks softly, wearing the expression of a sad puppy. Your heart momentarily shatters when he looks at you, head tilted down and his metaphorical tail between his legs. He feels ashamed and embarrassed, probably trying to figure out what he did wrong before you even have the chance to tell him.

“I mean…” You wring your hands in front of you nervously, looking over your shoulder at the door, which no longer bears Ollie’s silhouette, and then back to him. “I don’t know. I guess…”

“I knew it.” Oh. “Why? Did I do something wrong?” He scratches the back of his neck before running his hand through his curls, messing them up even more. “If you didn’t want to talk to me, you should have just said so. I felt… I felt stupid looking for you everywhere.”

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I-...” He almost says it. He almost admits the fact that had been haunting him for the past few weeks, following him around like his own personal curse. He wanted to, but when he sees you, avoiding even looking at him, he stops himself to save the humiliation. “I just missed my friend. That’s all.”

“You didn’t do anything wrong.” You lean back against the wall right beside the door, your legs pushed out with your hands behind your back, squished between your torso and the wall. The numbness creeps down to your fingertips, making them feel tingly. “I was just acting stupid. I saw you and you were talking to this girl, and for some reason, it made me feel weird. I felt upset.”

“You felt jealous,” Ollie said from outside, making a blush creep up your neck, painting your cheeks. 

“Go away!”

“I can’t. I need to make sure you guys talk it out. I’m sick of my two best friends being awkward around each other.” By the sounds of it, he’s sitting on the ground in front of the door. You can just imagine him relaxing there like it’s no big deal, playing on his phone as he eavesdrops.

“Fine. I felt jealous.”

“I don’t know why,” Kimi whispers, making you lift your gaze to him. “I can barely focus anymore. Every time I’m working on a car, I’m just thinking about you. What’s Y/N doing right now? I wonder what Y/N’s thinking?” He sighs, covering his face with his hands. “You’re all I think about. Your smile, your laugh, your humor, your smell– I sound like a fucking creep, but it’s true!” 

“What are you saying?” You don’t want to get your hopes up. It’s too soon, right?

But then he says it. He whispers it, his voice shaky. “I love you.”

You feel lighter, and the world feels somewhat brighter. Your surroundings are saturated with affection; your entire perspective changed after three simple words. You feel less dreary, your whole body perking up instantly. You don’t even care that Ollie’s just outside anymore, because all you can focus on is the way your feet carry you to Kimi, stopping just in front of him and the stool he’s on. He looks up at you, biting the inside of his cheek and bouncing his leg.

You cup his face, and you can hear the way his breath catches in his throat when your thumb brushes over his jaw. You don’t say anything, you just lean in, your lips meeting in a sweet and tender kiss. His arms slowly loop around your waist, tugging you impossibly close to distract himself from the fact that it feels like he’s about to implode with excitement. His mind is racing so fast, he’s certain that it will blow up.

“Are you kissing?” Ollie shouts, his question going unanswered by the two of you. He sighs, reaching up to unlock the door, but not daring to open it. “They’re totally kissing,” he murmurs to himself, half proud and half disgusted.

“I love you too,” You mumble against his lips, your eyes searching his for any doubts. 

You find none and instead lean in for another peck.

It started with some offhand comment to Kimi. He was fixing your car up, as he does, while you were practically announcing to the whole garage how it was difficult to memorize the tracks before a race, and how you’d prefer if you could just have live updates while you’re on the go. 

When you return the next day, there’s a large, fancy neon orange button on your dashboard. You complain that it doesn’t match the vibes of your green and blue Y2K vehicle, but Kimi just shrugs and tells you to give it a try. So you slide into the driver’s seat and slam your index finger into the button.

Your music, loud and vibrant much like your personality, switches off with some loud static, as if it’s changing frequencies on its own. “Hey-”

“Hello. This is Oscar, your live race assistant.” The voice is monotone and clear. Very Australian, too. You have to wonder if Kimi had intentionally made him accented in such a way, or if it was just the first voice he downloaded off the internet.

“Really? Glorified street-racing Siri?” You give Kimi a deadpan expression. He sighs, pocketing his wrench and crossing his arms with a light shrug. “Great. Cool.”

“I’m not Siri,” Oscar says as if stating the obvious, much like Siri would do. 

“Yeah, yeah. Just shut the hell up and do your job.” You hit the button again, changing the frequency back to your favorite station.

“How can he do his job if you’ve turned him off?” Kimi asks, running a hand through his messy, curly hair.

“I don’t need this. Tell it to find a new car to hijack.”

Oscar, however, proves to be useful on track. You drive your car out of the garage, waiting patiently on the driveway for the rest of your competitors to pull up beside you. Out of sheer boredom, you hit the button, and Oscar comes to life.

“Evening, Y/N.”

“Alright, Osc. Talk dirty to me— How’s the car look?”

It’s oddly quiet as he processes your question. 

“I will not do such a thing. The car looks to be in optimal condition. Based on your previous performances you can be expected to come in first or second.”

“You don’t know shit about my precious performances.”

“Actually, Kimi gave me access to your past racing results. I see that a few days ago you crashed on—”

“Okay! Fine. I get it… Moving on.” You huff, gripping the wheel tight. You’re anxious to get out there and get to racing, but you still have a few minutes before you all drive out onto the street. “What’s your fuckin’ purpose anyway? To annoy me all night.”

“To provide you with accurate, live data and guide you through the track. You’ll be exiting the driveway in two minutes now.”

“Thanks, genius. I could have figured that shit out on my own.”

“Just trying to help.”

You follow the basic step by step process, and soon enough you’re off racing alongside the other circle members. You speed ahead of everyone, making deliberate and intricate overtakes in order to position yourself in first. You’re heavily regarded as an impressive competitor, known for your instantaneous strategies that land you in the top five majority of the time. 

On the off chance you fuck up, you fuck up big time. That’s the downside. It’s not a small scratch that Kimi can easily buff out in minutes, but large crashes that land your car in his auto shop for weeks at a time. He scolds you constantly, but you still make those same mistakes.

“Alright, Y/N,” Oscar begins. “You’re doing good, but I need you to not overrev for this next turn. Your engine is showing signs of early failure if not properly cared for.”

You bite your tongue. You want to spew out some shit about not being told what to do, but considering he’s been right about everything else, you decide to trust his programming and follow his instructions. He tells you how to properly downshift, making for a smooth turn that you keep noted for future references. 

Later, you radio in once more. “Alright, babe, give me your worst. What’s the gap looking like?”

“Doriane’s right on your tail, so do your best to optimize your speed here.”

“You’re so obsessed with me that it’s almost sickening.”

“Just… Trying to do my job.” You find it somewhat unsettling how real he sounds. There’s so much conviction in his tone, and for a second you almost believe he finds your statement funny. It’s like you forget he’s not real.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll finish first, Romeo. Don’t you worry your pretty little head over it.”

You hold true to your promise. Doriane crosses the line mere seconds after you do, all thanks to a good mixture of defensive driving and some guidance from your new built in companion, who you absentmindedly thank before turning your car off.

“No way I just thanked an AI program…” Despite feeling silly, you leave to celebrate your win with the others.

You’re sprawled out in your car, enjoying some off time by wallowing in your own boredom. You have your feet on the dash with your seat pushed back as far as it will go. 

There’s a knock on your window, and you’re quick to roll it down just as Charles’ face pops in. He leans his arms on your door, peeking into your car, which is sporadically messy in a way that you’re fond of. “What’s up?”

He shrugs at your question. “Bored, that’s all.”

“Wanna race?” You try to hide the way your eyes light up. Charles was someone you had a lot of respect for as he introduced you to the group— You had known him for a while, and to say he always made you starry eyed was a bit of an understatement.

“Can’t.” But your heart is, once again, shattered. “I gotta help Max with his car.” You huff, crossing your arms. 

“Lame.” He smiles, the cutest dimples highlighted. “Why even tell me you’re bored when you have plans?”

“I don’t know.” He stands up straight, but not before reaching in to ruffle your hair affectionately. “See you around.”

“Yeah. See ya.” You roll the window back up, and immediately sigh with disappointment. There was no affection there, at least not from his end. Even the hair ruffling felt unbearably platonic in that sibling-like way. Your emotions were a mixture of confusion that you just couldn’t seem to decipher, because on some days Charles just felt like another member of the circle, and on other days you wanted nothing more than for him to hold you in your arms.

That said a lot, because you weren’t always big on affection. The occasional side hug and high five was plenty to keep you satisfied, but with Charles? It was hard to describe.

You feel defeated when you hit the orange button, the loud pop music transitioning to initial silence. You wait a moment, and then decide to call out for him. “Hellooo? Oscar?”

“Good morning, Y/N,” he eventually responds, that annoying accent present once again. You recline your seat, resting your hands behind your head while looking up at the ceiling. “Did you need something? I see you’re still parked in the garage.”

“Play me some music. Like, some depressing shit.” You hum. “But not too depressing. Like, sexy depressing where I feel sad but I’m still jamming out.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Can you play me some music?”

“I’m not connected with any music platforms.” 

“Alright, whatever.” You close your eyes. 

“Are you not going to shut the radio off?”

It’s weird, the way you’re feeling. It’s like your heart is empty— You have no reason to be sad, but as you sit there alone in your car, talking to artificial intelligence to pass the time, you feel extra lonely. So you sigh, and you shake your head. Mostly to yourself. “No,” you trail off quietly, fingers tapping against the center console. “I enjoy the company.” You make a bored lip trill. “Say something.”

“What do you want me to say?”

You mull over the question for a minute. What do you ask an AI to tell you? Normally you might have said something in a teasing way, like call me beautiful just to see how far it would go before deciding your orders were outside of its parameters. Maybe ask it how you make a guy fall for you. But this time you don’t feel up for it. “Just…”

“Would you like to hear about your performance lately?”

“Yes.” Perfect.

You swore that if you listened close enough, you could hear the tapping of a keyboard. You brush it off as your mind tricking you and nothing more. “Your car looks to be in good shape. You’ve been stacking up to be the garage’s number three driver, placing just ahead of Lando and Doriane.”

“Only number three? Who’s ahead of me then?”

“Max and Charles are currently ahead of you in terms of overall performance.”

You groan. “Don’t talk to me about Charles.”

“Okay.” That was easy. “Max and he who shall not be named are currently ahead of you in terms of overall performance.” 

“How can I improve? I want to be number one.” Everyone wants to be number one, but currently it’s your main goal in life. You were hotheaded and a total try hard, so the fact you were only third was really taking a blow to your ego. 

It didn’t help that Charles was a step above you. Honestly, it really hurts your soul. “How about some practice laps? You have some free time, right? I can evaluate your data from there and tell you how to approach your racing. Just radio me in when you’re ready.”

“Sounds good.”

Oscar instructs you through a couple practice tracks in the city, fluctuating based on police activities from his radar and how populated each area is. Eventually he tells you to relocate to the garage while he assesses the data to give you your proper information. So you switch back to your music as you make your way back, pulling into the garage with extra care. To be frank, you were somewhat exhausted.

“Alright, babes, what’s up?” You hit the button before you ask your question, drumming your fingertips against your wheel.

“That was certainly some impressive maneuvering. As I mentioned halfway through, your main problem was over-revving in corners. I think I’ve said it before but if you continue to do that, your engine will eventually have some significant damage.” Again. You swear you hear typing. “But you fixed that after I mentioned it. Now I just need you to work on maintaining confidence and speed in those corners.”

“And then I’ll become number one?”

“Potentially, yes.”

“Thanks, Oscar. Talk to you tomorrow.”

After a rather tantalizing race, you return back to the garage with your second place victory. It still wasn’t number one, but you were glad for one primary reason: You had finished ahead of Charles. You park in your designated spot, rolling the window down when the man in question approaches your vehicle from the side. “How ‘bout that?” You wear a dorky grin, unable to contain yourself.

“That was good.”

That’s it? Just… Good?

“That was incredible,” you correct, biting your cheek and squinting your eyes. He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “Do you-” Deep breaths. Be confident. “Do you wanna get dinner?”

It was a normal question to ask a friend, especially after such a feat. It seemed more like a victory celebration, so surely he wouldn’t assume the worst. The worst happened to be him knowing you liked him. Just terrible. Because of course you couldn’t face your feelings head on. Who does that?!

“I can’t.” You try to hide your disappointment, but you’re sure the deep frown you wear gives you away. “I have a date.”

Even. Worse.

Quick. Think of a witty reply— Say what you usually would to anyone else. Why is nothing coming out? Just silence. Shock. “Oh, have fun then.” 

You sounded like a sopping wet, pathetic cat.

He bids you farewell, and as soon as he’s out of the garage you grab the wheel tight, and then smack your head against it, the horn sounding through the garage. “Fuck!” You yell inside your car.

“Why are you honking?”

Oh.

Whoops.

“Oscar.” You clear your throat. “I thought I turned you off.”

“You did not.”

“So you heard that entire thing?”

It’s quiet for a moment. “Um-”

“That’s so embarrassing. How do I wipe your memory? Don’t tell anyone. Was it obvious I like him? Can’t you like… Run a diagnostics thing.”

But then… He laughs. 

Like genuinely laughs. Like a human— It’s not a glitch, or a sound error, but a human man laughing.

“WHAT THE FUCK!”

“What?!” His voice, which sounds a lot more real at your sudden realization, sounds very much concerned.

“Are you a REAL man?”

Silence.

“Yes?” He sounds obnoxiously confused. Your jaw is dropped, a hand running through your hair anxiously. “You didn’t know?”

“No?!” You laugh. It’s nervous, not charming. “I thought you were like… I don’t know, some AI shit that Kimi made. Why did you never tell me?”

“You know, I kind of just figured you knew!” He sounds just as frantic as you do.

“Oh my God. So all those nights I stayed up talking to, what I thought was a robot, I was talking to a real man! With a human body! And brain!”

“Yes.”

“Fuck my life.” You hit your head against the steering wheel again. This time you’re gentle, resting it against the horn like your life depends on it. “And now you know my secret. Great. Just great!”

“I won’t tell anyone about your tragic love life.” He says tragic sarcastically, which instantly sets you off. Because of course it does.

“It is tragic! I like him, and he doesn’t like me! What’s not tragic about that?!” You give an exasperated sigh and lean back in your seat. “I liked you more when I thought you weren’t real.”

“That’s rude.”

“Yeah, well… So is you making fun of me.”

His voice softens, and you can hear him sigh so gently. “I’m sorry.” You never expected a man to apologize to you. Let alone one so professional and monotone. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s missing out.”

“Thanks, Oscar.” The car is too quiet, so you quickly add, “If that’s even your real name.”

He laughs, and it’s so drastically human that you feel stupid for never noticing before. Just a soft chuckle that makes your tense shoulders relax, and your hands fall from the wheel that they had been gripping previously. “It is. I never lied to you, you know.”

“May as well have.”

“No, you just thought wrong for the entire time I was helping you.” He sighs again. “I hope you’re not weirded out.”

“No, actually. I’m a little relieved. I was starting to worry that I was actually bonding with a robot, so knowing you’re a real person makes me feel a bit better.”

“I’m glad.”

The one downside is that the silence is a lot more awkward this way. Having an AI be quiet was normal, because they were only expected to reply when you do, but now, knowing he was human, it felt a little unsettling. So you sit up, finger hovering over the button. “Well, goodnight, Oscar.”

“Goodnight. And good luck—”

You feel bad, but you’re overwhelmed by the events of tonight and shut his radio off and then murmur to yourself, “It’s only 6 p.m… Why’d I say goodnight?” You feel like honking your horn again. “I’m such an idiot!”

The next morning you’re running on pure energy drinks and two hours of sleep. You had spent the night driving around the city. Not racing, not speeding, but just driving. Radio off. You did that until you felt tired enough to go back home and go to bed. 

This time you pull into the garage, hitting your button on instinct. You’ve nearly forgotten that it’s currently 6 a.m., and that your little robot friend is not a robot and is probably trying to sleep. Which is why you’re surprised when nobody greets you initially.

“Hello?”

His voice is groggy and low, a painful reminder that this man is running on human energy much like yourself. You bite your tongue, wanting to apologize but being too stubborn to do it.

“Sorry. Forgot.”

“Is something up?”

“Why are you up so early?” You answer his question with a question. Although it’s more like you ignore him to ask your own.

“I heard you ring in.”

You’re confused now. “Are you… Sleeping?”

“…” You can hear his disappointment. “Well obviously not.”

“I mean like—”

“I’m in bed, yes. Is this important?”

“No. Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

He groans. “Alright.” And then a yawn. It’s strange. You’re used to the quiet, monotone Oscar. He didn't make all these noises- or maybe he did, and you just never noticed. “If you want to talk, try again in like… Two hours.”

“Alright.” You turn the radio off.

Just as he instructed, you wait two hours before hitting the button again, hoping and praying that this time he’s actually up and running because you’re desperate to catch up with him already. You have a lot of questions. 

“Morning, Y/N.” He greets, sounding much more lively than before. 

“There you are!” 

“What can I do for you this morning?”

“I just have some questions.”

“Sure.” The typing is clearer today. A reminder that you feel silly for not noticing before. “Just let me load up some statistics—”

“Not about that,” you interrupt. 

He hums, clearly confused. “Okay… What do you want to know, then?”

You tap your fingers against the center console. “What are you wearing?”

He snorts, and you feel your cheeks flush. “That’s a little perverted, don’t you think?”

“Not like that!” You pinch the bridge of your nose, shaking your head. “I just wanna know. What do you look like? Are you like a fifty year old grease covered mechanic, or..?”

“I’m twenty four.” You can hear the smile in his voice. 

“I’m noticing that you didn’t answer my initial question.”

His laugh is a little shy this time. He takes a moment, a noise leaving him that makes it seem like he’s debating what to say. “I’m wearing a t-shirt and shorts.”

“Well that’s boring.” You wait for a moment, and he says nothing. “Well, aren’t you gonna ask me what I’m wearing?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

“What are you wearing?” He asks after a moment of hesitation.

“A t-shirt and shorts.”

“Very funny.”

“Thank you.” You realize you’re grinning like an idiot, and you make a foolishly desperate attempt to stop, but you can’t. He’s a lot more fun to talk to now. That’s evident. “Do you know what I look like?”

“Is it creepy if I say yes?”

“Depends on how you know.” You lean back. “Like, if it’s because you follow me home or something then… Duh.”

“No. Definitely not.” He chuckles again. You feel like his laugh alone reveals enough about him. He’s a little shy, it would seem. “I have access to the security cameras in the garage as a secondary level of safety. I’ve seen you before, but only in black and white. Plus, you’re like… Made of five pixels.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Do I look pretty?”

“Um…” You’re worried you’ve made him uncomfortable, but then he gives a breathy laugh from his nose before answering, “From what I can see… Yes.” It’s a gentle whisper.

Oh he’s really shy.

“Thanks.” You actually feel a bit giddy at his compliment. Though, you’re sure he would have said yes whether he believed it or not. “What about you? Are you smoking hot— Is that why you hide your identity?”

“It’s not hidden.” He, again, avoids the question. But you wait, and he takes the hint. “I wouldn’t say so.”

Men were always liars about their looks. True or not, most would have said yes in response to your question. But Oscar said no. Which is somewhat reassuring, because at least he’s a humble assistant. “Your turn.”

“For what?”

“Ask me a question. Duh.”

He thinks for a moment. In fact, he thinks for a long moment. So long that you’re worried he got up and left— That he was sick of you. “What’s your… Biggest fear?” He settles on that.

You scoff. “That’s lame. You should’ve asked me something hot, like… What’s your wildest sexual fantasy? Or even What’s your type?”

“Those feel like very different levels of questions. Plus, I already know your type and who would be featured in your fantasy.”

…

“Sorry. Too far?”

“No, I just can’t believe you’d say something so low, Oscar…” You shake your head. “I’m smiling, don’t worry. I wish you could see.”

“Would you like me to check the cameras?”

“No, I look like shit.” You both laugh. It’s easygoing and refreshing. “For the record, my type isn’t just Charles. And I’m not gonna say a thing about my fantasy, because I don’t think you deserve to know. To be honest, I don’t even know why I like him— Or if I still do.”

“Then what’s your type? I won’t tell anyone.”

“I like… A guy with a cute smile, and… He has to be smart. And funny!” It’s basic, really. “Why, you interested?”

“You told me to ask-”

“Relax. I’m kidding.”

“I don’t fit that description anyway.” He adds on after a second. “Any more questions?”

“Can I see you? Face to face?”

He hesitates. “Are you asking me out?”

“Oscar.” You say it in a scolding tone. “Are you seriously teasing me?”

“No—”

“Why would I ask you out if you claim to not be my type?”

“I was teasing.” You can just tell he’s flustered.

“Fine,” you say with faux begrudge. “It can be a date, but you better make it worth my time.”

He’s picking up what you’re putting down with this playful vibe. “Alright, alright… Do you like Cipriani?”

“I’ve never been.” You’ve heard of it. Fancy, and way out of your budget. 

“Then it’ll be a treat. Meet me there at six.”

“It’s a date.”

You go through multiple outfits, worried each time that you’re either under or overdressed for the occasion. It was a date, and it was at a fancy restaurant, but if you went all out then maybe he’d think you were trying too hard. You just wanted to get to know the guy face to face— To see who you’ve been talking to all this time.

You land on something simple. It’s a black off-the-shoulder, long sleeve dress that ends mid-thigh. It highlights your figure without being overly tight. Beneath that is a pair of tights and boots that end just below your knee. You feel awfully done up in comparison to your typical outfits, which really are just the most basic things you can find in your closet, but you don’t want to show up to a fancy restaurant looking like a slob.

You do your best to radiate confidence when you walk into the building, a bag slung over your shoulder as you tell the hostess the name of the reservation. She tells you that you’re the first to arrive as you sit down, menus laying on both sides of the small, circular table. You anxiously bounce your leg, looking over the menu, heart thundering at the high prices.

You’re so caught up in worrying about how you’re going to pay for a drink that you don’t notice someone sit down across from you. It’s only when he clears his throat that you look up, an apology on the tip of your tongue.

It’s lost the second you see him.

His face is soft and sweet, almost innocent. His fair skin is littered with moles, and his deep brown eyes sparkle like a doe’s in the gentle restaurant candlelight. His hair is terribly soft, reaching his nape. It swoops off to the side. He looks effortless in a charming way. He’s in a white button up with a suit jacket, the top button undone and lacking a tie— That would have been too fancy. You’re sure that’s what he was thinking.

“Wow.” That’s all you can get out. You think back to earlier that day when you had asked him if he was smoking hot, to which he answered no.

That liar.

“I’m sorry?” He smiles, laughing at your single syllable.

Goodness. His smile was adorable. ‘I don’t fit that description’ my ass! He had bunny teeth that were just a bit longer than the rest, but it was one of the cutest things you had ever seen. He was undeniably handsome. 

“You’re too humble, Oscar.” You look back down at your menu. “I, for one, find you to be very handsome.” Why are you blushing? Why do you feel shy? Never before had you felt this way before— A warm, fuzzy feeling in your stomach. You were supposed to be brash and disagreeable. That was your thing. You were hotheaded with the mouth of a sailor, but right now you felt like you could melt into a puddle right in front of him. 

“Thanks.” He smiles for real this time. It’s close mouthed, like he’s trying to hide his teeth, but it’s still heartbreakingly cute. “You’re much prettier in person. Not that you weren’t pretty before, I just couldn’t see you that well and—”

“It’s okay, I know what you meant.” 

He’s very much relieved. 

“Can I be honest with you?” You set the menu down. “This place is way too expensive.”

He laughs, and it sounds so easy. “It’s okay, I’m paying.”

“What? Are you sure? I can afford it, I just don’t know if I really want to blow my money on—”

“I promise. Order whatever sounds good.”

Your heart flutters at that. Something about a man being a gentleman in such a natural way really gets you going. You swallow nervously and nod. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.” Keep it cool, man.

It’s hard to be nonchalant.

The dinner went exceptionally well. You feel like you were blushing like a schoolgirl the entire night, and by the end of it you were walking on a dream. He walks you back to your car, offering you his jacket without you even having to complain about being cold. It’s like he could just tell.

“Thank you for the lovely dinner, Oscar.”

“Of course. Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight.” 

You watch him walk away before getting back into your car and heading home. As you pull into your driveway, you make the bold decision to hit the radio button once more. Like always, he answers in a flash.

“Couldn’t get enough of me?” Does he have to be a tease? Right now? When you’re losing your mind already.

“Guess not.”

“What’s up?”

“Just wanted to say, you know… Because I think it’s worth mentioning…” You’re nervous. So nervous that your heart is pounding out of your chest. You’re entering heart attack levels. “You’re totally my type, you liar.” You try to be jokingly defensive because your statement feels all too embarrassing. Before he can even get a second to respond, you shut the radio off and lean back in your seat. 

Now, of course, you sit in your car and regret every decision you’ve made in life.

You feel humiliated. So you do the only logical thing after that.

You avoid him.

Yep.

You actually avoid the garage as a whole, because it feels like if you show up, they’re all gonna know. They’ll all know you moved on so quickly from a life long crush and are in love with your engineer, which seems absurd but the thought haunts you nonetheless. You felt bad. Terrible, actually, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. 

But today you decide to face your fears and head into the garage with a clear, open mind. You don’t dare hit the button, because the idea of talking to him right now feels absurd, but you pull into the garage and park in your normal spot. You wait, taking deep breaths to work yourself up before stepping out.

And of course,

he’s there.

Waiting.

His face was stern and stoic.

“Oscar,” you breathe out softly. He steps closer, until you feel like you can’t breathe. His cologne is sickly sweet, and you desperately want to just bury your face against him and inhale it, but you’re frozen.

“Did I do something wrong?” He asks quietly, looking down at you. His face transitions from scarily serious to soft and tender. Genuine concern is etched in his pretty boy features, and you sincerely feel guilt. “I thought our dinner was good. Great, even. And what you said—”

“I know.” You cut him off because you’re embarrassed by the reminder, and then you instantly feel bad because his expression knits together in sadness. “I’m sorry, I freaked out. It did go well, really well.”

“So then why’d you disappear?”

“I’m… Nervous.” He doesn’t say anything because he wants to give you the freedom to speak for yourself. You huff, your leg tapping anxiously again. “This is— I don’t know. This is all new to me. I like you, a lot actually. I think you’re funny and charming, and I got all of that from just one date.” You’re rambling and he’s not stopping you. “You’re humble and sweet, too. You said you weren’t hot, and holy shit you are. Even right now when you’re just in sweats and a hoodie I feel like I can’t breathe just looking at you. God, it’s actually a little annoying because it’s so unfair—”

“Y/N.” Now he stops you, and you’re thankful because it was starting to reach an embarrassing point. He wears a smile. Empathetic.

“I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He reaches for your hand, and you don’t pull away. You just stare at him like a total dunce, unable to move. “I like you too. I think you’re witty, and you’re hilarious even when you don’t know what to say.” You smile because you can’t stop yourself from doing so. “If it helps, we can take it slow.”

“Yes. That would help a lot.”

He chuckles under his breath. “And to think you thought I was AI…”

“Oh shut up.”

“You’re doing great, love.”

“Quit distracting me with your cute bullshit, Oscar!”

You’re racing against Max. It’s a silent challenge for the number one spot, which you had been working and training for day after day for weeks now. Oscar was confident in your abilities, and you were finally confident in yourself, so you asked him if you could race one and one and he happily agreed. He loved a good challenge, after all. 

“Upcoming turn. Remember, easy on the engine, but be confident in your speed.”

“Got it.”

Confident you are.

Because you cross the line first.

Oscar’s the first to hear about it, your car an echo chamber of your own shouting. “Number one, baby!” You pull into the garage, stepping out to shake Max’s hand in a moment of good sportsmanship. He congratulates you on your win, not fully understanding just how much this means to you.

You don’t want to look foolish celebrating such a seemingly small victory, so you keep your excitement to yourself until Oscar gets there, eagerly pulling you into a hug. He knows this means a lot to you— He’s been there from the beginning of this endeavor.

“I’m so proud,” he murmurs before giving you quite the dramatic kiss on the lips. You grin uncontrollably, squeezing him tight.

“All thanks to you.” He shakes his head, and you laugh. “Okay. Maybe not all.”

“Definitely not.” Another cheesy peck. “That was all you.”

"Because you're gonna try to install your special security measures," you say as he locks his bike.

Jason thinks about it, then nods. "Yeah, that's probably true. No, but it's your place. I wouldn't do anything you wouldn't know about."

"I know," you say, going inside and holding the door for him. "But my apartment is smaller than yours.”

"That doesn't matter to me, baby."

When did he get it into his head that he needs to be in your apartment? You go up the stairs with Jason behind you, thinking about how you can excuse not inviting him inside. Except, it’s suspicious if you make him wait outside. Even for Jason, who's about as cagey as they come. He seems to trust you fine, but you have no idea what freak raised him because he's eternally wary of people and unfamiliar places. He also insists on sitting close to the door when you go out to eat. But even he's invited you to his place. Many times now. Maybe you can extend the same favor. 

"Fine. You get a quick tour," you say against your better judgment as you get to your door, unlocking it.

"I'm honored, truly." Jason follows you inside. He clicks his tongue, pointing to the lock. "No deadbolt?"

"Jason..."

"I mean, what a beautiful lock on your door," he says sweetly, kissing your cheek. "Y'know what would make it even more beautiful?"

"You being less paranoid?"

"Seventy percent of Gotham break-ins are in residences that have only one lock. Sixty-five percent of them are on—"

You turn around and put your arms around Jason. He automatically puts his arms around your waist and stops talking. His beauty still stuns you: his aquiline nose, his freckles, those bright teal eyes. You get shy at times, flustered and delighted at the fact that this hunk of a man likes you so much.

"I'm extremely attracted to you, despite your raccoon demeanor," you say.

"You'd be the first," Jason says, gaze terribly fond. "I'll shut up now 'bout the statistics."

"No, statistics are hot. Just not when they're about home invasions."

"Point taken. How 'bout stats on Gotham's exports?"

You throw your head back, gasping. "Oh! You fiend. No more, please. I may just ravish you here on the floor!"

Jason bends you back a little, his hand fitting in the center of your back to ease you over. He doesn't do that very often, use his strength and wield you the way he wants, but when he does, you lose your breath. Your pulse quickens as Jason nuzzles your neck.

"This okay?" he asks. You hum an airy yes.

"'M in no rush," he says in your ear. "We can linger. Haven't finished your tour. 'S your room next?"

You straighten so fast, you nearly knock Jason in the teeth. It's only because of his quick reflexes that you don't.

"You can't see my room," you rush out, looking at him with wide eyes.

Jason squints, hands dropping to your sides. "What? Why?"

"Um... because... because my room is a mess."

"So? I don't care. My room looks like a solitary confinement cell."

You raise an eyebrow. Jason clears his throat.

"Well, I mean, it used to. It's better now that I have plants and shit."

"Lack of decor is nowhere near as embarrassing as my room, Jason. Mine is beyond messy. It's filled with half-eaten pizza crusts. And rats. And... slime?"

"Slime, huh? Well, good thing I wore my Doc Martens. I can withstand a little slime."

You sag. "You don't believe me."

Jason smiles and kisses your forehead. "Not particularly, baby. What's the issue, huh? You hiding nudie mags or something?"

You roll your eyes. "Who calls it that, Jay? You sound like Tony Soprano. Just say porn."

"Gracefully choosing to ignore that comment. Look, if y'do have porn, it's nothing to be ashamed of. You should feel safe to express and explore your sexuality however you—"

"Oh my God, it's not porn." You cover your face. "Jesus. It's—okay, just come in. If you're gonna break up with me over this, we might as well face it now."

"I'm not gonna break up with you," he says as you take his hand and lead him to your bedroom. "Nothing you show me could—"

You swing open the door Jason trails off as he follows you in, his eyes landing on your 4x6 poster of the Red Hood that's smack middle in the room, taped over your bed.

And then, obviously, one can't miss the Red Hood towel on your computer chair, or the Red Hood mug. And the limited edition Red Hood Bat Burger bobblehead, which was quickly discontinued after some public backlash.

"Wow," Jason says.

You groan and bury your face in your hands. "It's fine. I know it's weird. Just go."

You don’t know how it happened, this accumulation of Red Hood merch. It's not like people aren’t fans of heroes. Plenty of local heroes are revered across the world. You have an online friend from Brazil who has literally all of the Superman collectibles. But Superman is reasonable. Batman is reasonable. Nightwing is common and basically a Gotham staple—you've seen women in Nightwing bikinis.

But Red Hood fans are far and few. Plenty of people think he's a criminal and a borderline villain. Some people, working-class people mostly, adore him. You've heard plenty of wonderful things he's done to turn neighborhoods around, keep people safe, fight The Man. Hell, last week there was a video of him carrying an old woman to the hospital after she fell in the road.

Plus, you get the feeling he's really handsome under that helmet. You're sure he's physically overwhelming, at the very least. You've seen clips of him fighting. Oh boy, can he hold his own.

But if you told the average person on the street that your favorite hero is Red Hood, they'd definitely give you a side eye. You brace yourself for one now. 

"Huh," Jason says. "Didn't think you'd be a fan of his. Not really a hero, is he?"

You huff, squaring your shoulders. "He's helped a lot of people. No one actually cares about protecting us except for vigilantes. Red Hood protects innocents. If that takes a little bit of a heavier hand, so be it."

Jason raises his eyebrows. "Didn't know you played fast with morality like that, honey."

"You don't agree?" If this is where your relationship ends, you'd rather it happen sooner than later. "He's implemented a lot of fundamental structures that even Batman hasn't. He's more big-picture than the Bats. So, whatever, okay? If you think I'm nutty for liking Red Hood, then just go now."

You cross your arms and turn away from Jason. It's quiet for a long moment. You're sure it's done; you've just ruined the first relationship you really wanted to make work. But you've been on dates and let it slip that you admire Hood, and plenty of men let you know what an idiot you are to do so. You thought Jason would understand. Maybe not.

But then you feel arms around your stomach. Jason kisses your cheek.

"C'mon," he says chidingly, voice low and sweet in your ear. "Y'think it's that easy to scare me off? We live in Gotham, sweetheart. The only way I'd be worried is if you had someone's head sitting in your fridge. And even then, I'd hear ya out on whose head it is."

You lean into Jason's solid warmth, rubbing your cheek against his scruff like a cat. "I'd have my reasons if I did that."

"Mm, I know it."

You slip out of his grip enough to turn around. Jason's got a coy, little grin on, and you can't figure out why. But you suppose that's better than him leaving because of your local celebrity crush.

"You're really not annoyed?" you ask. "Because if you are, we should hash it out now."

"No, baby, 'm not annoyed." Jason glances at the Red Hood bobblehead. His grin widens, tongue resting between his teeth as he looks at you. You feel hunted, but the glint in Jason’s eye quickly disappears. "I think he does what needs to be done."

"Yeah?"

"Sure. Just surprised, is all. He doesn't seem like your type."

You blink, heart beating faster. "My type? Well, I-I just think he contributes a lot to the city. It's not... I appreciate what he does for Gotham."

"Wait." He tilts his head like he's genuinely trying to figure something out. "D'you have a crush on Hood or something?"

You blink, flustered at how quickly Jason picked up on that. How does he do that? "I don't—I mean, I admire him—he's—but I don't even know what he looks like, so—"

Jason's eyes light up, and you know you've made a mistake, just not the one you thought you would. He cups the back of your neck, which always makes you hot and squirmy.

"Oh, you do like him like that. Huh. Didn't know the helmet did it for you. Very interesting news, sweetheart. He doesn't scare ya?"

"No," you say, the word coming out weak. Wires are being crossed in your head between the image of the Red Hood and your boyfriend crowding you in your room and pressing his lips to your neck.

"That's very good to hear," Jason says, and you give in, tugging him over to your bed. He laughs. "Why didn't you want me to know?"

"It's embarrassing," you whine. "The poster was from a friend."

You let Jason climb atop you, permeating your senses with his bulk and his citrusy scent. He carefully keeps his weight off of you, but you wish he'd hold you down. This is exactly why you didn't want to bring Jason over; you don't need your old fantasies of Red Hood getting mixed up with your boyfriend.

"I don't think it's embarrassing," he says, gently taking your leg and crooking it over his hip. "You picturing him right now?"

"Jason!" You thwack his shoulder. You feel it more than he does, probably. He cackles.

"Teasin'," he says, soothing you with a kiss. "But I can get a helmet if you want me to."

You kick him off the bed. "No more tours for you!"

Work runs late a week later, so you're still out by the time eight o'clock rolls around. It's summer time, so it's not the worst thing ever, but you know what Jason would say. Your last message is still unread because Jason works most nights. You’ve chosen not to worry him by telling him you're also working tonight, instead texting him funny Gotham memes.

"Evening."

…Maybe you should've let him know.

You flinch, the voice startling you hard. Red Hood is leaning against the fence surrounding the park you pass by on your way to the bus stop. His arms are crossed, and his biceps bulge underneath his tight black t-shirt. You can't tell from here, but you're sure he must tower over you.

"Oh." Briefly, you wonder if you summoned him somehow after revealing your room to Jason last week. You've lived in Gotham your whole life and you've never run into Hood. The only vigilante you've met is Red Robin, and he's not a talker.

"Hi," you say, a little nervous, a little starstruck.

"Hi," Hood says, letting his arms drop. His posture is easy, but you know better. You know he's here for a reason. "Working tonight?"

You nod. "I just finished. I'm just going to the bus now."

"Pretty late for the bus."

"It's June."

"It's Gotham."

You open your mouth, then close it. Then you open it again. "Um... it's okay. I've done it plenty of times before."

"Plenty of times? Without letting anyone know?"

You wince. "Well, not plenty—"

"Nobody to pick you up?"

You shrug. "No."

"No? Think hard." There's the tiniest edge to his tone.

"I mean, my boyfriend could, hypothetically, but he works nights, so—"

"And you think his job is more important than making sure you're safe? It'd devastate him if something happened to you."

You blink. "I don't—I guess I didn't think of it that way."

Hood shakes his head. Then he pushes himself off of the fence and approaches you. Immediately, your heart rate increases. To be this close to the Red Hood, to have him worry about little old you, scold you for not calling Jason, it's causing a confusing mix of emotions to swirl inside you.

You've thought about how you'd act if you met Red Hood. Maybe ask for an autograph if the opportunity arises. You can't fathom asking him for anything now. He's intimidating. Maybe you are a little afraid, but it's intertwined with other feelings.

Hood pauses. "Everything okay?" he asks carefully. "Your heart rate spiked."

"Oh," you say breathlessly. "Yes, I'm okay."

You can't see his face but you feel like he doesn't believe you. "Sure?"

You wonder if he can see all of your vitals. Can he see how warm you feel? "Yes, I'm sure. It's just... I'm sort of a fan of you. So it's... it's an experience."

Hood laughs. "Fan? Don't think I have any fans."

You shake your head. "That's not true. I know a few people who like you."

He hums and approaches you slowly. You let him until he's close enough for you to take in his physicality completely. He's a couple inches taller than Jason. Not that it matters. Just an observation.

"'M flattered," he says softly. "But if you're jus' sayin' that 'cause you're a little scared, please don't."

"No, I'm not scared. I trust you, Red Hood."

He folds his arms, stretching his neck to his right shoulder. You catch a sliver of tanned, scarred skin. "So soon?"

"Uh-huh."

"Kinda crazy of ya."

You shrug. "Maybe."

"Hmm. We goin' home?"

"You want to take me home?" you ask, eyes wide.

"Not-not like that. I mean, I can't let ya go home alone."

"No, I know, I just... I didn't think Red Hood made home visits."

"Sometimes." He makes an aborted gesture to touch your cheek with his finger and you swallow hard. Your ears are very hot. You might choke on your spit.

"I didn't know Red Hood would care that much if I went home."

"'Course I do," he says softly. "Your safety is my priority."

"My-?"

"Civilians, I mean," Hood says quickly. "'S why I'm out here patrolling."

"But surely there's people who need you more than me. I'm just some nobody going home from work, I—"

"You're not a nobody. Don't say that," Hood says with so much force, it renders you silent. "Got it?"

You nod. "Okay. Sorry."

"Nothing to be sorry 'bout. C'mon, I'll take you home, okay?"

You really don't want to bother Jason at this hour. Besides, as far as vigilante escorts go, Hood really isn't the worst choice. Another person might be afraid. A sane person would refuse.

"Yes, I'm okay with that," you say, smiling. "Thank you."

"Sure. My bike is parked down the block."

He walks a little behind you, close enough for you to turn and talk to him, but angled so that nothing can sneak up on you. It's the way Jason walks with you sometimes. You wonder if it's a Gotham thing.

Hood's bike is a cherry red. He lets you type in your address into his GPS. Then he gives you a helmet.

"Safety first," he says. It's the same helmet that Jason wears for his motorcycle. For a second, you swear you can smell his aftershave. Orange blossoms.

Hood gestures for you to get on. He holds the bike steady and it seems like he's going to hold your back to help you onto the bike. But he doesn't touch you, not like Jason does.

"Ever been on a bike before?" he asks when you're on.

"My boyfriend's."

He hums, throwing a leg over and straddling the bike. You blink at the sudden wall of bulk in front of you. "He treat you right, that boyfriend?"

You nod. "He's amazing. I love him."

Hood is silent for a moment, then he clears his throat. "Good. Lady like you deserves to be treated like a princess."

You laugh. "You barely know me. I'm no princess."

"I got a good sense about people. Hold onto me."

You wrap your arms around his waist. He tuts at you.

"Gotta hold me tighter than that. Don't want you flying off. You know better."

You tighten your hold, flustered and speechless. Hood pats your hand.

"There we go. Good listener," he says. "Everything okay back there? You're quiet."

For a second, it sounds like he's teasing you, and your stomach jumps like when Jason teases you. But the Red Hood isn't playful like that, right?

"I'm okay," you say.

"Nervous?"

You shake your head. "No."

"No? Glad you've got so much faith in me."

"I do."

Hood turns on his bike, revving the engine. You squeeze him tighter as he flicks the kickstand up with his foot, pushing off and balancing. He does so effortlessly. Wow.

Hood gets you home quickly. He follows all the traffic laws and doesn't speed. He drives efficiently, like Jason, but he takes it slow on the leans... like Jason. Maybe he can feel how you get nervous on motorcycles.

"This is it?" he asks, slowing down next to your building.

"Yes. Thank you." You wait as Hood stops and gets off first, then helps you off. You take his gloved hand, and he helps you off like it's nothing, bearing most of your weight.

"No more secretly working nights," he tells you. "I'll know."

You don't question it. "Okay. I won't."

"Good. Have a good night."

He starts to mount his bike. You step off the curb, in front of him. Hood stops.

"What's up?" he asks, nodding at you. He addresses you so casually... so familiar.

"Um, I was... do you mind if I ask for your autograph?"

Hood looks at you for a long moment. You lose your nerve and turn around.

"Never mind! Sorry. Good night."

"Hang on."

You turn around. Hood beckons you over with two fingers. You go, eyes widening as he takes off his gloves. He gives them to you. You catch a glimpse of more scars and maybe a silver ring. Jason sometimes wears a silver chain around his neck. It dangles over you when he’s—

"Oh no! Oh my God, you don't have to—"

"Got a bunch." It sounds like he's smiling. "Always nice to meet a fan. Any trouble with that boyfriend, let me know."

You're not sure if you respond, you're so dazed. Hood pulls away from the curb like a bat out of hell, waving at you as he goes.

You're already in bed by the time Jason comes home from work. He comes home earlier than usual, and you're still awake when he crawls into your bed next to you. You've taken down the Red Hood poster, too embarrassed from last week. Jason insists he's going to get you an even bigger poster. You beg him not to.

"How'd you know I was at my place?" you ask, yawning.

"My apartment alarm didn't report anybody entering."

"Still think it's weird that you track who enters your apartment," you say.

"Safety first. You usually don't go to your place unless you're coming home from work. You wouldn't happen to have worked a shift tonight without telling me, would you?"

"Okay, yes, but please don't be mad. I didn't take the bus." You pause before finishing. "Red Hood actually gave me a ride home tonight."

You reach sleepily for Jason's arm. He tucks himself into place behind you, wrapping an arm and a leg around you. He smells like your shampoo.

"Yeah, don't think we aren't done with the conversation about you taking the bus home at night, by the way. Red Hood, huh? Should I be doubly worried then?"

You roll your eyes. "Not on my part. But I was definitely getting a vibe."

"A vibe? Red Hood's got the hots for my girl?"

Jason slips a hand under your shirt to rest on your stomach. He always runs a little cool and it feels good on warm nights like tonight. He doesn't mean anything by it, but desire creeps onto you, slow and thick. You think of the gloves in your dresser.

"It kinda felt like that," you say, a little embarrassed to even admit it. "He, uh, gave me his gloves."

"His gloves?" Jason sounds sleepy. "That's basically a proposal."

"Two centuries ago, maybe. Please don't be jealous. Nothing happened, Jay."

You'd never cheat on Jason, obviously, but you've had a crush on the Red Hood since he came to Gotham. Riding on his motorcycle tonight was exhilarating, to say the least. Still, you don't want this to be a thing. Another guy would probably get upset.

But Jason's tone doesn't change. He's still sleepy and peaceful. "'M not. Might have to kick his ass, though."

You laugh at the thought. Jason kneads the soft fat of your stomach. "Something funny?" he asks. "Y'think I can't take him?"

"I know you could," you say, and you mean it, even though you're not sure how well your boyfriend can dodge bullets. "But, I mean, you're too nice for him, Jay. Hood fights dirty when he needs to. You fight fair."

"Wow. So you don't think I could beat Red Hood in a fight. Way to bruise a man's ego, baby." Jason buries his face in the back of your neck in retaliation. You squeal at the tickles.

"I didn't say that!" you say, giggling. "It's a compliment. You're too nice to scrap with him. Ah! Jason, mercy, mercy!"

"So you're saying he's mean?" Jason asks, showing mercy and easing off. He returns to just holding you, leg over yours.

"Not... not to civilians. Not to me. He's just a little rough overall, I think. But he seemed nice."

"Oh my God, you loved it," Jason says, no longer sounding so sleepy. "You loved being on his bike. You loved him being a little rough. This was a dream come true."

"No! No, Jason, it wasn't like that."

"You got the hots for Hood," he sing-songs. "Hood hots, Hood hots!"

"I don't, I don't," you say, shoving your face into your pillow. "Stop. You know you're the only one for me."

Jason hums, pushing himself up so he's on top of you without putting his weight on you. He pets your hip. "Yeah, baby, I know. Don't worry. Not mad. I think it's cute. You got a little flustered around him. No biggie. I trust ya."

You sigh, turning your face to the side. "He was professional."

Jason snorts. "Yeah, he better have been. Pretty lady like you holding onto him."

"I'm sure he helps way prettier ladies in a night," you mumble.

Jason easily rolls you over, so you're facing each other. He tucks you into his chest, an arm and a leg returning to their places around you.

"I seriously doubt it," he says. You can feel his voice vibrate through his chest. "Everyone knows you're the prettiest princess in Gotham, baby."

You hesitate, thinking about Hood. "Princess?"

"Yeah. That okay?"

"Oh. Yeah, that's fine."

Jason makes a noise like he knows something you don't.

Every so often, you really hate living in Gotham. It's usually around a time like this: Scarecrow has broken out of Arkham, and he's causing serious damage. Everyone has been warned to stay inside, and the sky is hazy with fear gas.

You're mostly worried about Jason. He went out a few hours ago and he hasn't texted you since. You asked where he was and called him a dozen times but he didn't respond. You're freaking out.

You're about to go out and look for him, Scarecrow be damned, when suddenly Red Hood is on the balcony of your boyfriend's apartment. How did he avoid tripping the alarm? You go to open the window but he opens it himself.

Shit. Is Hood breaking into Jason's apartment? Who the hell do you call in this situation?

"Hey," he says, voice tight. "Get your bag. We gotta go. Scarecrow and Ivy teamed up and it's bad."

"What? Okay. Oh my God." You jump into action, running into Jason's room to get your stuff. You come back, about to climb out the window, but you stop. He waves you over urgently. You shake your head and take a step back.

"No, I can't go without Jason," you say. "He was supposed to be back by now. What if he's gassed? He hasn't called me."

Hood fidgets, his whole body restless. He looks around, then looks back at you. "I'm sure he's fine. You can call him again when you're—"

"No," you say, staring those glowing white eyes down. "I don't care what authority you might hold, Hood. I'm not leaving Jason. He might come back here and he'll worry if I'm not here. I was going to go look for him."

"Don't do that," he says firmly. "Jesus." He looks at you, rolls his shoulders, then sighs. He shakes his head and grabs his helmet.

"Fuck," he says. "Fuck, I didn't wanna do it this way. Shit. Okay."

The latches of his helmet click. And suddenly you have your boyfriend in front of you, dressed like the Red Hood. He drops his helmet on the floor. 

Your mouth falls open. "Wh—Jason? What? Are you–you were him the whole time? Are you fucking ser—"

"I know, I'm sorry." He takes your hands. "I'm sorry, honey. I wasn't gonna tell you this way but you're so stubborn, worrying about me and shit. I promise you can yell at me as much as you want after. You can throw stuff, hit me, break up with me, anything you want, just—"

You squeeze his hands. Jason stops his senseless ramble.

"I would never do any of those things," you say. "You don't know me at all if you think I would, Jay. I'm just, y'know, caught off-guard. Apparently, I've had a crush on my boyfriend since he before he became my boyfriend."

He cracks a smile. You roll your eyes.

"And you've been a smug asshole about it this whole time!"

"Kinda," he admits, looking away, and you see how pleased he's been about the whole thing. "I'll make it up to ya."

"Yeah, you better. Where are we going?"

Jason's shoulders slump with relief. You see it in his eyes too. 

"You'll go with me?"

"Always," you say.

He takes his helmet, shifting from your boyfriend back to Red Hood. Wow. "Okay. Down the fire escape. We're taking my bike."

Jason puts his helmet back on. You follow him down the fire escape and to where his—Hood's—bike is parked.

"Your bike, huh?" you ask.

"My other bike."

"Uh-huh."

Hood gives you a rebreather and you take off, headed toward the Diamond District. He goes down a ramp and through some pretty fancy gates. Where...?

Concrete walls slide open and Jason pulls into what looks like a lair. Holy shit. He helps you off and you take off your helmet, staring up at a cave ceiling that seems to go on forever.

"Hood," someone growls, startling your gaze back down. Batman is glaring at you. "Why is there a civilian here?"

Jason takes off his helmet. "Yeah, so, this is my girlfriend. She's staying here, and if you try to kick her out, I'm gonna blow up the Batmobile. Cool? Cool."

"Since when do you have a girlf—" begins Red Robin.

"No questions," Jason snaps. "Not one word. Be nice to her or I'll kill you all."

You gasp. Jason turns to you, pulling you closer.

"No, sorry, I wouldn't do that. No deaths. They would recover from my maiming," he says to you, petting your shoulder.

"Not better," you hiss.

He shrugs, smiling. "'M a man of habit. Gonna try to change me now?" He kisses your cheek and you melt like you always do under his affection. Jason leans in and whispers the last part: "You could. I'd let ya."

"Wow," says Spoiler. Is the entire Gotham vigilante taskforce here? "So it's true what they say about married life."

"We aren't married," you say, confused. Jason grunts in annoyance, cradling the small of your back.

"With how he's acting? You might as well be," she says.

"This is so awesome," Nightwing says, full of glee. "Oh, you'll never hear the end of this, Jason."

"Listen, Dickbag—"

"Focus," Batman says. "She can't be here. Take her upstairs and come right back."

Jason rolls his eyes. "Sure, fine. C'mon, baby."

Robin is glaring at you, which kind of makes you want to throw up. But then Black Bat and Spoiler wave at you, and that makes you feel better. You wave back.

"Batman's really mad," you say as Jason leads you upstairs.

"Yeah, that's his default setting. He's been mad for about twenty-five years. He'll get over it. You're gonna meet Alfred next. He's the best."

"Alfred?"

You get to the top of the stairs and step into what looks like a mansion. Wait a minute. You've seen this mansion before. In a magazine...

"Is this Wayne Manor? What the hell, Jason? Am I meeting the Queen of Denmark next?"

"Again, not how I wanted you to find out," he says.

"I'm–I'm not dressed to be in Wayne Manor!"

"Bruce dresses up as a bat every night. Rest assured that you are the most normal person in this house, and none of those freaks downstairs can ever take that away from you."

You frown. "Still..."

"Don't y'trust me?" Jason asks, tapping under your chin. He towers over you, and now you notice that his Red Hood boots are taller than his normal ones. Clever.

"Yeah, I trust you, but—" You stop as Jason herds you against the wall, helmet dangling from his hand. He looks very official with his guns and armored clothing. His black cargo pants are pulled taut around his thighs, outlining how thick they are. It's just now occurring to you how deadly competent your boyfriend is, now that you've learned that the Red Hood was never that far away. Maybe you should be scared but, well, the wires were crossed a while ago.

"I didn't even suspect anything," you say, blinking at him. "You had me completely."

Jason shrugs, eyes half-lidded. You're not mad. He knows it. "Made sure you wouldn't find out. Wanted to find the right time, see how you felt about Hood. And then imagine my surprise when I learn that you've got his face on your wall, and his gloves in your dresser."

"You liked it," you say, lifting your chin, challenging.

Jason leans in, cupping the back of your neck, lips going to your ear. He wedges a knee between yours. "How could I not? You're so pretty, so nice t'me. Y'like me that much? Want me even like that? Tellin' Hood you love me, God—"

Something beeps, loud and shrill, and you jump. Jason just sighs exasperatedly, pulling out his phone and denying the alert.

"You have to go," you say, suddenly guilty you've kept Jason for so long.

"I—" Jason grimaces. "Yeah. I'll be back. We're not done."

You bite the inside of your lip. "I hope not."

Jason kisses you, hot and hard, and then he seems to steel himself, shifting into whatever Gotham needs him to be. He puts his helmet on and brushes your cheek, then disappears down the stairs to the Cave. You lean against the wall, catching your breath.

How are you, darling? I hope you’re not worrying about me too much; I promise, I’m staying as safe as I can, and someday soon this war will end and I’ll have you back in my arms once more.

I miss you more than words can say, sweetheart. You occupy my every waking thought, and all of my dreams at night. Some of the things I dream can’t be written (you know what I mean), but I hope to be back with you soon so I can make them a reality.

All my love, and a thousand kisses,

Your Harry

My most darling husband, I know you didn’t just try to tell your wife not to worry about you! I know how capable you are, but there will always be a part of me that worries.  I’m keeping as busy as I can. I’ve found a job as a typist at the factory here! It’s not quite the job I’ve always dreamed of, but anything I can do to help you boys! Violet from two doors down works there as well, and I’ve made friends with a few of the other girls there, so you don’t need to worry about me being lonely over here. Be safe, my love, and I’ll be counting down the days until I see you again. The swell of joy I feel when I get your letters will surely be nothing compared to being in your arms again. With my deepest love, Mrs. Y/N Crosby P.S. Say ‘Hi!’ to Bubbles for me! P.P.S. I admit I’m intrigued by these dreams you claim you can’t write about… I don’t even get a hint?

Sweetheart,

‘Mrs. Y/N Crosby’ I don’t think a prettier sequence of letters has ever existed…

A job! Darling, I’m so proud of you.

Though now I can’t help but wonder at every piece of paper arriving on base here— did you type those words? Perhaps it’s just me wishing you were closer, but I like to think every piece of paper coming in with the supplies came from your hand.

Speaking of paper, was that a hint of your perfume I detected on your last letter? It was a wonderful reminder of you, my love. 

There are flowers blooming in the fields here. I’m not sure what kind they are, but they’re beautiful so of course they made me think of you. I’ve enclosed a few that I’ve pressed, and I can only hope they make the journey to you in one piece. If not, well… I send my apologies and a promise that I’ll make up for it with all the fresh flowers you could want when I’m home.

Bubbles says ‘hi’ back, and wants me to tell you that he’s making sure I’m safe (though I’m sure you know it’s clearly the other way around— no, I’m only joking, honey. We keep each other safe.)

As for your question regarding certain dreams… I’m afraid I’ll have to keep you in suspense, my dear, at least for now.

Your unspeakably proud husband,

Harry

[enclosed: a variety of small pressed wildflowers]

Honey,

It’s been a while since I’ve heard from you. Are you getting my letters? I hope so.

How are things going at work? I hope they’re not working my girl too hard. 

You’ll never guess what happened with Bubbles, sweetheart. He was off on pass visiting his girl over in Norwich, and the poor guy caught a stomach bug! He won’t be flying anytime soon, so I’m taking his place for a bit. Frankly I’m not sure how flying with me will be any different from flying with Bubbles with a stomach bug…

I miss you with all my heart, honey. I love you I love you I love you I love you I love you

Goodbye for now, angel. I hope I hear from you soon.

Love,

H

My brave Bing, Poor Bubbles! Hopefully he’s recovered by now. Tell him hello for me! And I hope your missions went well, darling, and that you’re taking the time to rest when you can. Take care of yourself, my love. Work has been fine, for the most part. Violet and Carol had a bit of a falling out— over what I’m not sure, but it’s made the office fairly awkward. The prevailing theory among the girls is a spat over a boy, though Ruthie’s making a very convincing case for it being an argument over a lost lipstick. I’ll be sure to keep you updated on these riveting (ha) events, as I’m sure you’re as curious about it as we are. Your gifts did make it to me in one piece for the most part, and I’m keeping them safe next to my picture of you. They’re beautiful, darling. In return, I’ve enclosed some pressed roses from our garden. You know I don’t quite have your green thumb, but I’m doing my best (though I am looking forward to the day you’re back home and can take over the gardening duties— the flowers miss you almost as much as I do.) All my love, Mrs. Y/N Crosby

[enclosed: two pressed red roses]

My darling,

Would it surprise you to know the boys now have a bet going as to the reason for your colleagues’ falling out?

I told Bubbles about it, then word apparently spread, and now nearly the entire 100th seems to know the story! (For the record, most of the boys are leaning towards the cause being a boy, though Bubbles is still holding out for Ruthie’s lipstick theory)

Do let us know if the cause for the argument is ever discovered: I’ve got $10 riding on this, sweetheart!

I managed to get a moment to myself yesterday, and found myself walking in the field near where the ground crews were working on the forts. And do you know what happened, honey?

A butterfly landed on my hand.

It was a little orange and black thing, and it only stayed for a moment before flying off, but having that pretty thing choose me as a resting place on its journey to wherever it was off to… it made me miss you more than ever. I wish you could’ve been here to see it.

I love and miss you so much, sweetheart, I couldn’t possibly love you more, and yet every day, my love for you grows. I’m just existing until the day I can take you in my arms again and never let you go.

Millions of hugs, thousands of kisses, and all my love,

Your Harry

My most darling beloved Bing, Ha! I’m glad I could provide some entertainment from so far away, honey. Tell Bubbles to rejoice: Mary found a lipstick tube that had rolled into a corner behind her desk, and Vi and Carol have agreed to be friends again, imagine that! You didn’t tell me which side of the bet you were on, sweetheart, but knowing you I imagine you sided with Bubbles as always. Do spend your winnings on something sensible— perhaps more paper to write to your poor wife? Oh, my love. You’ll never believe what happened as I was reading your latest letter out in the garden (the weather’s been lovely lately!) A butterfly— black and orange, similar to the one you described seeing all the way over there — landed on the chair next to me. Your chair, darling. Did you send that pretty thing all the way over to me to say hello? I’ll imagine you did.  I love you more than words can say, darling, and so the millions of kisses I’ve enclosed will have to suffice. Stay safe, and I’ll see you when you come home to me. All my love, and then some more, Mrs. Y/N Crosby