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Summary: convinced that loving someone meant eventually losing them. Liam never tried to change her mind, he simply loved her patiently until she believed it herself.
AN: I know I said I’d do my way with oscar but I was stalking vcarb and couldn’t stop thinking about this cute vibe! (+ there are not enough LL30 fics)
3k words
you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love masterlist
F1 masterlist
!things highlighted in pink are the lyrics that inspired that section!
The quiet in Liam’s apartment had become one of y/n’s favourite sounds.
Not because it was silent, Monaco was never truly silent. Somewhere below, scooters buzzed through narrow streets, conversations drifted up from cafés preparing for the evening rush, and waves pushed lazily against the harbour. But inside, everything felt slower. The air around them felt soft and safe.
She lay stretched across the sofa, her head resting comfortably in Liam’s lap, eyes closed as his fingers disappeared into her hair.
His left hand held his phone, replying to the occasional email with his thumb. His right never stopped moving, gently scratching along her scalp before trailing down to the back of her neck.
She could’ve fallen asleep like this. In fact, she almost had.
Her body had long since melted into the cushions, her breathing evening out as his fingertips continued their absent minded rhythm. Every so often he’d glance down, smiling to himself when she unconsciously leaned further into his touch.
He’d noticed she always did that, like she was seeking reassurance without even realising it. He never stopped giving it.
“The sky looks beautiful.”
His voice was quiet enough that it barely disturbed the peace between them.
Her eyes blinked open.
She followed where he was looking through the wide balcony doors.
The afternoon sun had begun its slow descent, spilling warm oranges and soft pinks across the horizon. The ocean reflected every colour back into the sky until it looked like someone had painted the entire coastline by hand.
Her lips parted. “Oh…”
Liam looked down at her.
She always had this same softness in her eyes when she saw sunrise or sunset. It was by far her favourite time of day. She would sometimes feel even slightly emotional at the beauty of the colours gracing the sky at dusk and dawn.
This tiny smile she didn’t know she was wearing would always appear. It creeped on to her face as she asked;
“time can heal even the worst of wounds”
“Can we go somewhere to watch it?”
The question was almost timid. If anyone else had heard it, they probably wouldn’t have noticed anything.
There was still that tiny hesitation before she asked for things. That almost apologetic tone, like she expected someone to sigh or tell her it wasn’t worth the effort.
“Of course.” No hesitation.
“As if we could let a sunset like that go to waste.” He’d add on to reassure her.
The smile that spread across her face was wider now, even more genuine. He leaned down, pressing a kiss to her forehead before standing.
“Come on.”
She slipped her trainers on while he grabbed his keys, and moments later they stepped out into the warm Monaco evening.
Their hands found each other automatically.
The city had begun slowing for the evening as they wandered through familiar streets, Liam occasionally pointing out somewhere he’d discovered since moving there.
“I swear this bakery only opens when I’m busy.”
She laughed. “I think you’re just unlucky.”
“I prefer tragically deprived of pastries.”
She rolled her eyes, squeezing his hand.
“You are so dramatic.” She shook her head, smiling to herself.
God, he made everything feel lighter. It did terrify her. How easy she felt around him, and so quickly. There was a fear that it was fleeting, she was scared to savour it in case it hurt to remember when this crashed and burned.
“hop the fence in the park”
Eventually the pavement gave way to the beginning of a narrow trail climbing towards one of the quieter viewpoints overlooking the sea.
Liam stepped over the small fence without thinking.
Y/n followed a little less gracefully, balancing herself on the top rail.
His hands settled instinctively around her waist, steadying her before effortlessly lifting her the rest of the way down until both feet touched the ground.
His hands lingered for just a second before slipping away. Only because their fingers found each other again almost immediately.
When they finally reached the viewpoint, the entire coastline stretched endlessly beneath them.
The sea shimmered gold. The sky had deepened into impossible shades of peach, coral and lavender. Boats floated like tiny shadows against the glowing water.
“It’s truly beautiful.” Y/n stepped closer to the edge, completely captivated.
“Mhm.” His answer came absent mindedly.
“God I love the way you look at me.”
She frowned slightly before turning around. Liam wasn’t looking at the sunset. He was looking at her.
His expression was so soft it almost made her chest ache.
Infatuation and admiration had settled in his eyes.
He looked at her the way she looked at the horizon before her. She was a stunning as the sunset, a gift from nature, almost too beautiful to capture but he sure would try.
“What?” she laughed quietly.
“Nothing.”
“Liam.”
He smiled to himself. “You’re nice to look at.”
She huffed out a laugh, shaking her head.
He’d already pulled his phone from his pocket.
“Oh no.”
She recognised that look as he took a step backwards, just enough to fit her into frame with the sunset behind her.
The phone camera shutter echoed softly. Her hands flew straight to her face.
“Liam!”
“Don’t do that.” He gently scolds her for hiding her face.
Another photo.
“I have no makeup on!”
He lowered the phone for a second, genuinely confused. His eyebrows pulled together “Okay?”
“I look awful.”
“You look…”
He searched for the words as he lowered the phone completely.
“a face I swear that I could spend my whole life knowing”
“You have a face I could spend a lifetime getting to know.”
The world seemed to stop. Even the breeze felt quieter.
Heat rushed into her cheeks so quickly she could practically feel it. Her hands slowly slipped away from her face.
“I mean it,” he said softly. “Every little expression. Every freckle. The way your nose scrunches when you laugh. The way your brows crease when you’re focused.”
His smile only widened as blush spread all the way to the tips of her ears.
He lifted the phone again.
This time she didn’t hide. She smiled instead, shooting him a big cheesy grin which she would only reserve for him. To be honest, it seemed he had been the only one who was able to get that grin.
He took a few more before sliding his phone back into his pocket.
The distance between them disappeared in seconds, as he steps back towards her.
His fingers brushed a strand of hair behind her ear with impossible tenderness.
“You know,” he murmured.
“Hm?”
“I hope one day you believe the things I tell you.”
He cupped her cheek.
“But until then,”
He leaned in, pressing one gentle kiss to her flushed cheek. “I’ll just keep reminding you.”
Another kiss on the other cherry pink cheek, “every chance I get.”
Finally, his lips found hers, it was unhurried, just like everything else between them. Slow, steady and building.
She melted into him almost instantly, both hands sliding around the back of his neck, pulling him impossibly closer.
As though closing the tiny gap between them might somehow quiet the fear that still lingered in the corners of her heart.
He wrapped an arm around her waist, holding her carefully.
She smiled into the kiss. It terrified her how much she wanted him. She’d forgotten people could be this gentle.
He was as sweet as honey. And she was the bee who kept finding her way back, no matter how hard she tried to convince herself she didn’t need the warmth of the hive.
He made trusting someone didn’t feel like stepping off a cliff. It felt like watching the sun disappear beneath the sea beside someone who would stay until the stars came out.
Leaving him never got easier.
She hated airports. She hated them because every goodbye ended there.
Liam would kiss her forehead one last time, make her promise to call when she landed, and then he’d watch her disappear through departures.
She never knew exactly when she’d see him next.
His calendar changed every week. Flights booked at the last minute, simulator days added unexpectedly, sponsor appearances squeezed between races.
Her own life couldn’t have been more different.
Nine to five. Meetings she couldn’t miss. Deadlines that didn’t care whether the man she was falling in love with lived on the other side of Europe.
So she sat on the flight home with her forehead resting against the cool window.
The clouds drifted beneath her. She counted them instead of the days. Quietly hoping the next time she saw him wasn’t too far away.
“pick me up, walk me home”
Silverstone was two weeks away.
Liam didn’t have to fly in until much later.
He came anyway. Just to see her.
She pushed open the heavy glass doors of her office building after another long day, already fishing through her bag for her keys.
Then she saw him, standing across the pavement with his hands tucked into his jacket pockets.
He’d been waiting there for hours and hadn’t minded one bit.
She broke into a run. He barely had time to open his arms before she crashed into him. She wrapped herself around him so tightly his feet shifted backwards.
“You surprised me.”
“I know.”
“You couldn’t have warned me?”
“And ruin it?”
She pulled back just enough to look at him.
“I’ve missed you.”
The walk back to hers felt wonderfully ordinary.
Her fingers stayed laced through his while she immediately launched into everything that had happened since she’d seen him.
Nothing extraordinary happened on that walk.
They laughed. She complained. He listened.
He occasionally added a sarcastic comment that made her laugh harder. It was painfully domestic and she loved every second.
By the time they reached her home, the tiredness from Liam’s flight had finally caught up with him.
“Go sit down,” she told him.
“I can help, I can chop vegetables.”
“You absolutely cannot.”
“I feel discriminated against.”
“You’ll survive.”
He surrendered with exaggerated reluctance, collapsing onto the sofa. She could see him watching her from the kitchen while she cooked. Every now and then she’d glance over. He’d already be looking. The corner of his mouth lifting every single time.
It wasn’t candlelit. There weren’t flowers. There didn’t need to be. She couldn’t remember the last meal she’d enjoyed so much.
“in the dark I’m not scared”
Later that evening they wandered through the quiet streets near her flat. The moon hung impossibly bright overhead, washing everything in silver.
Normally she’d hate walking this late. Every sound made her shoulders tense, every stranger made her grip her keys a little tighter.
But tonight Liam’s hand rested comfortably around hers. He walked closer to the road without even thinking about it. Always positioning himself between her and whatever might make her nervous.
Quietly protecting her in all the little ways she hadn’t realised she’d needed.
“shooting stars”
Halfway down the street something streaked across the sky. Gone almost as quickly as it appeared.
“A shooting star.” She stopped walking. “Make a wish!”
Liam looked up for a second, then down at her. “Already got mine.”
“Oh yeah?” She raised an eyebrow.
“Mhm.”
She narrowed her eyes playfully.
“I think you’re lying.”
“I guess you’ll never know.”
She nudged his shoulder. “I’ll get it out of you eventually.”
“You probably will.”
It was well past midnight by the time they climbed into bed. The room was dark except for the pale moonlight spilling through the curtains.
She curled into him automatically. One arm tucked over him. One leg tangled with his.
She’d discovered somewhere along the way that she slept better when she could hear his heartbeat.
She’d never admitted that out loud. Sleep was beginning to pull at her.
Then, just as her eyes finally closed, she heard it. So quiet she almost thought she’d imagined it.
“I love you.”
Her heart stopped. For a split second she wondered if he’d meant to say it.
If he’d thought she was already asleep. She stayed perfectly still. Every part of her wanted to answer immediately.
I love you too.
The words sat against the back of her tongue. She’d loved him for weeks. Maybe longer.
She loved the way he made room for her fears instead of asking her to get over them. The way he never laughed at the walls she’d built. The way he’d patiently knocked on every one instead of trying to tear them down. She loved how he looked at her like she’d hung the moon herself.
But love had hurt her before.
The last person who’d said those words had made promises he never intended to keep. Some tiny part of her still believed saying them out loud gave someone the power to break her.
Instead she turned a little closer, hiding her face against his chest.
Her fingers found his hand beneath the duvet, intertwining with his.
She squeezed it gently. A silent answer. Not the one he deserved. But the only one she could give tonight.
“racing cars”
Soon enough it was race day at Silverstone. The garage buzzed with controlled chaos. It was her first time attending a race on her own.
Mechanics darted between tool cabinets and monitors. Engineers hovered over timing screens, conversations blending into one constant hum that somehow never sounded messy.
Y/n stayed exactly where she’d been told to.
At the back. Out of the way. In all honesty that’s where she felt most comfortable.
She’d watched every lap with her heart lodged somewhere in her throat.
Every overtake. Every yellow flag.
Shed watched him race with their friends before but she’d never realised how terrifying it was watching someone you loved do something so dangerous.
When the chequered flag finally waved, she didn’t even realise she’d been holding her breath.
“P6!”
One of the mechanics clapped loudly as Liam crossed the line. Another cheer rippled through the garage.
She joined in instinctively, applauding with everyone else, unable to stop the smile spreading across her face.
She stayed rooted to her spot while the team dispersed to complete post-race procedures.
Liam walked in beside Arvid, the mechanics immediately surrounded them.
An engineer pulled Liam into a quick one-armed hug before launching straight into discussing strategy.
He smiled through all of it. Then his eyes lifted, straight to the back of the garage, landing on her.
Everything else disappeared. He excused himself mid-conversation without a second thought.
“Oi!” someone called after him.
“I’ll be back.” He shouted back as he barely slowed.
By the time he reached her, she was already smiling. He wrapped both arms around her without hesitation, pulling her firmly against his chest, lifting her up.
The embrace was tight. He buried his face into her hair before pressing a lingering kiss against her temple.
She laughed into his shoulder. “You’re sweaty.”
“I know.”
“You are literally soaked.”
He pulled back just enough to look at her, an amused grin tugging at his lips. “Didn’t think you’d mind.”
She laughed again, shaking her head.
“You are unbelievable.”
“I’ve been told. P6 baby!”
He stole another quick kiss against her forehead before someone inevitably shouted his name again.
A photographer was already waving him over.
He looked back at her.
“Give me an hour, I’ll come find you.”
With one last squeeze of her hand, he disappeared back into the organised madness of Formula One.
His driver’s room was surprisingly quiet.
She tucked her knees up on the small sofa, flicking the television on while she waited.
Every channel seemed to be showing the post-race coverage.
She smiled every time Liam appeared on screen. He looked so composed. Like racing at over two hundred miles an hour was the easiest thing in the world.
The interviewer smiled.
“Double points for the team today. That must feel incredible.”
Liam nodded. “Yeah, it’s really good. I love this track.” He looked genuinely proud. “Getting points here means a lot, pretty cool that my girlfriend was here to see us get double points.”
The interviewer grinned, knowing they got a catchy headline. “Well congratulations!”
“Thanks.”
The interview moved on.
She didn’t hear another word. Girlfriend.
He’d just told the entire world. There was no hesitation. The final little doubt she’d been carrying dissolved before she even realised she’d been holding onto it.
The drive back to her house was peaceful.
The roads were almost empty as the evening settled in around them.
Liam drove with one hand on the steering wheel. The other resting comfortably over her thigh, every now and then he’d absent-mindedly rub his thumb across her leg.
“everything i own just feels like ours”
By the time they reached her house, exhaustion had finally caught up with him. He unlocked the front door with the spare key she’d insisted he keep on his keychain.
She smiled as he wandered inside like he’d always belonged there. He kicked off his trainers. Opened the fridge without asking.
Moved through her home with the easy familiarity she’d secretly hoped he’d one day have. It made something warm bloom inside her chest.
A few minutes later he collapsed dramatically across her sofa.
One arm hanging over the edge. Eyes already closed.
“I think I might actually fall asleep.”
“You probably should.”
“I’ve earned it.”
She smiled.
“but even when im quiet”
Silence settled between them. She stood in the doorway watching him. Working up courage she’d been borrowing all day.
“Liam?”
“Mm?” He replied barley awake
“I heard what you said the other night.”
One eye opened slowly, looking at her trying to gauge her expression. He opened both eyes now as he slowly sat up, clearing his throat.
“Yeah.” A nervous smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. He certainly was awake now “I assumed you did.”
She stepped closer.
“It got very quiet.” He laughed softly. “It was like even your heart stopped the room was that quiet.”
“It might have.”
“I’m sorry if I,”
“No.” She interrupted immediately. “No, don’t apologise.”
She moved until she was standing between his knees. His hands naturally settled against her waist.
“And I’m your girlfriend now?”
His grin returned.
“Well,” He looked up at her. “I’d like you to be.”
She smiled so hard her cheeks hurt. Her fingers slipped gently through his hair, brushing it back from his forehead.
“I would love that.”
Relief washed over his face so completely she almost laughed.
“There is one more thing.”
His expression softened. “What is it?”
She took a shaky breath. The words that once scared her, seemed so easy with him.
“I love you.”
He blinked.
“You do?”
There was genuine disbelief in his voice, hearing it felt almost too good to believe.
Summary: Two stubborn hearts. They’ve mastered the distance, but the pending feeling of missing each other makes the love harder to leave behind.
2.5k words
you seem pretty sad for a girl so in love masterlist
F1 masterlist
They’d spent years hearing about each other before they’d ever met.
It had started as passing comments between mutual friends, the kind of conversations neither of them paid much attention to at first.
“You’d actually like him.”
“She’s just as stubborn as you.”
“Honestly, it’s a bit terrifying how similar you are.”
Neither of them entertained the idea.
Relationships weren’t something either of them chased. Max’s world revolved around lap times, simulator sessions, race weekends and squeezing every last hundredth of a second out of himself. Every day was planned with almost military precision, his routine becoming something he relied on rather than questioned.
Y/n buried herself just as deeply in her own career. She thrived under pressure, willingly taking on impossible deadlines and collecting overtime instead of hobbies. Her colleagues often joked she practically lived at the office, but they weren’t entirely wrong.
Their circles were intentionally small.
Routine wasn’t a cage to either of them. It was comfort.
Meeting someone new, especially because their friends had decided they’d be perfect together, felt entirely unnecessary.
Still, after months of hearing the same arguments, the same teasing, the same relentless encouragement, they eventually gave in.
Mostly because saying no had become more exhausting than simply agreeing to one dinner. Just one date.
A tiny restaurant tucked away in a sleepy town where Max could exist without cameras flashing every few minutes. Somewhere quiet enough that he could simply be another man meeting someone for dinner instead of a four-time World Champion.
When they arrived, they wore almost identical expressions. Polite smiles and carefully built walls.
Y/n had already prepared an excuse to leave after dessert before she’d even pulled into the car park.
If there wasn’t a spark, she’d thank him for the evening, wish him well and throw herself back into work on Monday morning.
Simple.
At least, that had been the plan.
Instead, they stayed until the staff began quietly stacking chairs around them. Conversation never stalled.
There wasn’t any awkward small talk or forced politeness. They slipped from one topic to another with surprising ease, talking about childhoods, careers, ambitions and the strange comfort of routines.
Max liked that she challenged him.
Most people either agreed with everything he said or treated him like a celebrity first and a person second. Y/N did neither.
She questioned his opinions. Interrupted him when she disagreed. Raised an eyebrow whenever she thought he was exaggerating.
It was refreshing.
She looked at him as though he were simply Max.
Y/n found herself equally surprised.
She’d expected someone serious, maybe even intimidating. Instead she discovered someone unexpectedly funny.
His smile was ridiculously infectious, appearing without warning whenever he caught her off guard. Every attempt he made to make her laugh felt so natural that she found herself doing exactly that, something she hadn’t expected walking through the restaurant doors.
She realised, somewhere between the main course and dessert, that she hadn’t checked the time once.
They seemed to understand one another from the moment they’d sat down.
She understood why he obsessed over details most people overlooked, why shaving a fraction of a second from a lap felt worth hours of work.
He understood why she’d stay in the office until midnight simply because something still wasn’t finished to her standards.
Neither of them had to apologise for being ambitious. Neither of them had to explain why work so often came first.
It wasn’t a competition. It was recognition.
Looking at each other felt strangely like looking into a mirror. Most people would’ve found their shared outlook exhausting.
For them, it felt like finally exhaling.
Neither of them felt the need to soften the sharper edges of their personalities. Neither of them had to pretend to care less than they did.
Months later, between airport terminals, race weekends and stolen evenings together, y/n realised something she absolutely hated admitting.
She was becoming soft. Hopelessly, embarrassassingly soft.
Her brain, once so painfully organised, seemed to dissolve into complete mush the second Max wasn’t beside her.
She blamed him for it constantly.
“I hate you,” she’d mutter over FaceTime one evening, typing one-handed through a mountain of emails.
Max barely looked up from the setup notes spread across the hotel desk.
“No, you don’t.”
“My brain doesn’t work anymore.”
“It does.”
“No, it actually doesn’t.” She sighed dramatically before rubbing a tired hand across her face. “I’ve got maggots for brains.”
A laugh escaped him before he could stop it.
The sound made something flutter annoyingly inside her chest. She hated that he’d managed to make her soft. She hated even more that she loved it.
The nights before he flew away were always the worst.
A silence settled over the apartment the moment the suitcase zipped shut. Max would kiss her forehead before leaving for the airport while the city outside was still asleep.
The apartment would stay frozen exactly as he’d left it. Traces of him scattered across her apartment, she’d leave them there, the abandoned shoes at the front door, the hoodie on the couch. It was her way of pretending he was still there.
For the first couple of days, she could still smell his aftershave lingering in the bedroom.
She’d catch it as she’d brush past his clothes in her wardrobe when dressing for work in the morning or leaning against his pillow after a long day of meetings.
It almost fooled her into thinking he’d just stepped out. But, inevitably it disappeared.
She refused to sit in the emptiness. She’d stay late at work. Volunteer for overtime. Take projects nobody else wanted.
Anything to avoid walking into an apartment that didn’t have Max sprawled across the sofa asking how her day had been.
She’d always insisted she didn’t need anyone. That part was still true. She was perfectly capable on her own.
But there was a difference between surviving and missing someone so fiercely that every ordinary moment reminded you they weren’t there to witness it.
That feeling was entirely new.
She’d never had a real relationship before him. A few flings, but never anything serious. Nothing worth rearranging her life for.
She used to think people who missed their partners this much were dramatic. Now she understood. She’d become one of them. She hated how much she loved it.
Max wasn’t handling it much better. He’d never admit that publicly. To anyone else, he was exactly the same.
But the people inside the garage noticed, the people in his team closest to him, the few he let inside his inner circle.
When y/n was there, the sharpness in him settled.
The frustration that normally simmered just beneath the surface disappeared before it could boil over. He was even more controlled, they put it down to the calmness that y/n could install in him. The ease that simply her presence would bring.
Even the engineers joked she’d become some kind of lucky charm. Every single race she attended seemed to end with another trophy.
Max thought they had it backwards. She wasn’t luck. She was peace.
Everything else around demanded something from him.
Y/n never did.
She simply reminded him who he was underneath the helmet.
His latest win should’ve tasted sweeter. Instead, the memory stayed forgotten at the hotel door.
In a few hours, she’d be gone again. Back home. Back to an apartment that felt far too big without him.
The hotel room had fallen into a peace they attempted to ignore would be broken in a few hours.
Outside, distant traffic hollared below the balcony, but inside everything felt suspended in time.
Max lay stretched across the bed, still wearing the team T-shirt he’d changed into after the podium celebrations. The winner’s hat sat forgotten on the dresser, catching the golden glow of the bedside lamp.
Y/n thought it was almost funny.
Hours earlier he’d been sprayed with champagne, surrounded by cameras, congratulated by hundreds of people.
Now he was grounding from his high, sat across from her, playing cards, enticing both of their competitive streaks.
“You’re cheating,” she accused, narrowing her eyes from where she sat cross-legged opposite him.
“I’m not.”
“You definitely are.”
“I just happen to be better.”
She laughed, reaching across the duvet to steal one of his cards. “You literally had that hidden under your leg.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
She held the card up triumphantly. “Oh really?”
Max looked between her and the evidence in her hand before letting out a defeated sigh.
“It was strategic.”
“It’s called cheating.”
“It worked.”
“It didn’t.”
“It nearly did.”
She shook her head, unable to stop smiling.
“You are unbelievable.”
“So I’ve been told.”
He watched her gather the cards into a messy pile, her concentration making the slightest crease appear between her eyebrows.
He loved that expression.
Loved the way she tucked loose strands of hair behind her ear.
Loved how she always sat with one leg folded beneath her no matter where she was.
Loved that she absent-mindedly hummed when she was cooking.
None of those things were remarkable. To him, they were everything.
“You staring at me?” she asked without looking up.
“No.”
“Liar.”
“I was thinking.”
He smiled.
“You’ve got a line here.” His thumb brushed gently between her eyebrows.
“It only appears when you’re concentrating.”
She blinked, a look of faux horror taking over. “I have a concentration wrinkle?”
“You do.”
She groaned dramatically, letting herself flop backwards onto the mattress. He found himself lying beside her, both staring at the ceiling.
“I’m twenty-something and I already have wrinkles.”
“I think it’s cute.”
She turned her head to the side, looking at him suspiciously. “I think you’re lying.”
“I’m not.”
“You have to say that.”
“I really don’t.”
He reached over, brushing a strand of hair away from her face before pressing an absent minded kiss to her forehead.
“I love every part of your face.”
She felt her stomach perform that annoyingly familiar little flip. Months together and he still did that to her.
She hated it. Almost as much as she loved it.
“You know,” she mumbled into his shoulder as she shuffled closer, “I was doing perfectly fine before you.”
“Were you?”
“Mhm.”
He gave her a look, one which screamed how much he didn’t believe her.
“I was.”
“You worked until ten every night.”
“I still do.”
“You ate cereal for dinner.”
“…Occasionally.”
“You forgot your own birthday.”
She frowned. “That happened one time.”
“You also forgot to buy yourself a birthday cake.”
“I didn’t want one.”
“Your friend had to show up at your door with one. That was the only thing which reminded you what day it was.”
“That cake was too big.”
“You ate half of it.”
“I was being polite.”
He laughed, the sound vibrating through his chest where her head rested.
She smiled despite her heart pounding.
This was the part she’d never expected.
Not the grand gestures. Not expensive gifts. Not dramatic declarations of love. Being able to lie against him in complete silence without feeling the need to fill it.
Knowing exactly how he’d take his coffee in the morning. Automatically reaching for his hand whenever she felt anxious or unsafe in busy streets.
Falling asleep before the film they’d promised they’d watch because talking to each other had somehow become more interesting than anything on the television.
She wasn’t sure when he’d stopped feeling like someone she dated and when he’d quietly become home.
Max rested his chin against the top of her head, breathing in the familiar scent of her shampoo.
He knew every version of her now.
The composed woman who walked into boardrooms without an ounce of hesitation. The stubborn woman who refused help carrying shopping bags that were obviously too heavy. The sleepy woman who stole all the blankets before denying it the following morning. The woman who absent-mindedly reached for him in her sleep as though checking he was still there.
He loved every single one.
The silence settled again.
Neither of them noticed the clock on the bedside table. Neither wanted to.
Eventually, y/n tilted her head just enough to look at him.
“What?” Max asked, a look of curiosity gracing his sleepy features.
“You’re staring.”
“I know.”
“Why?”
He shrugged lightly. “Am I not allowed? Just memorising you.”
“Max…” Her smile faltered just enough for him to notice.
“The way your hair looks.” He twirled a loose strand around his finger.
“The sound you make when you’re tired. When you’re about to fall asleep.”
“I snore? I definitely don’t.”
“You do this little sigh.”
She rolled her eyes. “I do not.”
“You do.”
“And you’re making fun of me.”
“I’m admiring you.” His voice had become quieter “So it’s easier.”
Her chest tightened. “Easier?”
“The hotel always smells like your shampoo after you leave.” He smiled softly. “It lasts a day or two.”
She swallowed hard. “I know.”
“I don’t open the windows.”
She laughed through the lump in her throat.
“That’s ridiculous.”
He smiles down at her.
“I do the same thing.” She admits, avoiding eye contact.
“You do?”
She nodded.
“I leave your hoodie on the sofa.”
“Why?”
“So the apartment still looks like you’ve just gone out.”
Neither of them had realised the other did exactly the same thing.
Two fiercely independent people. Both quietly pretending the other had never really left. Max reached for her hand, intertwining their fingers.
“You know…”
“Hm?”
“I hate airports.” She smiled sadly.
“No, you hate saying goodbye.”
“I do.”
“We’re getting quite good at it.”
“I don’t want to be good at it.” She squeezed his hand.
He leaned forward, resting his forehead against hers. “I love you.”
It wasn’t dramatic. It was spoken the same way he’d ask if she’d eaten lunch. The same way he’d tell her to text him when she landed.
She closed her eyes. “I know.”
A beat passed before she smiled.
“And I love you.”
Outside, the city carried on exactly as it always had. Inside, time felt unbearably cruel, each passing minute stealing another moment from them.
Neither of them said it aloud. But both were already mourning what was coming.
Hours slipped away exactly the way they always did when it was only the two of them. Too fast for either to bear, and soon enough the drive to the airport happened before either of them felt ready.
They sat in the parked car long after check-in had opened. Neither wanting to acknowledge the clock.
He reached across the centre console, resting hand against cheek.
“I’ll see you soon.”
“I know.”
“You’ll blink and it’ll be over.”
“I know.” She couldn’t utter anymore words than that. Her distrust in her voice was too great.
He planted a gentle kiss against her lips, slow and savouring. He was attempting to stretch a few seconds into forever. When they pulled away he could see the familiar glossiness in her eyes. She never left the tears fall, but he felt that similar pain that her eyes showed
When she finally climbed out of the car, Max watched until she disappeared through the terminal doors.
Only then did he drive away.
Already counting down the days until she’d make his brain stop feeling so wonderfully, hopelessly useless again. That’s just the thing that happens, when his baby goes away.
really wanted to write to this album so thought why not do the whole thing! if you want to request a driver for a song I’m open for suggestions! (they will not be released in order!) + I might do multiple drivers for a song, so if it’s already written I can do another concept for the song with a different driver!
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Summary: The timeline of reader and Lando Norris circling each other for years. Battling his flirtatious lifestyle, her guarded nature, and a connection neither of them can quite walk away from.
Warnings: a little angst as always, poor communication, men being men, quite long I just kept writing and writing!
Written to Something, Somehow, Someday - Role Model
F1 masterlist
2019
The bar is loud, the kind of loud that makes everything feel slightly unreal, music thumping, glasses clinking, laughter spilling over itself.
It’s a celebration. His first full year in F1. And somehow, despite the crowd, he notices her.
Not because she’s trying to be noticed, actually the opposite. She’s leaned against the bar, completely unbothered, sipping her drink like she’s observing the room rather than being part of it.
Lando tilts his head slightly, watching her for a second too long, before walking over.
“Having fun?” he asks, sliding into the space beside her like it was always meant to be his.
She doesn’t even look at him at first. “Oh, absolutely. Nothing says ‘great night’ like being elbowed by strangers every five seconds.”
That gets a laugh out of him, genuine, not the polite kind he’s been giving all night.
“Right. I’ll make sure to apologise on behalf of everyone here.”
Now she looks at him, raising an eyebrow. “Bold of you to assume you have that authority.”
He grins. “I feel like I do.”
“Of course you do.”
There’s a tension between them she can’t pin. Most people sense her cold tone and give up but not Lando. He persisted and slowly began to knock down the guard that was so firmly in place. They began speaking liked they’d known each other forever.
She’s quick, every teasing comment he throws, she fires one back sharper. She doesn’t fawn over him, doesn’t treat him like he’s anything special, and thats exactly what pulls him in.
“You always this difficult?” he asks at one point, leaning a little closer.
She smirks into her glass. “Only with men who think they’re charming.”
“Ouch.”
“You’ll recover.”
He laughs again, shaking his head. “I don’t know, that one might stick.” He doesn’t move away. If anything, he leans in more.
She lets her guard slip lower and lower. Her tone softens, her smile lingers a little longer. He made it easy, like he didn’t have to try.
“Lando?”
A hand wraps around his arm. The shift is immediate. Subtle, but there.
He glances over, and his expression changes, not necessarily worse, just different.
“Hey,” he says, almost automatically.
The girl beside him smiles brightly, already tucked into his side like she belongs there. Yn starts to think maybe she does.
He turns back.
“Oh, this is,” he gestures between them, slightly awkward for the first time all night, “this is my girlfriend.”
There’s a pause. Yn smiles.
It’s polite, controlled, and completely unreadable.
“Of course she is.” The words land light, almost playful, but there’s an edge underneath them.
She sets her glass down. “Well, it was entertaining meeting you.”
“Wait, ” he starts, but she’s already stepping back.
“Enjoy your celebration,” she adds, giving him one last look, a mixture between amused and almost proud. As if her preconception was accurate. It was.
2020
Lando had reached out to yn over Instagram. He coincidently broke up with his girlfriend very soon after he had met yn.
They grew close at an unbelievable pace. She’s the type of friend he wished he’d always had around, she kept him grounded and never treated him differently. She completely understood him.
Lando made her laugh in ways no one else had, showed her a softer side that she didn’t know existed.
But now the world has gone quiet. In the thick of the pandemic.
No crowded bars. No noise to hide behind. Just hotel rooms, empty airports, and in all of that they end up talking more than ever.
“Your WiFi is awful,” she says as her screen freezes mid-expression.
“It’s not my WiFi,” Lando replies, shifting his phone. “It’s your face glitching.”
“My face doesn’t glitch.”
“It literally just did.”
She sighs. “You’re stupid.”
“And yet,” he grins, “you keep answering.”
“Lockdown boredom. Don’t read into it.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. He always does when she shuts him down like that, like he enjoys it more than if she didn’t.
Different countries, different time zones, but somehow, he’s the last person she talks to most nights.
“I wish you were here,” he says after a pause, voice softer now.
She stills slightly.
“…why?” she asks, not giving him the easy version of that moment.
He shrugs a little. “Just would be better.”
She studies him through the screen, then gives a small, half-smirk.
“Careful. That almost sounded like you were being nice.”
“I was.”
“Mm.”
She doesn’t fully accept it, but she doesn’t dismiss it either.
“Are you seriously still on that call?”
Yn’s eyes flick past him before he even reacts.
A girl steps into frame behind him, completely unbothered about being seen. Arms crossed, expression already annoyed.
“I’m literally waiting for you on your bed and you’re on FaceTime to another girl,” she says, loud enough to make it intentional.
Yn doesn’t flinch. She just looks back at him, slow and deliberate.
“…right.”
He can tell she’s processing it, and she’s not impressed.
“Don’t make it weird,” Lando says quickly. “It’s not,”
She lifts a hand slightly.
“Please don’t start explaining,” she cuts in, tone calm but edged. “I’d actually rather not hear the justification.”
The girl behind him scoffs quietly, shifting her weight, grabbing her bag from the edge of the bed. She calls him numerous names before slamming the hotel door behind her.
Lando runs a hand through his hair. “It was just a one-night thing, she knew that,”
Yn’s expression tightens, not emotionally, but full of distaste.
“Yeah,” she interrupts, dry. “That’s actually not helping your case.”
He frowns. “Why are you acting like I’ve done something,”
“Because it’s weird,” she says plainly.
“You’re sitting there telling me you wish I was there,” she continues, almost conversational, “while someone else is literally in your room. I don’t know what category you think that falls under, but it’s not a great one.”
“It’s not like that,”
She tilts her head slightly. “Then what is it like?”
He opens his mouth. Closes it again.
She gives a small, humourless exhale through her nose, not a laugh, just acknowledgement.
“Look, do whatever you want,” she says, shrugging lightly. “Genuinely. It’s your life.”
Her gaze flicks briefly past him, toward the door the girl had just stormed out of.
“But don’t sit there and say things you clearly don’t mean. It’s a bit,” she pauses, choosing the word carefully, “lazy.”
That stings him.
“And for the record,” she adds, tone still even, “it’s not just disrespectful to me. It’s disrespectful to her too. I’m not interested in being part of whatever this is,” she finishes, gesturing vaguely at the screen. No emotion. Just a boundary.
There’s a silence. He doesn’t have anything to argue with, because she’s not accusing him of anything dramatic. She’s just calling it exactly what it is. She gives a small nod, like she’s wrapped it up in her own head.
“Anyway,” she says, tone lightening just slightly, “I’ll let you get back to your evening.”
“Yn,”
But she’s already reaching forward.
“Night, Lando.”
The call ends. No slammed exit. No visible frustration. She’s always so calm when calling him out. She always reads the situation exactly for what it is, he hates that she’s always right.
2021
2021 is easier.
No missed timing. No girlfriends appearing out of nowhere. No awkward lines being crossed mid-conversation. She shows up to races more often than she ever planned to. Not loudly. Not in a way that invites attention, but people notice. Because somehow, she’s almost always there.
In the background. In the paddock. Laughing with him. And rumours start, of course, when other women show up as he stumbles out of bars or wandered round cities with mystery models.
**
Monaco in the summer feels unreal.
The heat lingers even as the sun dips, the streets buzzing with life. He insists on taking her out, shopping first, then dinner somewhere overlooking the water.
“You don’t need to do that,” she says as he picks something up for her, he noticed how her eyes shot straight to the dress as they walked into the store.
“I know,” Lando Norris shrugs. “I want to.”
She gives him a look. “Dangerous mindset.”
“You’re still getting it.”
She doesn’t argue too hard, but at dinner, when the bill comes, she takes it. He notices her paying for their meals as he returns from the bathroom.
He blinks. “You’re joking.”
She doesn’t even look up as she taps her card. “Nope.”
“I was going to pay.”
“I know.” She smirks slightly. “And now you don’t have to. You’re welcome.”
He leans back in his chair, exhaling a short laugh, but there’s an edge to it.
“You’re impossible.”
“And yet,” she glances at him, satisfied, “you keep inviting me places.”
He shakes his head, he’s smiling, but there is a frustration there. Frustration because she doesn’t quite let him take care of her. To him it feels like another obstacle she puts in the way of them.
By the time they get back to his place, the alcohol has settled in just enough to soften everything.
Not messy or out of control, but everything is gentler at the edges.
They end up on the sofa, some random film playing neither of them are really watching. She shifts closer at some point, barely noticeable. Her head ends up in his lap like it’s the most natural thing in the world.
He doesn’t question it. His fingers move through her hair absentmindedly, slow and careful. She hums quietly, eyes already half-closed.
“Don’t stop,” she murmurs.
“I wasn’t planning on it.”
A small smile tugs at her lips. Minutes pass. Maybe longer. Her breathing evens out, soft and steady as she drifts off completely.
He looks down at her for a moment, a content feeling settling in his chest. He carefully slides one arm under her, lifting her with ease.
She barely stirs, just a soft sound, her face turning slightly into him.
He carries her to his room, setting her down gently on the bed like she might break if he doesn’t. She sinks into the mattress, already gone again.
He sits beside her on the bed for a second, watching.
There’s something about this version of her, unguarded, asleep, not ready with a comeback or a defensive remark that feels rare.
On her side she’s claimed on his bed. In his space.
He exhales softly, then leans down, pressing a light kiss to her cheek. It’s quick. Careful. Almost nothing.
He starts to pull away, her hand catches his wrist. His breath stutters slightly as she tugs, stronger than he expects.
“Don’t,” she murmurs, voice thick with sleep as she pulls him closer to her face.
The kiss isn’t hesitant. It’s soft at first but intentional. Like she’s been thinking about it longer than she’d ever admit.
There’s a split second where he knows, this changes things. He doesn’t stop. He kisses her back. Because it’s easier to blame it on the alcohol later. Easier to pretend this just happened, rather than admitting this is all he thinks about every time she looks at him.
Her hands press against his chest, grounding herself as she shifts, pulling her self up. He moves her gently to straddle his lap.
His lips move against hers slowly, like he’s giving her time to pull away if she wants to, but she doesn’t. If anything, she leans in more, and that’s what changes it. It becomes more certain. Less of a question, more of a quiet decision.
There’s a natural rhythm to it, unhurried, but no longer hesitant. He tilts his head slightly, his hand settling more firmly at her side. She responds without thinking, her grip on him tightening just a little, like she’s anchoring herself too.
It’s warm, familiar in a way that doesn’t make sense, like all the tension and almost-moments they’ve had finally found somewhere to go. Like something that’s been waiting finally found its moment.
She pulls back first, her hand lifting to his face.
Her thumb brushes over his lip, studying him in a way that feels a little too aware for someone who was half asleep minutes ago.
“I just wish you’d get your shit together.” She says, whispered, exhaling softly. It’s not harsh, but painfully honest.
She shifts off him before he can respond, like the moment’s already over in her mind. Like she’s closed whatever door she just opened. She settles beside him, turning onto her side, pulling the covers slightly with her. Unaffected or at least pretending to be.
He stays where he is for a second, staring up at the ceiling. Heart still not quite steady. Because that didn’t feel like nothing.
Not to him.
They don’t talk about it. Not the next morning. Not the day after. Not ever.
It’s almost impressive, really. The way she carries on like nothing happened.
She wakes up in his bed, stretches like she’s done it a hundred times before, mutters something about needing coffee, and that’s it.
No awkwardness. No lingering looks. No mention of the fact that, only hours ago, she kissed him like it meant something.
Lando watches her carefully that morning.
Waiting. For a look, a comment. Anything
He doesn’t get it.
He tries, later.
Not directly, he’s not that brave about it. But he circles it.
“You don’t remember anything from last night?” he asks casually, like it’s a throwaway comment.
She doesn’t even look up from her phone.
“Bits,” she says. “Why? Did I embarrass myself?”
He lets out a short breath through his nose. “Depends what you’d consider embarrassing.”
“Mm,” she hums. “Then probably.”
And that’s it.
End of conversation. She’s shut a door before he even got close to opening it. He knows she remembers, her tone wasn’t confident like it usually is.
He tries again another time. A few days later. A lot more direct.
“You kissed me.” It just slips out.
She pauses mid-step, then turns to look at him, expression unreadable, but calm. Always calm.
“Did I?”
There’s the faintest hint of amusement in her voice. It throws him off more than if she’d denied it.
“Yeah,” he says, frowning slightly. “You did.”
She tilts her head, considering that for a second.
“Hm.”
That’s all she gives him. A non-answer. A deliberate one.
Then she shrugs lightly. “Well. Must’ve been the alcohol.”
And just like that, she dismissed it. But he can tell she’s lying, the way her gaze won’t meet his eyes. But he knows not to fight it, he knows he won’t win this. So that’s it, filed away as meaningless.
That’s what frustrates him. It’s the fact that she won’t let it mean anything at all. He can’t read her. Can’t push her. Every time he gets close, she’s already decided how far he’s allowed in and it’s never far enough.
He stops trying. Not because he understands. Not because he agrees. But because pushing her feels like trying to open a locked door that she’s perfectly happy keeping shut.
She carries on exactly the same. Still showing up. Still sitting next to him like nothing’s changed. Still laughing at him, teasing him, existing in that space that’s somehow more than friendship and less than anything real. Untouchable, even when she’s right there.
It bothers him more than if she’d just admitted it mattered.
2022
Nothing is the same after Monaco. They both feel it.
In the pauses that last a second too long. In the way he looks at her. In the way she doesn’t look at him.
But neither of them say it. They just carry on. Like if they don’t name it, it can’t touch them.
By the start of 2022, it’s still them. But it’s different. She doesn’t stay over anymore, that boundary had returned and she never over stepped it.
So here they stand now, 6 months of ignoring it, bickering about something that really doesn’t matter.
“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” Lando says, laughing as he leans back against the counter.
She scoffs. “I’m unbelievable? You’re the one who just said that like it made sense.”
“It did make sense.”
“It didn’t.”
“It did.”
She shakes her head, muttering something under her breath as she moves past him.
“God, you’re impossible sometimes,” he says, still light, still in that teasing tone.
She smirks slightly. “And yet, here I am. Still your favourite person.”
“Debatable.”
“Oh please.”
“Yeah, well, at least I didn’t kiss you and then pretend it never happened.”
The silence was immediate. Surrounding them, thick and suffocating.
Her expression stills completely, like something just locked into place behind her eyes.
“…don’t,” she says, barely a whisper, but it comes out like a warning.
He frowns slightly, thrown by how quickly the mood shifted.
“What? I’m just saying,”
“No,” she cuts in, sharper now. “You’re not just saying anything.”
There’s no heat in her voice. It’s controlled and almost cold.
“It was a joke,” he insists, though it doesn’t sound like one anymore.
She lets out a small breath through her nose, shaking her head slightly.
“You don’t joke about things you clearly haven’t let go of.”
“I haven’t let it go because you never,” he stops himself, then pushes anyway, frustration slipping in, “you never even acknowledged it.”
Her eyes flick up to his, guarded in a way he hasn’t seen before.
“I didn’t realise it required a formal discussion.”
“It wasn’t nothing, yn.”
The thing they’ve both been avoiding, right between them now.
Her jaw tightens slightly. “You don’t get to decide what it was,” she says.
“I was there,” he shoots back. “I think I get a say.”
“And so was I,” she replies, her tone sharpening just a fraction. “And I chose to leave it where it belonged.”
“And where’s that?”
“A mistake.”
He lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “Right. Of course. Just blame the alcohol and move on like it didn’t mean anything.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“It’s exactly what you said.”
“No,” she snaps, the first real spike of emotion breaking through, “what I said was I’m not doing this with you.”
He steps closer, frustration fully there now.
“Doing what?”
“This,” she gestures between them. “Whatever version of this you’ve built in your head.”
“I didn’t build anything,”
“You did,” she cuts in. “Because I didn’t give you one.”
That stops him.
“You kissed me,” he says again, quieter now, but heavier.
“And you kissed me back,” she returns immediately, she has lost all softness in her eyes, but she feels like she’s stood there like a deer in headlights. Being forced to acknowledge what she had buried down for good reason.
“You could’ve stopped it,” she adds.
He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “That’s not the point.”
“It is the point,” she says. “You don’t get to act like that happened to you.”
There’s a pause as she breathes out, trying desperately to get this pressure to elevate from her chest.
“And you definitely don’t get to bring it up like it’s some unresolved thing I owe you an explanation for.”
He looks at her, but he feels like he’s looking through her. It’s not his best friend that he’s looking at, he’s staring straight at this wall that he’s sure now he’ll never be able to break through. But he still tries.
“Why are you so determined to make it mean nothing?” he asks.
“Because I refuse to become one of your girls. I refuse to lose you completely when you inevitably do what you do best in relationship. So yes it means nothing Lando” she says, she snapped and it was mean, but this is why she wanted to let it go.
Neither of them say anything after that.
There’s nothing left to say without breaking something for real.
Nothing is the same since that day. It shifts quietly, in ways that are harder to explain and even harder to fix.
They don’t stop talking. Messages still come through like they always have, memes, sarcastic comments, the occasional check-in that almost feels normal. On the surface, it could pass for the same dynamic they’ve always had. But it isn’t. There’s a delay now, a hesitation that never used to exist. Conversations trail off where they once would’ve stretched for hours. Neither of them says anything about it, but it’s there, sitting between every message.
They barely see each other. Schedules don’t line up, at least that’s the excuse. It sounds reasonable enough, easy to accept without questioning too much. But the truth is quieter than that. Neither of them is trying very hard to change it.
When Lando does see her, which is rare, usually during a mutual friends function , moments that feel more accidental than planned, it’s off. Not uncomfortable, he’s not sure it could ever be uncomfortable between them. But there are still flashes of what they used to be. The easy laughter, the familiar teasing. But it never quite settles. Something underneath it all feels out of place, like they’re both aware of a line they crossed and then tried to pretend didn’t exist. And failed.
He tells himself she ruined it. That day. The way she shut it down, reduced it to nothing, refused to even acknowledge that it might have meant more. Like it was a mistake. Like it didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter.
But that thought never quite sticks. Because every time he tries to settle on it, something else pushes back.
The hotel rooms. The random girls. The way he never drew a clear line when it came to her. The way he flirted like she was different, like she meant something more, while acting in ways that proved the exact opposite.
He thinks back to that FaceTime call, the girl in the background, the look on yn’s face. Not hurt. Not jealous. Just unimpressed. There were countless moments just like. That’s the part that lingers, the part he can’t shake.
Because if he’s honest, that’s where it started to unravel. Not Monaco. Not the argument. Long before that.
He made it easy for her not to take him seriously. Gave her every reason to believe that whatever he said didn’t carry weight. So when something real did happen, something that could’ve shifted everything, of course she shut it down. Of course she didn’t trust it.
That doesn’t make it any less frustrating. If anything, it makes it worse.
Because now he’s stuck wanting something he never properly showed up for, and she’s not the kind of person who entertains half-effort or uncertainty. She never has been.
And every now and then, usually late at night when everything’s quieter than it should be, he’ll find himself staring at his phone, something reminding him of her. He’ll start typing a message, something real, something that actually says what he means.
Then stop.
Delete it.
Send something safe instead.
Because whatever they had, whatever it almost became, got lost somewhere between bad timing, worse habits, and neither of them being willing to say what they actually wanted.
And now it just exists like this. Not gone just not the same.
2023
By 2023, the change between them isn’t subtle anymore. What used to be constant becomes occasional, and what used to feel effortless now feels like something that has to be remembered, like replying is a task rather than instinct.
The messages are the last thing to go. Once a day turns into every few days, then once a week, and eventually just whenever. A few times a month, short and surface-level, stripped of anything that used to make them them. It’s not that either of them says goodbye. They just stop showing up in the same way, like a conversation that never properly ends, it just fades until there’s nothing left to say.
Yn notices, of course she does. She doesn’t ask him about it. That’s not her style. She doesn’t need confirmation handed to her when she can piece it together herself. At first, she tells herself it’s just life doing what it does. His schedule, the constant travel, the distance that’s always been there finally doing what it was probably always going to do. But the shift feels familiar in a way she can’t ignore. It’s not just distance. It’s intention changing. Conversations that used to come naturally now feel like afterthoughts, replies that come slower, flatter, like he’s somewhere else even when he’s texting her.
A few months later, photos start circulating from the paddock, nothing staged or announced, just moments caught as they happen. Lando walking in, someone beside him. Close enough to say everything without either of them having to. Comfortable, familiar, not hiding it. Yn comes across it the same way everyone else does, scrolling without really paying attention until something makes her stop. She looks at it for a second longer than necessary, just taking it in, letting the pieces fall exactly where she expected them to. So that’s what it was. The distance, the slow replies, the way everything between them had started to feel like it was being phased out instead of ended. It fits. It always does.
She scrolls past it without reacting, without giving it more weight than it deserves. It’s just confirmation, nothing more.
Later that day, her phone buzzes. His name, a message that reads like every other message he’s sent over the past few months, casual, easy, like nothing’s changed and nothing needs to be addressed. She reads it, her expression the same as it’s always been, controlled, unaffected. For a moment, there’s that familiar space where she could respond the way she always has, slip back into that version of them that still technically exists. But she doesn’t. She locks her phone and sets it aside, whatever they were, whatever they almost became, has finally settled, thanks to Lando moving on.
The British Grand Prix comes around like it always does, loud, packed, familiar in a way that feels almost personal even through a screen. Yn watches it from home, half-distracted at first, until she isn’t. It’s his home race. That alone is enough to hold her attention, but then he delivers, clean, sharp, controlled, and crosses the line in P2. A huge result. The kind that sticks.
She smiles without thinking. There’s no hesitation in that part. Pride comes easy when it comes to him, always has since they met.
Her phone is already in her hand before she really decides anything. Her thumb hovers for a second, then she starts typing.
P2 at home race! So proud always. Miss you.
She pauses.
Stares at the last two words.
Deletes them.
Types them again.
Deletes them again.
Her jaw tightens slightly, like she’s annoyed at herself for even debating it. It’s not dramatic, it’s not loaded, it’s just true. Whatever they are now, whatever they’ve become, she does miss him. That part never really went anywhere.
So she adds it again, sending before she can overthink it again.
And that’s it. No follow-up, no second message to soften it. Just something simple. Honest, for once, without filtering it down into something safer.
Hours pass.
At some point she sees it had been opened. No reply.
She doesn’t react straight away. Doesn’t sit there staring at the screen waiting for the typing bubble to appear. She just stops checking.
She already knows what the silence means and doesn’t feel the need to keep confirming it.
Later that evening, her phone buzzes again.
Unknown number.
She almost ignores it. But something makes her open it.
Hi, I know we haven’t met and you don’t know me. I’m Lando’s girlfriend and I would appreciate if you didn’t message him anymore. I know you guys used to message a lot and that’s changed since I’ve come along. But we’re in a good place now and he doesn’t need you anymore.
Yn reads it once. Then again. Slowly this time.
Her expression doesn’t change much, no immediate anger, no visible reaction. Just that same stillness she always falls into when something lands harder than expected.
He doesn’t need you anymore.
That part lingers.
Not because it hurts in the way most people would expect, but because of how neatly it tries to define something that was never that simple.
She exhales quietly through her nose, locking her phone for a second before unlocking it again. Not to reply. Not to argue.
Just to look at it one more time.
Because if there’s one thing she’s always been consistent about. It’s knowing when something isn’t worth fighting. This isn’t worth it.
The message sits there, heavier than it should be, glaring at her everytime she glimpses at it.
Not because of who it came from because of who didn’t send anything at all.
2024
2024 doesn’t start the way Lando Norris wanted it to. On track, things feel heavier than they should, like momentum keeps slipping just as he’s trying to build it. Off track is worse. The relationship that once looked like a clean break from everything messy turns out to be exactly that, messy in ways he hadn’t expected, draining in ways he hadn’t noticed until he was already deep in it. By the time it ends, there’s no drama left in him about it. Just relief. Space. The quiet realisation that he’d been carrying something he didn’t need to anymore.
So he resets.
Throws himself into the season properly this time, no distractions, no half-focus. Miami feels like a turning point before it even happens, like something’s about to give.
Yn, on the other hand, has nothing to do with any of that. She’s been focused, locked into her own world, building something steady and hers. The break comes as a reward more than anything else, a chance to breathe, to step away. Miami wasn’t even about the race. It just happened to be where her friends wanted to go.
Of course it was.
She tells herself it doesn’t matter. He’ll be there for the race, then gone again. Their worlds don’t overlap anymore, not really. Not in any way that forces interaction. Her luck has never worked like that though.
She sees the headline on her phone, surrounded by noise and laughter, her friends halfway through cocktails and stories that blur into one another.
His first win. Everything else around her dulls around the edges.
She stares at the screen a fraction too long, her chest tightening in a way she immediately resents. Pride hits first, sharp, immediate, familiar. Of course it does. It always has with him.
Her throat tightens, and she has to suck in a sharp breath through her teeth, forcing it down before it has the chance to become anything more obvious.
“You okay?” one of the girls asks, watching her a little too closely.
Yn smiles, easy, controlled. “Yeah. Course.”
And just like that, it’s gone from the surface. Whatever the feeling is, she doesn’t let it stay long enough to be examined.
Lando, meanwhile, has never felt anything like it.
The win, the noise, the release of it, it hits all at once. Years of almosts, of getting close and missing it, finally breaking into something real. He can’t stop smiling through the interviews, through the chaos of it all. It feels surreal, like he hasn’t quite caught up to what’s just happened.
When he’s told the flight’s been pushed back, that he’s free to stay and celebrate, it feels like everything’s just fallen into place.
And he takes it.
The bar is loud, packed with people riding the same high he is. Teammates, friends, familiar faces, it blurs together in a haze of music and alcohol and adrenaline that hasn’t quite worn off yet.
He’s standing on a chair at one point, laughing, pulled into something he’s not even fully aware of anymore.
He sees her. Everything slows in a way that doesn’t make sense. Like the noise dulls, the movement around him fades just slightly, enough for her to stand out completely.
Still self-assured, still carrying herself like she doesn’t need to prove anything to anyone, but there’s something sharper now. Like she’s even more certain of herself than before.
He just moves uncontrollably, like he’s being pulled toward her.
He drops down from where he’s standing, barely registering the people around him as he pushes through the crowd. He doesn’t say anything to anyone, doesn’t explain, he just goes.
Because somehow, after nearly two years of not seeing her and almost one year of not speaking.
Nothing about that pull has changed.
“You’re here.”
She stills for half a second. She’d recognise that voice anywhere.
Yn turns slowly, and there he is, grinning, a little uneven from the alcohol, eyes brighter than she remembers.
She smiles, small but real.
“Well done today.” Simple and polite.
She turns back to the bar before it can become anything else, lifting her hand slightly to catch the bartender’s attention.
“Hey,”
His hand closes gently around her bicep, stopping her. Not tight. Not forceful.
Her eyes drop to where he’s touching her, and it’s immediate, the way it registers, the way it shouldn’t matter and still does. Heat under her skin, that familiar electric feeling sparking where it shouldn’t anymore.
She looks back up at him.
“Is that it?” he says, something almost disbelieving in his tone. “We haven’t seen each other in years and all you can say is well done?”
Her expression barely shifts.
“What do you want me to say?” she replies evenly. “I miss you? Because I said that, Lando. And you ignored me, so.”
He frowns slightly, genuine confusion flickering across his face. “What?”
She almost laughs. Such a good actor, she thinks.
The bartender appears then, cutting through the moment before it can stretch any further. Yn orders quickly, her drink, a few more for the girls, keeping her focus forward, controlled.
“I’ll get it,” Lando cuts in.
“Don’t,” she says immediately, at the same time the bartender looks between them.
“Yes, do,” he insists, already reaching for his card. “Put it on my tab.”
“No!”
“I’ll give you a $300 tip if you charge it to my table,” he adds, glancing at the bartender. “Don’t let her pay for anything tonight.”
That ends it.
The bartender lights up, and yn knows she’s lost before she can even argue further. She exhales quietly, shaking her head.
“Thank you,” she says, glancing at him, tone measured. “But you really should go celebrate.”
“I am celebrating,” he replies, not taking his eyes off her. “Can we talk?”
Her answer doesn’t take a second.
“No. Not now,” she adds, softening it just enough to not make it a scene. “It’s an important day. It’s not about me.”
There’s a pause.
“You should be proud.” And she means that part.
She smiles, small, genuine for a second, before stepping back, picking up the drinks as they’re set down.
And then she walks away. Fast enough that he doesn’t get the chance to stop her again.
She doesn’t hear from him after Miami. Not that she expects to. He’s in the middle of the best season of his career, fighting for something bigger than anything they ever were, and she’s learned by now not to insert herself into spaces where she doesn’t belong anymore. So she lets it be what it is, another almost, another unfinished chapter that never quite found its way back.
By December, it’s settled into something distant and quiet. Locked away and attempting to avoid thinking about everything.
So when there’s a knock at her door one evening, it doesn’t register as anything important at first. She isn’t expecting anyone. She almost ignores it. But something, instinct perhaps, she doesn’t know, makes her get up and answer it.
Standing there, like it’s the most normal thing in the world, is Lando Norris. For a second, neither of them says anything.
She’s not shocked in a dramatic way, there’s no gasp, no immediate reaction. Just a pause, her brain catching up to what she’s seeing, trying to place him in a context that makes sense.
It doesn’t.
“Hi,” he says, like this isn’t completely out of place.
She blinks once, then steps back automatically. “Come in.”
He steps inside, looking around briefly, like he’s grounding himself, like he’s not entirely sure how he got here either.
She closes the door, turning back to him, arms folding loosely across her chest. There’s a look on his face she can’t quite read—something tense, something unsettled.
“Why are you here, Lando?” No softness. No hostility either. Just direct.
He lets out a breath, running a hand through his hair. “Why did you think I’d know you missed me?”
The question lands strangely.
Her brows pull together slightly. “What?”
“I’ve thought about it, thought about what you said in Miami a lot.” he continues, words coming out quicker now, like he’s been holding them in too long. “We haven’t spoken. You clearly resent me for something, and I don’t even know what it is. So, care to fill me in?”
She stares at him for a second, genuinely thrown.
“…Silverstone,” she says slowly.
He frowns. “What about it?”
“I messaged you,” she replies. “After the race.”
“No, you didn’t.”
She almost laughs at that, but there’s no humour in it. “Yes, I did.”
He shakes his head immediately, already pulling his phone out. “Yn, I didn’t get anything from you.”
She watches him unlock it, scroll, turn the screen toward her. Nothing.
No message.
No trace.
Her frown deepens, confusion settling in properly now. “That doesn’t make any sense.”
She grabs her own phone, unlocking it quickly, pulling up the conversation.
There it is. Sent. Delivered. Read. No reply.
She turns the screen to him.
His expression shifts. Because now it doesn’t make sense on his end either.
“I never saw that,” he says, quieter this time.
She exhales slowly, lowering her phone. And then, after a brief pause, she decides to say it.
“Your girlfriend messaged me.”
His head snaps up. “What?”
“After that,” she continues, steady, controlled like always. “Got my number from your phone, I assume. Told me not to message you anymore. Said you didn’t need me. I thought maybe you’d asked her to tell me to leave you alone. Couldn’t face doing it yourself.”
There’s a beat of silence. There’s a shift of irritation in his eyes. Not towards her.
“I never,” he stops himself, jaw tightening, frustration flickering across his face. “I didn’t know about that. I didn’t see your message, and I definitely didn’t know she sent anything to you.”
She watches him carefully, measuring it.
“Okay,” she says simply.
No accusation. Just acknowledgement. It’s enough to make something in him snap.
“Okay?” he repeats, incredulous. “Yn, that’s not just ‘okay.’”
“What do you want me to say?” she asks, her tone still even. “It happened. It explains things. We moved on.”
“I didn’t move on,” he says immediately.
She doesn’t react outwardly, but there’s a shift, small, internal.
He steps closer, not close enough to crowd her, but enough to close the distance that’s been there for far too long.
“Don’t do that,” he adds, quieter now. “Don’t just shut it down like you always do.”
“I’m not shutting anything down,” she replies. “I’m being realistic.”
“No,” he shakes his head. “You’re avoiding it. Again.”
Her eyes narrow slightly. “And you’re rewriting it. Again.”
“I’m trying to fix it,” he corrects.
There’s a pause. Then, more honest than he’s been before,
“I need you in my life.”
That’s new. That’s not something he’s ever said like that. Not dressed up in humour. Not softened into something easier to ignore.
She studies him for a moment, searching for the angle, the deflection, the part where he pulls it back. It doesn’t come.
“However you want to be there,” he continues, voice quieter now but steady. “I don’t care what it looks like. I just,” he exhales, frustrated at himself for not phrasing it better, “I don’t want to lose you over something that wasn’t even real.”
Her jaw tightens slightly.
“Everything about it was real,” she says. “The message. The silence. The assumption that you didn’t care enough to respond.”
“I didn’t see it,” he repeats, more firmly this time. “If I had,”
“But you didn’t,” she cuts in, not harsh, just factual. “And I made a decision based on what I had.”
He looks at her like he’s trying to figure out where the line is now, where he’s allowed to stand.
“Please don’t shut me out,” he says finally. “Not this time.”
They agree, quietly, almost cautiously, that friends is safest. It’s the only version of them that hasn’t completely broken under the weight of timing and miscommunication and everything they never quite said properly. So they rebuild something softer, more careful. Messages come back, not constant like before, but intentional. There’s an awareness now, a line they both pretend they won’t cross again.
And for a while, it works.
Until New Year’s.
The room is loud, full of people who are halfway between drunk and sentimental, music thumping just enough to blur the edges of everything. Yn stands with a drink in her hand, her friends scattered around her, but her attention drifts, inevitably, predictably, back to him.
Lando is already looking at her.
He’s smiling in that way he does when he’s not really thinking about it, when it’s just there. Like no time has passed at all.
It catches her off guard for a second. Not because it’s new, but because it isn’t. That’s the problem.
“Ten… nine… eight…”
The countdown starts, voices rising, people turning to each other, grabbing onto whoever’s closest. The energy shifts, anticipation building into something almost tangible. But neither of them looks away.
“Three… two… one.”
“Happy New Year!”
The room erupts.
Yn leans in first, quick and instinctive, pressing a light kiss to his cheek. It’s harmless. Friendly. Exactly what they agreed this would be.
But his reaction isn’t.
His arms come around her, pulling her in closer than necessary, holding her there for just a second too long.
She starts to pull back.
Slowly.
They’re close, closer than they’ve been in a long time. Her hands still resting lightly against him, his grip not quite gone, his face just there.
His breath brushes against her skin. Her eyes flick to his.
She doesn’t overthink it. Doesn’t give herself the chance.
She leans in and presses a soft kiss to his lips. It’s gentle at first, almost like she’s testing if this is really happening.
He freezes for half a second, caught off guard, just enough for her to notice.
Then his mind catches up. And he kisses her back.
The softness doesn’t disappear, but it deepens. There’s a kind of familiarity to it that shouldn’t still exist, paired with everything they’ve both been holding onto this without realising how much.
It’s not rushed.
There’s want in it. Longing. The kind that doesn’t come from the moment, but from everything that came before it.
Everything they didn’t do. Everything they didn’t say.
Her hand lifts slightly, brushing along his jaw as she leans in just a fraction more, and he responds instantly, like it’s instinct, like he’s not thinking about consequences at all.
She pulls back first, breath just slightly uneven, her forehead almost brushing his for a second before she straightens. Her eyes search his, a small smile forming, soft, but certain.
“Want to get out of here?” she asks.
2025
Morning comes quietly.
Yn wakes slowly, the kind of soft awareness that settles before her eyes even open. For a second, she doesn’t move, just registers warmth, the weight of something steady draped across her waist, the faint familiarity of a space she hasn’t been in for a long time.
Then it hits her. She’s in his bed. Again.
Her eyes open, and nothing about it feels foreign. That’s the dangerous part. The room looks the same, feels the same, like no time has passed, like the distance between then and now doesn’t exist in here. It settles under her skin too easily, like muscle memory.
Lando is still asleep beside her on his stomach, face turned into the pillow, arm heavy across her waist like it belongs there.
For a moment, she sits in it.
Then she exhales quietly and shifts, careful, controlled, lifting his arm just enough to slip out from underneath it without waking him. She moves slowly, deliberately, until she’s sitting up, back resting against the headboard, the duvet pooled around her waist.
Her mind catches up quickly.
Last night replays in fragments, his laugh, the way he looked at her, the kiss, the decision that followed. None of it blurred, none of it softened by alcohol the way she might’ve hoped.
She remembers everything. And that’s exactly the problem.
Her jaw tightens slightly as the thoughts start to spiral, not out of panic, but calculation. What this means now.
Because it does mean something. It always does with them.
She glances over at him again, still asleep, still unaware of the storm quietly building in her head.
And just like that, she decides. She’s leaving. Before it gets complicated. Before it turns into something she can’t control.
She moves carefully, slipping out of bed, she’s wearing hood hoodie and a pair of his boxers she’d claimed at some point in the night. It’s familiar, annoyingly comfortable.
She spots her dress on the floor, bending to pick it up, already mentally planning how quickly she can get out without…
“Don’t just run out.”
Her head snaps around.
He hasn’t moved much, still on his stomach, voice rough with sleep, but his eyes are open, watching her.
Of course he’s caught her.
She straightens slightly, holding her dress a little tighter than necessary.
“I’m not doing anything,” she says, too quick to be convincing.
He huffs softly, pushing himself up onto his elbows, hair a mess, expression still heavy with sleep but sharp enough to read straight through her.
“Looks like you’re planning your great escape.”
She doesn’t respond to that. Doesn’t deny it either.
He sits up fully now, running a hand through his hair before standing, closing the distance between them without hesitation. There’s no tension in the way he moves, no uncertainty, just quiet determination.
“Don’t do this again, Yn,” he says, softer now, but firmer.
She swallows slightly, holding her ground.
“I’m not,”
“Running?” he cuts in gently. “You are.”
He stops in front of her, close enough that she can feel the warmth of him again, close enough that it’s already harder to stay detached.
“Talk to me,” he adds, reaching up to brush a piece of her hair back behind her ear.
The gesture is simple.
She hesitates.
“I remember everything,” she says finally.
Her voice is steady, but there’s something underneath it, her throat feels tighter, she feels more exposed than she’s used to as she lets her emotional side shine through.
He studies her for a second, then nods slightly.
“From last night?” he asks. “Okay. Then tell me, where do you want to go from here?”
The question is simple. The answer isn’t.
She exhales slowly, gaze dropping for just a second before lifting back to his. There’s no deflection this time. No sarcasm to hide behind.
“I’m scared,” she admits.
The words feel unfamiliar in her mouth.
“I’m scared because I want to do what I did last time.”
His expression softens slightly, confusion flickering in. “Why?”
She lets out a quiet breath, shaking her head once, like she’s frustrated with herself for even having to say it.
“Because if we do this,” she says, holding his gaze now, steady despite everything, “then I can lose you.”
For a moment, neither of them moves.
It’s subtle, but everything has shifted and neither of them is quite sure how to handle it without breaking it.
Yn is still holding his gaze, steady in a way that looks like confidence but feels like effort. This, standing here, saying things out loud instead of deflecting, is unfamiliar territory. It doesn’t come naturally, and it shows in the way her fingers tighten slightly around the fabric of her dress, in the way her shoulders hold just a fraction too much tension.
But she doesn’t back down from it. That’s the difference now.
Lando notices all of it. The control, the restraint, the fact that she’s still here when every instinct she has is probably telling her to leave.
So he doesn’t rush. Doesn’t overwhelm it. He just stays where he is, close enough to matter, not close enough to push.
“You’re not going to lose me,” he says quietly.
She lets out a small breath, almost like a disbelieving exhale. “You don’t know that.”
“I do,” he replies, and there’s no hesitation in it this time. “Because I’m not going anywhere.”
Her eyes flicker slightly at that, not softening, not fully, but something considers it.
“That’s easy to say now,” she counters, but there’s less bite to it than before. “It’s always easy at the start.”
“This isn’t the start,” he says.
He’s right.
This isn’t new. It’s not fresh or untouched or built on nothing. It’s years of history, of mistakes, of almosts and missed timing and things that should’ve been handled better.
And somehow, they’re still here.
“You don’t get to ignore everything just because we’re standing in a different place now,” she says, but her voice is quieter.
“I’m not ignoring it,” he answers. “I’m owning it.” He pauses, stepping forward to hold her hands, hoping it’ll ground her not spook her.
“I messed it up before. Not just a bit, properly. I didn’t take you seriously when I should have. I didn’t show up the way I needed to. And yeah I get why you don’t trust that this is different.”
She watches him closely, like she’s looking for the part where he deflects, where he turns it into something lighter. He doesn’t.
“But it is different,” he continues. “Because I am and because I actually know what I’d be losing now.”
She looks away for a second, jaw tightening, trying to hide the emotion creeping up. This is the part she hates. The part where things start to feel real enough to matter.
“You’re asking me to take a risk,” she says finally.
“I know.”
“A big one.”
“I know.”
She lets out a quiet breath, shaking her head slightly. “I don’t do that, Lando. Not without knowing how it ends.”
He almost smiles at that, not because it’s funny, but because it’s so her.
“Yeah,” he says softly. “I’ve noticed.”
Her eyes flick back to his, a warning in them, but it fades quickly.
“Then you also know I don’t do things halfway,” she adds. “If I stay, I’m in it.”
“I wouldn’t want anything less,” he replies.
There’s no hesitation in him. No room left for doubt in the way he says it.
“And if it goes wrong?” she presses.
“Then we deal with it,” he says simply. “Together. Not by pretending it didn’t happen. Not by walking away before it gets the chance to be something.”
That’s the part she struggles with. Not the idea of being with him. The idea of not having control over how it ends. He can see it in her face, the calculation, the instinct to protect herself kicking in again.
So he softens, just slightly.
“I’m not asking you to be fearless,” he says. “I’m just asking you to not run before we’ve tried. Properly tried.”
Her grip on his hands tightens slightly. Her shoulders drop just a fraction.
“Okay.” It’s quiet.
He doesn’t react immediately. Doesn’t jump on it, doesn’t push further. He just lets it sit, lets her have that moment without turning it into something overwhelming.
“Okay?” he repeats, softer.
She nods once. “Okay.”
There’s still caution in her, still that underlying instinct to keep one step back, but she’s choosing not to act on it. And for her, that’s everything.
He lets out a breath he didn’t realise he was holding, something lighter settling in his chest.
“Alright,” he says, a small smile breaking through.
She eyes him for a second, then tilts her head slightly. “Don’t make it a big thing.”
“I’m not,”
“You are,” she cuts in, but there’s the faintest hint of something warmer in her tone now. “I can see it.”
He huffs a quiet laugh, running a hand through his hair. “Can you blame me?”
“Yes,” she says immediately. “Be normal.”
“I am being normal.”
That pulls a small smile out of her, despite herself.
He glances down at what she’s holding, then back at her. “You can stay, you know.”
Her brows lift slightly. “Or I can leave and come back later like a functioning adult.”
“Or,” he counters, stepping just a little closer again, “you don’t overcomplicate it.” Exhaling softly, shaking her head like she’s giving in to something she’s been fighting for a long time.
“You’re very persistent,” she says.
“Only when it matters.”
“I’m not promising anything,” she says, meeting his eyes again.
“You don’t have to.”
“I mean it.”
“I know.”
“I’m still figuring it out.”
He nods. “We both are.”
What they build after that isn’t instant, and it isn’t easy. It’s deliberate. They don’t fall straight into something romantic and call it fixed. If anything, they move slower than they ever have before, more aware, more careful, like they both understand now that whatever this is, it doesn’t survive on instinct alone.
It takes work. Real work.
For yn, that means learning how to stay, emotionally. Letting things sit instead of shutting them down. Saying what she’s thinking before it turns into distance. It doesn’t come naturally to her, and she doesn’t pretend that it does. There are moments where she almost defaults back into old habits, pulling away, brushing things off, choosing silence over honesty, but now he notices. And more importantly, she lets him notice. That’s the difference.
For Lando, it’s about consistency. About proving, over and over again, that he means what he says. No mixed signals, no half-effort, no leaving things open to interpretation. He shows up when he says he will. He communicates, even when it’s inconvenient, even when it’s uncomfortable. And slowly, without forcing it, he gives her something she’s never really had with him before, stability.
Trust doesn’t come back all at once. It builds quietly, in small moments that don’t look like much from the outside. A call he doesn’t miss. A message he doesn’t leave hanging. The absence of other distractions, the things that used to make her question where she stood. And she notices all of it, even if she doesn’t always say it out loud.
There are still arguments. Still moments where they clash, because they’re still them, still sharp around the edges, still used to challenging each other. But now it doesn’t feel like something that could break them. It feels like something they move through. Together. And that’s new.
Somewhere along the way, it stops feeling fragile. Stops feeling like something that could disappear if they don’t handle it perfectly. It just becomes part of their lives, natural, steady.
She starts showing up again. Not in the background like before, not something people have to speculate about, but beside him. Comfortable there. Certain. He doesn’t hide it either. There’s no confusion anymore about what she is to him.
And the strangest part? It’s easy. Not because nothing ever goes wrong, but because they finally stopped making it harder than it needed to be.
One evening, months into it, they’re back in Monaco. Same city, same warmth in the air, the harbour lit up below them. Yn leans against the balcony railing, drink in hand, watching the reflections ripple across the water. He’s behind her, arms loosely wrapped around her waist, chin resting against her shoulder like he belongs there, because now, he does.
“You’re very quiet,” he murmurs.
“Just thinking.”
“Dangerous.”
She smiles slightly, tilting her head back just enough to glance at him.
Then, without overthinking it, without dressing it up into something bigger than it needs to be;
“I love you.”
It lands simply, but it carries weight because of who it’s coming from.
He stills for a fraction of a second, like it catches him even though maybe it shouldn’t. Then his arms tighten slightly around her, something warmer settling into his chest.
“Yeah?” he says, softer now.
She turns properly this time, leaning back against the railing, facing him fully. “Yeah.”
He smiles, and it’s not his usual teasing one.
“I love you too.”
There’s a quiet beat where they just look at each other, the kind that used to feel uncertain but now just feels right.
Then he huffs out a small laugh, shaking his head slightly like he’s been holding something in.
“I always knew we’d end up here.”
She narrows her eyes immediately. “Oh, shut up.”
“I’m serious,” he insists, a grin tugging at his lips now. “I knew we’d work.”
“You absolutely did not.”
“I did,” he says, stepping a little closer. “I always thought we were meant to be something. I just didn’t know how we’d get here.”
She folds her arms, trying to look unimpressed, but there’s a softness there she can’t quite hide. “That sounds like something you’ve come up with after the fact.”
“No,” he shakes his head, quieter now but still sure. “Even when we were messing it up, even when we weren’t speaking, I knew it would work out somehow.”
That slows her down. Because he’s not joking now. She studies him for a second, like she’s deciding whether to call him out or let it sit. Then she exhales softly, a small shake of her head.
“You’re annoying,” she says, but there’s no bite to it.
He grins. “Yeah, but I’m right.”
She rolls her eyes, but she steps into him anyway, her hands settling lightly against his chest.
“Don’t push your luck.”
“Too late,” he murmurs.
And this time, when he leans in and kisses her, there’s nothing uncertain about it. They were meant to be. Once they got their shit together.
Oscar Piastri (polite cat bf) x singer!reader (black cat gf)
Summary: the rumours sometimes spiral when your relationship is private not secret (SMAU!)
warnings: images of smoking/mentions of smoking
fc: pinterest girlies (all creds to image owners)
Written to Horseshoe - Tate McRae
a part two to Sports car
F1 Masterlist
yourusername posted
liked by oscarpiastri, hattie piastri, rebeccadonaldson & 600,579 others
yourusername: summer break with my baby
view comments
user1: oscar sighting!
user2: I love how her aesthetic is turning orange
user 3: queen of the papaya army
user4: so pretty! and he’s there.
yourbsf: take me with you next time
yourusername: I’d love to make oscar our third wheel
hattie piastri: I miss you 🫶🏻
yourusername: you more!
user5: lmao she misses yn and not oscar
user6: piastri is now 3rd place in his own fanbase
oscarpiastri posted:
liked by your username, yourbsf, mclarenf1 & 901,949 others
oscarpiastri: good race & my good luck charm
view comments
user1: with a gap like that, have her at every race
mclarenf1: race of dreams
opeightyone: champion worthy drive
user2: anyone getting sick of constantly seeing celebrities in f1 spaces
user3: she’s literally he’s girlfriend?
user4: yeah but she still has nothing to do with f1
user5: she’s in every post it’s kinda annoying to f1 fans
user6: he’s in everyone of hers, you don’t see us complaining
yourusername: more proud everyday
*liked by author*
yourusername: ps ur so hot
user7: I love watching her thirst over him
user8: favourite driver & favourite wag
user9: I get bad vibes from her
yourusername posted
liked by yourbsf, rebeccadonaldson, alexandramalenaleclerc & 709,987 others
yourusername: cutting out things that are bad for me
view comments
yourbsf: you’re stronger than you give yourself credit for!
*liked by author*
yourusername: couldn’t have done it with you
user1: smoking is bad for you
yourusername: you’d smoke too after the month I’ve had
user2: hope you’re okay
user3: guys no oscar in likes or comments im scared
user4: he’s not been seen in them all month
user 5: mum, where’s dad?
user6: am i about to become a child of divorce?
oscarpiastri posted:
liked by hattie piastri , lando , carlossainz & 998,090 others
oscarpiastri: no luck this weekend. we’ll come back stronger next race.
view comments
user1: rigged
user2: insane penalty decision
user3: no yn again.
user4: no luck because you’ve forgotten your good luck charm
user5: if they’ve broken up he probably doesn’t want you filling his comments about her
ynupdates posted:
ynupdates: yn spotted with friends this evening, reports says she was teary eyes and drinking
view comments
user1: that girl is sad
user2: no don’t say this is breakup confirmation
user3: at least we might get some insane sad songs
yourusernameposted:
liked by hattiepiastri, nicolepiastri, raye & 1.1M others
yourusername: As many of you know I’ve been dropping single after single for years, promising an album ‘soon’. This was a promise also made for me. My label has been a constant at making sure this does not happen. But they are no longer my label. Soon no longer is just a word, no longer a broken promise.
My debut independent album is out August 18th. My lead single ‘Horseshoe’ is now yours.
view comments
yourbsf: so proud of you
hattiepiastri: you’ve done it again. song of the year album of the year.
raye: so brave. you’re talent will always shine through.
user1: omg!
user2: give me the labels names and addresses
user3: this is war
user4: the piastri’s in the comments and likes
user5: still no oscar…
yourusername posted:
liked by yourbsf, oscarpiastri, nicolepiastri & 875,765 others
yourusername: still his lucky charm btw. We’ve just been a little busy. The most beautiful muse.
View comments
oscarpiastri: brave & beautiful.
yourusername: i love you
user1: mom and dad still together! new song and new album. god is real!
Oscar Piastri (polite cat bf) x singer!reader (black cat gf)
Summary: black cat singer gf & polite cat driver bf soft launch their relationship (SMAU!)
warnings: images of smoking/mentions of smoking
fc: pinterest girlies (all creds to image owners)
Written to Sports car - Tate McRae
F1 Masterlist
part two
yourusername posted:
liked by yourbsf, oscarpiastri, alexandramalenaleclerc & 476,000 others
yourusername: from studio to studio
view comments
yourbsf: get a girl who can do both
user1: mother is so back!
user2: debut album on the way?????
oscarpiastri: i know a different kind of motorsport you’d prefer
user3: lmao?! random f1 driver in comments?!!!!!
user4: oscar 😭😭
user5: who is this? yn is my wife!
*comment has been deleted*
user6: @/oscarpiastri we saw that.
user7: such a random pair?
user8: hey’ve been in each others likes for ages
user9: excited for an album omg
alexandramalenaleclerc: the prettiest
*liked by author*
user10: wag spotted in comments
yourusername posted:
liked by yourbsf, oscarpiastri, rebeccadonaldson & 372,928 others
yourusername: working hard, playing harder
yourbsf: girl.
yourusername: yeeessss 😇
user1: he’s in the likes again
user 2: and? why is everyone freaking out. they’ve been pining for each other in the likes for ages
user3: get back in that studio
rebeccadonaldson: I miss you x
*liked by author*
user4: new wag unlocked in comments
yourusername posted a story:
caption: he hates the habit, loves me more
soft launch!!!
omg
new album muse
who is this man mother?
oscarpiastri posted:
liked by mclarenf1, pierregasly, yourusername & 804,000 others
oscarpiastri: nice🏆
opeightyone: 🔥🔥
yourusername: you’re hot. you single?
user1: LMAO
user2: help she’s unhinged.
user3: it must’ve been him in her story yesterday!
user4: goat.
user5: everyone talking about that singer. no one cares about another random wag
user6: another wag? she’s a literally pop princess
user7: he’s lucky to even have her in his likes
mclarenf1: legendary drive
yourusername posted:
liked by oscarpiastri, rebeccadonaldson, magui_corceiro & 492,900 others
yourusername: good music , good people, good life 🧡
user1: drop the album. now.
yourusername: soon. be nice.
user1: stfu i love you
mclarenf1: 🧡
user2: not mclaren basically confirming it
user3: we’ve been knew
rebeccadonaldson: I’m obsessed with you.
yourbsf: I’m so excited for this era
yourbsf: my beautiful lover girl
ynfanupdates posted:
ynfanupdates: rumoured relationship between yn and f1 driver oscar piastri confirmed? they were seen having dinner with teammate lando norris and his girlfriend. they were later seen, just the two of them very close at a concert.
user1: this is why the album is taking so long
user2: our girl deserves some happiness
user3: does anyone else wonder what they actually talk about?
user4: i agree they just have such different vibes
user5: as an f1 and yn fan I’m so here for this
user6: surely they have to hard launch now I want to see yn in the paddock. her fits would eat.
yourusername posted:
liked by mclarenf1, oscarpiastri, lando & 789,900 others
yourusername: musician, model, wag.
user1: THIS IS A HARD LAUNCH
user2: NOBODY PANIC
user3: everyone stop shouting we might scare the polite cat away
oscarpiastri: wag suits you
yourusername: my man my man my man
user4: oh she’s obsessed with him
user5: im obsessed with them
magui_corceiro : finally
yourbsf: worlds hottest couple
user6: literally polite cat and black cat
*liked by author*
user6: omg she liked she deffo agrees
user7: he’s never escaping the polite cat allegations
mclarenf1: always invited 🧡
Yourusername posted:
liked by oscarpiastri, magui_corceiro, lando & 799,000 others
yourusername: sports car out now! music video out now!
oscarpiastri: oh golly gee
user1: this is not very polite cat of you
yourusername: you know what this is
oscarpiastri: stop
user2: the song is out now, no point being shy!
hattiepiastri: you’re so hot. I’ll just pretend it’s not about my brother
*liked by author*
yourusername: leaving him for you as we speak
user3: the better piastri
user4: oh so they’re freaky freaky
user5: yn duh obviously but Oscar is a dark horse
user6: your album is going to kill me
user7: this is so hot I can’t
user8: mum & dad
lando: this is about osc?
NOTE: I actually love the idea of this dynamic. Should I do like a mini series of the black cat x polite cat love story?
Summary: They once felt effortless, like soulmates woven seamlessly into each other’s lives. Love turned silently into missed moments and empty promises, until all that was left felt heavy and out of sync.
Written to Staying - Lizzy McAlpine
Note: Clearing out my drafts, this is short (1k words) might turn this into a series idk , but I love some angst n failing relationships lol!
F1 Masterlist
2:17am
The room is dim, lit only by the soft glow of the bedside lamp. Shadows stretch lazily across the walls, and the world outside feels distant, quiet in a way that should be comforting, but isn’t. The silence presses in instead, heavy and suffocating, because her mind refuses to rest.
Lando is asleep beside her, lying on his stomach, face turned into the pillow. One arm is tucked beneath it, the other stretched loosely across the mattress toward her side, like even in sleep he assumes she’ll still be there. His breathing is slow, steady, soft snores slipping past parted lips.
He looks peaceful.
It makes her chest ache. Because everything feels wrong.
She sits upright against the headboard, knees pulled close to her chest, her journal balanced against them. The pen in her hand taps lightly against the page, restless, rhythmic, mirroring the way her thoughts won’t settle. Ink stains the side of her hand, evidence of how long she’s been sitting here, writing, rewriting, trying to make sense of something that doesn’t quite have words yet.
Her gaze drifts back to him. The boy who once felt like home.
The boy she built almost an entire album around, every lyric wrapped in devotion, every melody softened by the way she loved him.
Now, as she watches him sleep, something unfamiliar curls in her chest.
Not just sadness.
Resentment.
Her pen presses to the page again.
How can you look so peaceful
When you know I’m gonna leave?
She stills the moment the words are written, her breath catching slightly. Her eyes linger on the ink as if it might rearrange itself into something less honest if she stares long enough.
But it doesn’t.
Because the truth is, it feels inevitable. That’s the part she can’t ignore anymore.
It’s not a fleeting thought. Not a passing feeling born from exhaustion or frustration.
She knows this is nearly the ending.
She can feel it in the way their conversations have thinned out, reduced to small talk and tired exchanges. In the way his touch has become absent-minded, like habit rather than intention. In the way she notices his absence even when he’s right beside her.
And yet, he sleeps like nothing is wrong.
Like she isn’t quietly breaking beside him.
Earlier that night replays in her mind whether she wants it to or not.
The dinner she made, hours carved out of an already exhausting day in the studio. She remembers standing in the kitchen, still in his oversized hoodie, hair pulled back messily, tasting the food and hoping it was good enough.
Hoping she was still enough.
The sound of the front door. The brief glimpse of a flicker of excitement in her chest.
“Baby, I’m so tired,” he had said, barely sparing her a glance as he walked straight past the table, past her, down the hall.
No kiss.
No acknowledgment.
Just the quiet sound of the bedroom door closing behind him.
She had stood there for a moment too long after that. Staring at the untouched plates. Letting the silence settle in around her.
Her grip tightens slightly on the pen now, her jaw tensing.
Because it wasn’t just tonight.
But tonight was the moment she stopped pretending it didn’t matter.
Her eyes flick back to him again, studying his face in the low light. She knows every detail of it, the curve of his lips, the way his lashes rest against his skin, the familiar softness that once made her feel safe.
Now she searches it for a sign. Of guilt, of awareness, of something. Anything that tells her he knows she’s slipping away.
But there’s nothing. Just peace.
“Did he just get too comfortable?” the thought lingers, unspoken but heavy.
Did she make it too easy? She was always the one who showed up.
No matter how packed her schedule was, no matter how exhausted she felt, she made space for him. Rearranged everything so he would never feel like he came second.
She told herself that was love. Choosing someone again and again. But now it feels one-sided.
Now it feels like she’s the only one still choosing.
Her pen moves again, faster this time, the words spilling out before she can stop them.
What happens when you love me dry?
I give myself to help you get by
A tear slips down her cheek, landing softly on the page and smudging the ink. She exhales shakily, brushing it away with her sleeve, but it doesn’t stop the tightness in her chest.
Beside her, he shifts slightly, mumbling something incoherent in his sleep. His hand brushes faintly against her leg before settling again.
A part of her wants to lean into him. Wants to close the distance, to pretend none of this is real. To hold onto what they used to be.
But the louder part of her, the honest part, knows better. She can’t keep loving someone who doesn’t notice she’s hurting.
She closes her journal slowly, pressing her hand against the cover as if she can quiet everything inside it, everything inside herself.
Her gaze lingers on him one last time, memorizing the way he looks, soft, peaceful, unaware.
She’s going to leave him. Because love isn’t supposed to feel like this. Their love never used to feel like this. But now, for the first time since she fell for him, she wasn’t scared of losing him, she was scared of staying and losing herself.
Summary : Oscar has always seen her as something delicate, pure, gentle, almost untouchable, and because of that, he’s spent years holding himself back. While he hides behind caution and fear of losing her, she decides to take control, slowly pushing his boundaries and forcing him to confront the truth, until he has no choice but to either let her go or finally give in.
(draft clear out)
Written to Force of Nature - Lizzy McAlpine
F1 Masterlist
Oscar had always treated her like something precious, something delicate, almost breakable. When they first met at school, she almost was. At that age, she barely spoke, shrinking into herself whenever attention found her. Oscar, on the other hand, had a quiet confidence about him. Not loud or overbearing, but steady. He had practically forced his way into her life, deciding they would be friends before she even had the courage to agree. Around others, she stayed small, silent unless spoken to, often recoiling under the weight of unfamiliar voices. But with him, she was different. With him, she laughed, loud and unrestrained, made ridiculous jokes, and let herself exist without fear. Along the way, Oscar became her voice, speaking for her before she could find the words herself. He understood her in a way no one else did, anticipating her thoughts, her needs, her feelings. And she understood him just as deeply.
But as his racing career began to take him further away, she had no choice but to stand on her own. The longer he was gone, the more she had to grow into herself. The shyness that once defined her slowly unraveled, replaced by a quiet strength, then confidence, and eventually something unshakable. She learned to speak without hesitation, to hold her ground, to exist without hiding behind him. Every time Oscar returned, he noticed it, how she stood a little taller, spoke a little louder, but to him, she was still that same girl. Stronger, yes, but still someone he handled with care, as if one wrong move might break something irreplaceable.
He worshipped her in a way he didn’t dare put into words. The depth of what he felt for her had long surpassed anything he thought himself capable of, but he kept it buried, locked behind restraint and fear. In his mind, she was still too good, too pure for the thoughts that crossed his own. He would never taint her with them, never risk turning something sacred into something selfish.
She had loved him too, at first in the simple, easy way of childhood, but as she grew, as she came into herself, that love deepened into something undeniable. It was never spoken outright, but it existed in everything between them, in the way they looked at each other, the way they always gravitated back, no matter the distance.
And the distance only grew. The higher he climbed in his career, the harsher the world around him became. The public scrutiny, the criticism, it was relentless. And if they could be that vicious toward him, he knew they would be worse toward her. Protecting her became instinct, another layer added to the wall he kept firmly in place.
“You’re my best friend. Let’s not ruin it.”
He said it every time she got too close to the truth, every time her honesty threatened to unravel the careful balance he maintained. And so that’s what they stayed, best friends. Even when it was so clearly more.
The longest they had ever gone without seeing each other came during his most recent Formula 1 season. She stayed away deliberately, refusing to be another weight on his shoulders during a title fight. No paddock appearances, no public association, just quick FaceTimes and brief conversations squeezed between his obligations. She still saw his family, still felt like she belonged there, but him? Him, she barely got.
By the time the season ended, the distance had become unbearable. She needed to see him.
When she stepped into his Monaco apartment, there was no hesitation. They collided into each other, arms wrapping tight, holding on like they were making up for lost time all at once. It had been torture, months without seeing him and now that he was here, real and solid, she didn’t want to let go. He breathed her in, her familiar scent grounding him in a way nothing else ever could.
When he finally pulled back, his hands came up to cradle her face, his thumb brushing softly along her cheek before he caught himself. Even then, he couldn’t help but tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, the gesture instinctive, careful.
“I’ve missed you more than you know,” he murmured, his voice low, like the moment itself might shatter if he spoke too loudly.
“Never leave me for that long again, Oscar. Never,” she replied, her voice steady, but her eyes glossy with something deeper.
His gaze flickered between her eyes and her lips, his composure slipping under the weight of everything he had kept buried. For a moment, his head and his heart fought for control.
And then he gave in.
He leaned down, pressing his lips to hers, soft, tentative, everything she had imagined but never experienced. For a second, it felt unreal. Then her hands found his hair, fingers tangling in the slightly longer strands as she pulled him closer.
His arms moved downwards, tightening around her waist, drawing her in, and when she breathed his name against his mouth, something in him snapped back into place.
He pulled away abruptly, his eyes wide, almost startled by his own actions. His gaze dropped to her lips, flushed, slightly swollen, then back to her eyes, where surprise lingered.
“Sorry,” he said quickly, stepping back like distance might undo it.
“No, Oscar, don’t apologise. I wanted it.”
“Y/N, I don’t, I mean, I can’t. I can’t ruin this with you.”
“Nothing’s ruined,” she insisted gently, stepping closer again, her voice softer now, careful. “We both want this.”
“I can’t, Y/N. You know I can’t.”
Her expression shifted then, no longer soft, but firm, hurt threading through her gaze. “What are you trying to protect me from? You? I’m not that shy girl anymore. You can touch me and I’m not going to break.”
His jaw tightened, his resolve snapping back into place. “I can’t do this. You know I can’t.”
She stared at him, something unyielding in her eyes now. She wasn’t that fragile girl anymore, and she refused to be treated like she was. She was a woman who knew what she wanted, and she believed, without a doubt, that they were meant to be more than this.
But Oscar couldn’t shake the guilt. To him, she would always be something precious, something untouched by the chaos of his world. Even if she wasn’t fragile anymore, his need to protect her hadn’t faded, it had only grown stronger with time and distance. Every look, every moment, every thought of her made him want more, but it also made him feel like he would never be enough for someone like her.
And that wasn’t a conversation he was ready to have.
So, like every time before, the moment was buried, brushed aside and left unspoken, as if it had never happened at all.
She started to lose patience with him the longer they stayed wrapped up in each other over the winter break. They were inseparable—constantly in the same space, orbiting one another like nothing had changed and yet everything had. It was suffocating in the best and worst way. Because despite the closeness, he still held that line. Still kept that distance where it mattered.
So she decided to do something about it.
Not maliciously, never that, but if Oscar had built this invisible wall between them, brick by brick over the years, then she would take it apart the same way. Slowly. Deliberately. Until there was nothing left for him to hide behind.
It started small.
Late-night walks through Monaco, when the streets were quieter and Oscar could exist without cameras tracking his every move, she would reach for his hand. Casual. Natural. Like it had always been hers to take. He noticed every single time, she could feel it in the slight hesitation before his fingers closed around hers, but he never pulled away. It was one of those boundaries he pretended not to acknowledge, one he quietly let blur.
So she pushed a little more.
Whenever she left the apartment, whether he was mid-call, focused on his sim, or half-distracted by something else, she would press a kiss to his cheek. At first it was innocent, fleeting. But each time, she shifted it slightly closer to his mouth. Millimetres at a time.
He noticed. Of course he did.
Every kiss earned the same reaction, a slow, strained exhale, like he was holding himself together by a thread.
She didn’t overstep. Not yet. She stopped just at the corner of his mouth, letting it linger there like a promise neither of them had spoken out loud.
Until one day, he snapped.
She had just done it again, light, teasing, right at the edge of his lips, before turning to leave, calling out something about meeting friends she’d made in the city. She barely made it two steps before his hand wrapped around her arm, pulling her back.
She stumbled slightly as he spun her toward him. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it was intentionally firm.
Her breath caught as she looked up at him. His eyes were darker than usual, something frustrated and unspoken burning behind them. It made her feel exposed. Seen in a way she wasn’t prepared for.
“Oscar…” she whispered, softer than she intended.
“You’re pushing it,” he said, voice low.
She smiled.
That was the point.
And from there, it only escalated.
She brushed past him in the kitchen more often than necessary, her hand grazing his waist like it was accidental. She leaned a little too close when he was sitting on the sofa, her knee pressing into his thigh as she showed him something on her phone. Once, she sat beside him on the balcony, her head resting on his shoulder for longer than usual, her fingers idly tracing patterns against his arm, a gentle kiss pressed to his neck.
Each time, he stilled. Each time, he let it happen.
But the tension in him grew sharper. Tighter. Like a wire being pulled too thin.
And then came the party.
Their friends housewarming was loud, crowded, filled with people neither of them really cared about. She had been pulled into a conversation with a guy, harmless, easy to talk to, and very much not a threat. She knew that. He knew that.
Oscar didn’t.
From across the room, she could feel his eyes on her. Watching. Tracking every movement. The way her hand rested lightly on the guy’s arm when she laughed, the way she leaned in just enough to look interested. It wasn’t even real flirting, but it was more than she had ever given anyone in front of him before.
She saw the exact moment it got to him.
His jaw tightened. His fingers curled around his drink. And then, he set it down, be-lining straight for the front door.
Her stomach dropped, but she excused herself quickly, weaving through the crowd until she caught him in the hallway.
“Oscar? Where are you going?”
“Home.” His voice was calm. Too calm. “I’m not watching that shit. I’ll come pick you up when you’re done.”
Something in her chest twisted. “No, I ’ll come with you.”
He let out a short, humourless breath. “Really? Wouldn’t want to ruin whatever game you’re playing.”
She didn’t answer. Just followed him.
The drive back was silent. Every unspoken word pressing in around them.
By the time they got back to his apartment, the tension had become unbearable.
He didn’t even look at her at first, just dropped onto the sofa, leaning back with his head tilted toward the ceiling like he was trying to find patience that wasn’t there.
“What are you doing, Y/N?”
She frowned slightly, lingering by the door. “What do you mean?”
“This.” His hand gestured vaguely, frustration bleeding through now. “This game. Is it fun for you? Because it sucks for me. You’re playing with my feelings.”
Her breath caught, disbelief flashing across her face.
“Yeah?” she shot back, her voice sharper now. “Doesn’t feel good, does it? Being pulled in and then stopped every time you get close?”
His head dropped forward, eyes finally meeting hers. “That’s what this is? Payback? For what, trying to respect you?”
A hollow laugh left her. “Respecting me?” she repeated, almost incredulous. “Right now, I don’t feel very respected, Oscar.”
His jaw tightened. “Right now, I don’t feel it either.”
“Because you’re too scared,” she said, stepping closer, her voice unwavering now. “Too scared to act on what you feel. At least I’m showing you how I feel.”
“Yeah,” he scoffed bitterly. “Felt great to watch that tonight.”
“That’s what I’m trying to show you!” Her voice cracked slightly, emotion finally spilling through. “This is how I’ve felt for years. God, you’re so,” she cut herself off, shaking her head. “I have been waiting for you. Waiting for years, for you to get over this distance and close the gap you created. And you might think this is you protecting me, but all you’re doing is making me feel like I’m not wanted.”
He was on his feet before he even realised it, crossing the space between them in two strides. “I do want you,” he said, the words sharp, immediate. “I’ve always wanted you. Since before you even knew how to say what you were thinking, I’ve wanted you.”
“Then why,”
“Because what if I ruin it?” he cut in, his voice breaking slightly under the weight of it. “What if I do this, and it goes wrong, and I lose you completely?”
She looked at him, the fear, the conflict, the love he kept trying to bury. And then she stepped closer, her voice softer now, but steadier than ever.
“But what if it goes right, Oscar?”
Silence settled between them after her words, thick and fragile all at once.
Oscar barley moved. He just stood there, staring at her like she’d just said the one thing he had spent years trying not to hear out loud.
She took another step toward him, closing what little space remained, her voice softer but still certain.
“I’ve already fallen for you, Oscar,” she said, her eyes locked onto his, unflinching. “There’s no protecting me from that. It’s already happened.”
His breath hitched, barely noticeable, but she saw it. She always saw him.
“And the only way I’ll break…” she continued, reaching for his hand, placing it over her heart, where it was beating far too fast, “is if you don’t catch me.”
That was the moment everything in him cracked.
All the restraint, all the rules he’d built for himself, every excuse he’d hidden behind, they didn’t stand a chance against her standing there, choosing him so openly, so fearlessly.
His gaze dropped briefly to where her hand held his, feeling her heartbeat against his palm, before lifting back to her face. There was no hesitation in her. No fear. Just trust.
it wasn’t about what could go wrong anymore. It was about what he was already risking by holding back.
Slowly, like he was making a decision he knew would change everything, his free hand came up to her face again, this time not tentative, not fleeting. His thumb brushed over her cheek, but he didn’t pull away.
“I don’t know how to do this without messing it up,” he admitted quietly, his voice rougher than before.
Her lips curved slightly, softer now. “Then don’t do it perfectly. Just do it honestly.”
Oscar let go ofthe fear.
His hand slid from her cheek to the back of her neck, pulling her closer with a kind of quiet certainty that hadn’t been there before. This time when he kissed her, there was no hesitation. No stopping himself halfway through. It wasn’t rushed or overwhelming, it was intentional, grounded, everything he had been holding back poured into something real.
Her hands found him just as easily, like they always had, but now there was nothing in the way. No invisible line to stop at.
When they pulled back, it wasn’t abrupt this time. It was slower, like neither of them quite wanted to let the other go.
His forehead rested against hers, their breaths still uneven, but lighter somehow.
“Okay,” he murmured, almost to himself, like he was testing the word out.
She smiled softly. “Okay?”
“Okay,” he repeated, this time more certain, his thumb brushing against her jaw. “We try.”
It still felt fragile, worth protecting. But this time, it felt like something worth risking everything for.
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Summary: when the one night stand should’ve just stayed just that (NSFW!)
Clearing out my drafts so not proof read
Written to Red Lipstick - Rihanna
F1 Masterlist
The dim glow of neon lights flickered across the crowded bar, casting colourful shadows on the faces of strangers seeking escape in laughter and liquor. It was one of those upscale lounges in the heart of the city, where the air hummed with low conversations and the clink of glasses. Y/N perched on a stool at the polished counter, her fingers tracing the rim of her third cocktail, a vibrant mix of something fruity and strong that had already blurred the edges of her stress-filled week. Monday loomed like a shadow: back from her two week holiday, the end of lazy days and spontaneous nights. Tonight, she wanted nothing more than to drown it all in fleeting pleasure, no strings, no regrets.
Across the bar, Max nursed a whiskey on the rocks, his broad shoulders tense under a simple black shirt. The weight of the upcoming race season pressed on him, endless training, media scrutiny, the grind that left no room for anything but victory. This was his last night of anonymity, of freedom before the world narrowed to circuits and cockpits. He scanned the room idly, not hunting, but open to whatever distraction might ease the knot in his chest.
Their eyes met when she laughed at something the bartender said, a genuine, unguarded sound that cut through the noise. He smiled back, raising his glass in a silent toast. She tilted her head, intrigued, and before she knew it, he was sliding onto the stool beside her.
"Rough week?" he asked, his voice carrying a faint Dutch accent, smooth and low.
She turned, taking him in, the sharp jawline, the intense blue eyes, the way his hair fell slightly tousled. He looked like he could handle whatever chaos she threw at him.
"Rough week ahead," she replied, her words slurring just a touch from the alcohol. "How about you?"
"Same. Needed to unwind one last time." His gaze lingered on her lips as she sipped her drink, a spark igniting between them.
From there, it flowed effortlessly. They traded stories without details, no names, no jobs, just the universal gripes of burnout and the thrill of rebellion. She giggled when he mimicked a disastrous meeting, her hand brushing his arm accidentally. He leaned in closer, his knee nudging hers under the bar, the contact sending a warm buzz through her veins that had nothing to do with the booze.
"You could be trouble," she teased, her eyes sparkling as she clinked her glass against his.
"Only the good kind," he shot back, his thumb grazing her wrist when he passed her a napkin. The flirting escalated, playful jabs turning into heated glances, laughter weaving through innuendos. They fit together in conversation like puzzle pieces she hadn't known were missing, the chemistry crackling like static. No need for introductions; their bodies spoke louder, leaning in, touching more boldly with each passing minute.
An hour blurred by, and when her hand lingered on his thigh during a shared joke, he caught it, his fingers intertwining with hers.
"My apartments just a few streets away," she murmured, her breath warm against his ear. "If you're up for blowing off more steam."
His eyes darkened with intent. "Lead the way."
The cool night air did little to sober them as they stumbled out, arms linked, giggling like teenagers. The short walk to her apartment was filled with stolen kisses against lampposts, his hands on her waist pulling her close. By the time they reached her floor, sleek and modern, with a king bed dominating the space, the tension was electric.
The door clicked shut, and he was on her, backing her against the wall with a hunger that matched her own. His mouth claimed hers in a deep, messy kiss, tongues tangling as hands roamed. She tasted the whiskey on him, he savored the sweetness of her drink.
Her fingers fumbled with his shirt buttons, yanking it open to reveal the defined planes of his chest, muscles honed from discipline. He shrugged it off, then peeled her top away, exposing the lace of her bra.
"Fuck, you're gorgeous," he breathed, his lips trailing down her neck, nipping at her collarbone. She arched into him, a soft moan escaping as his hands cupped her breasts, thumbs circling her hardening nipples through the lace fabric.
They shed the rest in a haze, her skirt pooling at her feet, his jeans kicked aside, as he picked her up pulling her lingerie clad body into him, skin flushed and heated.
He guided her to the bed, laying her back gently but with purpose. "I want to take my time with you," he said, voice husky, eyes locked on hers. "Tell me what feels good."
She nodded, heart racing, as he kissed his way down her body, over her breasts, sucking one nipple into his mouth while pinching the other, drawing gasps from her. Lower still, his tongue dipped into her navel, then traced the line of her hip. When he settled between her thighs, spreading them wide, she felt exposed and thrilled.
"Relax for me," he murmured, his breath hot against her core. "You're already so wet. So perfect." His fingers parted her folds, and he licked a slow, deliberate stripe from her entrance to her clit. She bucked, a whimper slipping out.
He chuckled softly, the vibration sending sparks through her. "Easy. I've got you." His tongue circled her clit with expert precision, flicking, then flattening to lap at her steadily. One finger slid inside her, curling to stroke that sensitive spot, while his free hand held her hip steady.
"Oh, yes, like that," she panted, her hands fisting the sheets. The pleasure built fast, alcohol amplifying every sensation.
"Good girl," he praised, the words slipping out naturally as he felt her walls clench around his finger. Her body responded instantly, thighs trembling, a fresh gush of arousal coating his hand. He noted it, a satisfied hum escaping him. "You like that, don't you? Being my good girl."
She nodded frantically, the praise igniting something deep. "Please. More."
He added a second finger, thrusting them in rhythm with his tongue's assault on her clit. He talked her through it, voice low and encouraging. "That's it, let go. Feel how tight you are around me? You're doing so well, taking my mouth and fingers." The coil wound tighter, her moans growing louder, until she shattered, orgasm crashing over her in waves, pussy pulsing as she cried out, juices flooding his mouth.
He didn't stop, lapping gently through the aftershocks before building her up again.
Satisfied, he kissed his way back up, positioning himself between her legs. His cock was thick and hard, the tip nudging her entrance. "Ready for me?" he asked, rubbing against her slickness.
"Yes," she breathed, wrapping her legs around him.
He pushed in slowly, inch by inch, groaning at the tight heat enveloping him. "Holy shit, you feel incredible. Like we were made for this."
She gasped at the stretch, the way he filled her completely, no awkward fumbling, just perfect alignment, as if their bodies had mapped each other in some past life.
Once seated deep, he paused, letting her adjust, then began to move, long, deliberate thrusts that hit every nerve. "You're taking me so well," he murmured, his forehead against hers. "Good girl, just like that. Relax and feel it."
The praise made her clench around him, drawing a moan from his lips. He set a steady rhythm, hips snapping forward, the bed creaking under them. For strangers, it was insanely intense, the way his cock dragged along her walls, the friction on her clit with every grind. She met his thrusts, nails digging into his back, lost in the sensation of how seamlessly they connected.
"You're like an angel undoing beneath me," he whispered, voice rough with awe, one hand sliding between them to rub her clit. "So beautiful when you fall apart. Cum for me again, let me feel it."
The words, combined with his relentless pace, pushed her over the edge a third time. Her pussy spasmed around him, milking his cock as she shattered, stars bursting behind her eyelids. He followed soon after, thrusts erratic as he buried himself deep, spilling hot cum inside her with a guttural groan. "Fuck, yes, take it all."
They collapsed together, breaths ragged, bodies slick with sweat. For a moment, they lay tangled, the room spinning slightly from the alcohol and exertion. Then, unexpectedly, he stirred, pressing a soft kiss to her temple before slipping from the bed. She watched, dazed, as he grabbed a washcloth from the bathroom, returning to gently clean between her thighs, wiping away the evidence of their passion with careful strokes.
"You deserve this," he said quietly, his touch tender, a stark contrast to the raw intensity moments before. She'd never had aftercare from a hookup; it felt intimate, almost caring, stirring something warm in her chest.
Once done, he dressed quickly, leaning down to brush her hair from her face. "Have a good sleep, angel," he murmured, a soft smile on his lips before he slipped out the door, leaving her in the quiet glow of satisfaction and wonder.
Monday crept up on her. It was like her holiday didn’t even happen.
The studio is chaos.
Assistants rushing back and forth, racks of clothes squeaking across the floor, stylists arguing over shades of black like it’s life or death. The hum of cameras, lighting adjustments, someone calling for coffee that never seems to arrive.
“Oh Max. Come through if you just stand here!” The assistant beams at whoever Max is.
She soon figures it out as his eyes catch her as he walks on set, unlocking the memories of the their one night stand.
He holds her mortified stare, but his face cocky, a smirk drifting onto his lips.
“Hello Angel.” He laughs out.
“Shit,” you whisper under your breath.
His smirk deepens.
Of course he heard that.
“Good to see you too,” he murmurs, walking toward you like he’s not about to ruin your entire sense of composure in the middle of a professional shoot.
Max stops just in front of you, close enough that no one else would notice anything unusual, but close enough that you can feel the heat of him.
“Photographer?” he says quietly, voice teasing. “Didn’t expect that.”
You don’t look at him.
“Didn’t expect to see you again at all,” you shoot back under your breath, adjusting your settings like your hands aren’t suddenly very aware of his presence.
A soft chuckle. “Mm,” he hums. “And here I thought we had a connection.”
The shoot is… difficult. Max refuses to make it easy.
Not once does he look where he’s told, or even at the camera. He’s looking deep into your eyes, into your soul. Like it’s a private game and no one else in the room exists.
“Eyes here,” you snap at one point, gesturing to the lens.
He tilts his head slightly.
“I am looking where I want to,” he replies casually.
A few of the crew laugh, thinking it’s playful. Only you know it’s not.
You step closer, lowering your voice.
“If you don’t cooperate, I will make this shoot drag on for hours.”
His lips twitch.
“You threatening me?”
“Yes.”
“Good,” he murmurs. “I like that.”
You pull back immediately, clearing your throat.
“Reset. Wardrobe change.”
Thank God. Anything to put distance between you.
By the time the shoot wraps, you’re exhausted.
Holding yourself together in front of your not so mysterious one night stand feels like trying to keep a glass from cracking under pressure.
People start packing up. The energy loosens. Conversations pick up.
You’re reviewing shots on your camera when you feel him again.
“You’re good,” Max says, voice quieter now, less teasing.
You glance up, caught off guard.
“What?”
He nods toward your camera.
“Photos. They’re…” he pauses, searching for a word he doesn’t use often. “…impressive.”
For a second, the cocky edge drops.
“…Thanks,” you say, softer than you intended.
He pulls out his phone, taps something quickly, then takes your hand before you can react. Your breath catches at the touch, flashes of your night circle your brain.
He presses something into your palm, his phone, open to a contact screen.
“Put your number in,” he says simply.
You hesitate.
“This is a bad idea.”
“Probably,” he agrees easily.
That shouldn’t make it more tempting. But it does. So you type your digits in.
He takes the phone back, glancing at it briefly before slipping it away.
“I might want you to shoot for me again,” he says, tone light, but there’s something deliberate underneath it. “Private session. Less people. Less… interruptions.”
You roll your eyes slightly, trying to ignore the way your pulse picks up. “Or we can keep it professional.”
Summary: avoidant oscar fighting his feelings & secure reader fighting them harder.
I actually high key love this one. Pat on the back for me.
Written to Rein Me In - Sam Fender With Olivia Dean
F1 Masterlist
Oscar always did this thing where he made loving him feel easy right before he made it impossible.
He’d reach for her hand in public like it was instinct. He’d remember how she took her coffee, how she liked the crusts cut off toast when she was tired, how she always got cold in cinemas and pretended she wasn’t. He’d kiss her forehead absentmindedly, pull her into his side on sofas, send her photos of stupidly shaped clouds and say looks like you.
He’d do all the things a boyfriend did.
And then, as soon as it started to feel too real, too named, too much like something he could lose, he’d go quiet.
Not cruel. Nor mean. That was on of the worst parts.
There were never any slammed doors. No shouting matches. No dramatic endings to pin the blame on. Oscar just retreated. He’d answer texts slower. He’d become impossible to read. He’d act like he was busy, tired, distracted. Like something private had swallowed him whole.
And then a week later, sometimes two, he’d come back with that careful look in his eyes and his hands in his pockets and a soft, “Hi.”
The cycle had continued for the 8 months they’d been seeing each other. Until one day, it was time to break it.
That day had been almost offensively lovely.
The kind of day that made her angry now, in hindsight, because it had been so good she’d let herself believe maybe this time would be different.
They’d stayed in all morning, lazy and laughing, sunlight spilling across Oscar’s kitchen while he attempted pancakes and nearly set off the smoke alarm twice. She’d stood barefoot by the counter stealing strawberries from the bowl and he’d nudged her hip with his, quiet smile tucked into his cheek, eyes softer than he ever let them be for long.
Then he’d let her choose the music. Let her wander around his house like she belonged there. Let her fold the throw blanket over the back of the sofa after they’d used it. Let her rinse out their mugs and line them by the sink. Let her move through his space with a kind of absent domestic ease that felt terrifyingly, beautifully natural.
Like this could be a life and that was exactly the problem.
By evening, she could feel the shift happen.
Oscar was sitting at the kitchen island while she pottered around, talking about something inconsequential, something a friend had texted her, maybe, or a video she’d seen online, and he was barely answering now.
Just humming.
Nodding.
“Mm.”
“Yeah.”
“Right.”
His eyes were distant. His shoulders too tight. His knee bouncing once under the stool, then stilling when he realised.
She stopped talking. The silence stretched.
He looked up at her, blinked once, like he’d forgotten she was there for a second.
That hurt more than it should have.
She dried her hands slowly on the tea towel and studied him. The set jaw. The blank expression he wore when he was trying not to feel too much. The way his hands were clasped together like he was physically holding himself back from bolting.
The whole day had been warm and romantic and sweet, and now he looked at her like she was a his biggest fear.
Like seeing her in his kitchen, in his home, fitting there so naturally, had made him panic.
And that look, that familiar distant look, finally made her snap.
“Oscar.”
His head lifted. “What?”
She let out a breath through her nose. “You’re doing it again.”
A flicker of guilt crossed his face before he could stop it. “Doing what?”
She gave a short, humourless laugh. “That. Exactly that. Pretending you don’t know.”
He looked down at his hands.
“Today was lovely,” she said, quieter now, which somehow made what was to come harsher. “It was sweet, and romantic, and easy, and I was stupid enough to think maybe you were finally okay with that. But now you’ve gone all quiet on me because I made the mistake of existing in your house like I belong here.”
His brows pulled together. “That’s not,”
“It is.” Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “You always do this. You let me get close, you pull me in, you make me feel safe, and then the second it starts looking like something real, you panic and push me away.”
He stood from the stool then, restless, agitated. “I’m not pushing you away.”
She stared at him.
Oscar lasted maybe two seconds under the weight of that look before glancing off to the side.
Her chest ached.
“Do you know what the worst part is?” she asked. “There’s never even a big explosion. No huge fight, no terrible thing either of us did. It’s just what you do. You pull away, disappear into your own head, leave me hanging there, and then come back when you’ve decided you can handle me again.”
His jaw worked. “It’s not like that.”
“Then tell me what it’s like.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Because that was the thing with Oscar. When it mattered most, when it came down to the vulnerable, ugly, honest truth of it, he had nowhere to put his feelings. No language for them. Just silence and retreat and the hope that if he waited long enough, the moment would pass.
But she was done letting it pass.
“You’re too proud to let someone in,” she said, voice steady but trembling at the edges. “Too proud to let someone love you properly. You go round acting like love and emotion make you weak, like being vulnerable is something embarrassing, something beneath you.”
He looked at her then, and the pain she could see in his face nearly undid her. But she kept going.
“It’s cowardly, Oscar.”
His expression shifted, like the word had struck bone.
“You’re not brave because you keep everything locked up,” she said. “You’re running away. That’s what this is. You are so afraid of that heart inside your chest that you’d rather ruin something good than risk letting it matter.”
His breathing had gone shallow.
She could see his thoughts racing, a million miles an hour behind eyes that always gave too little away. But she had spent too long translating silence into hope.
“I’m here,” she said, softer now, because despite everything, she still loved him enough to make this gentle. “I have been here. Patiently. Consistently. Loving you in every quiet space you left open for me.”
His face crumpled for a fraction of a second.
“But I won’t be forever,” she finished. “Not if you can’t let me.”
The kitchen felt unbearably still.
Oscar said nothing.
Just looked at her, his face pale and stricken, like she’d reached inside his chest and named every fear he’d spent the past 8 months trying to hide.
“You can’t rein me in,” she whispered, “and then push me away when I get too close.”
His lips parted. No sound came out.
And that was her answer, really.
She nodded once, more to herself than to him, and set the tea towel on the counter.
“Y/n,” he started, but it was weak, too late, more breath than word.
She grabbed her bag from the chair.
He took half a step forward, then stopped. Always stopping.
“I don’t want to love someone who’s scared of my love,” she said.
⸻
The first night without her, felt different from times before. It felt permanent, Oscar didn’t sleep.
The second night, he drove nowhere for an hour and ended up parked outside a closed supermarket, staring blankly at the steering wheel.
By the third day, the apartment was unbearable.
Her absence was everywhere. In the mug she always reached for. In the blanket folded neatly over the sofa. In the playlist still paused on his speaker because he couldn’t bring himself to change it. In the silence, mostly. The awful, oppressive silence where her voice should’ve been.
He’d spent so long convincing himself distance kept him safe that he’d never really considered what it would feel like when it finally cost him something.
He tried to work. Tried to focus. Tried to bury it under work out routines and discipline and all the things that had always made life feel manageable.
It didn’t work.
Because her words kept coming back.
You’re not brave. You’re running away.
Oscar had told himself every version of the lie. That he was protecting her. That he was being sensible. That he just needed space, that things got too intense, that he wasn’t built for loud, consuming love. But the truth was uglier and simpler.
He was scared.
Scared of needing someone. Scared of not being enough once the shine wore off. Scared that if he let her see all of him, every unsure, silent, insufficient part, she’d realise she deserved better and leave anyway.
So he kept leaving first, in little pieces. Not enough to end it. Just enough to stay unclaimed by it.
And now she was gone for real. On her terms. Because of him.
He sat with that for 3 days before finally calling his mum.
It took him three attempts to press the button.
When she answered, cheerful and unsuspecting, his throat nearly closed.
“Hi, darling,” she said. “Everything alright?”
Oscar looked out the window for a long moment. Grey sky. Nothing weather. The kind that made everything feel flatter.
“No,” he said quietly.
There was a pause. Her voice gentled. “What happened?”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, one hand pressed to his mouth.
For a minute, he genuinely thought he might not say it. That he’d called just to sit there and breathe and then make some excuse and hang up. But even he was so tired of his own cowardice.
“I messed it up,” he said finally. “With her.”
His mum didn’t rush in. Didn’t fill the silence for him. She knew him too well for that.
So the words came, stilted at first, then in a painful, awkward stream. About the cycle. About how good it had been. About her standing in his kitchen, telling him the truth with tears she refused to let fall. About how he’d just stood there like an idiot while the best thing in his life walked out the door.
When he finished, the line was quiet for a beat.
Then, softly, “Oh, Oscar.”
He shut his eyes.
“She sounds like a good one,” his mum said.
“She is.”
“Then don’t lose this. Don’t be scared of a good thing just because it’s good,” she continued. “And don’t convince yourself you don’t deserve it. You do. But that isn’t really the issue, is it?”
Oscar stared at the floor.
“No.”
“No,” she agreed. “The issue is that you hurt her. And I’m not the one you need to be telling that to.”
He huffed out something that was almost a laugh, except it broke halfway through.
His mum’s voice softened further. “You don’t get to protect yourself at the expense of someone who’s trying to love you, sweetheart.”
The truth of it landed heavy.
“I know.”
“Then go and tell her that.”
The next morning, Oscar spent thirty minutes in a flower shop and somehow felt more out of his depth there than on any grid, in any race, under any pressure.
Every arrangement seemed wrong.
Too much. Too little. Too bright. Too impersonal. Too polished. Too random.
He stood staring at a bucket of white lilies like they’d personally offended him.
The florist, after watching him silently spiral for what was probably an embarrassing amount of time, came over with kind eyes and asked, “What’s the occasion?”
Oscar looked at the flowers, then at her.
“I’ve ruined my life a bit,” he said.
She blinked. “Right.”
“I need… I don’t know. Something that says I’m sorry, but also that I love her, but also that she’s,” He broke off, scrubbed a hand over his face. “She’s everything good, basically.”
The florist’s expression softened into something sympathetic.
They built it together in the end. Not too formal. Not too flashy. Soft cream and pale pink and little wild bits of green that made it look alive rather than perfected. The kind of bouquet that looked like spring had been gathered by hand.
He hoped she’d like it.
He hoped she’d even open the door.
By the time he got to her place, his palms were damp and his heartbeat was ridiculous.
He stood on her doorstep for a full minute, clutching the flowers like a complete freak, trying to gather the courage to knock.
Then the door opened before he could.
She froze. Her eyes went wide.
Oscar, caught mid-spiral with a bouquet in his hands and panic written all over his face, probably looked deranged.
She stared at him for one stunned second, then another. And then, to his immense humiliation, she laughed. Just a short, startled burst of it.
He blinked at her. “What?”
“You’re just standing there,” she said, breathless with disbelief. “Like a weirdo.”
Despite everything, despite the nerves and guilt and the fact his entire chest felt flayed open, something warm flickered at the sound of her laugh.
Then she took in his expression properly. The flowers. His pallor. The way he seemed to be holding himself together by force.
Her smile faded.
“Oscar,” she said, stepping forward a little. “Are you okay? You’re pale.”
He swallowed.
“No,” he said honestly. “Not really.”
Concern creased her face immediately, because of course it did. Because she was her. And God, he loved her.
“I,” He exhaled shakily. “Can I come in? Or… no, that’s fair if not. I just, I need to say this.”
She hesitated before opening the door wider.
He stepped inside like he was entering a church.
She led him into the living room, and he remained standing even when she gestured weakly toward the sofa, because sitting felt impossible. The bouquet trembled slightly in his grip. Annoying.
He held them out to her.
She looked surprised as she took them. “These are beautiful.”
“They’re not as beautiful as you,” he said immediately, then looked faintly horrified at himself.
Her brows lifted.
He pressed his lips together. “Sorry. That was,”
“No,” she said, soft and shocked all at once. “No, keep going. This is a bit unbelievable.”
A laugh escaped her, but it was gentler this time.
Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, took one breath, then another.
“I’ve been scared,” he said.
He looked at her, not at the wall, not at the floor, not out the window. He was facing it, facing her head on, like a deer in headlights.
“I’ve been scared for a long time. Of relationships. Of getting it wrong. Of being responsible for someone else’s feelings in that way and not being enough, eventually.” His voice roughened. “Of you realising I’m not enough for you.”
Her expression changed, hurt and tenderness tangling together.
“Oscar,”
“No, let me say it properly.” He shook his head, almost pleading. “Please.”
She nodded.
He drew in a shaky breath.
“When things are easy between us, when it’s just us being us, I feel happy. Calm. Better than calm, actually. Like life makes sense in a way it usually doesn’t.” He swallowed. “And then I notice how much I care, how much room you’ve made inside me without even trying, and I panic. Because if I let myself have it, really have it, then I can lose it. And I think somewhere along the way I decided it would hurt less if I kept one foot out the door.”
“It doesn’t hurt less,” he said quietly. “It just hurts you instead.”
She was very still now, flowers clutched gently to her chest.
Oscar stepped closer.
“I know I’ve made you feel like something to be picked up and put down depending on what I can handle. I know I’ve taken your patience and your understanding and your love and treated them like they’d wait for me forever.” His voice cracked slightly. “That wasn’t fair. It was selfish. And you were right.”
She blinked fast.
“You were right about all of it,” he said. “I was acting like vulnerability made me weak. Like feeling deeply was something shameful. Like shutting you out was somehow me being in control, or protecting myself, or being sensible.” He gave a small, miserable shake of his head. “It wasn’t. It was cowardly.”
Her mouth parted softly on an inhale.
“I was a coward.”
The words sat between them, raw and unadorned.
Oscar had never hated himself more than he had in the days since she left. But saying it now, in front of her, felt less like punishment and more like truth. The necessary kind.
“I’m terrified,” he admitted. “I’m terrified of another relationship going wrong. I’m terrified of disappointing you. I’m terrified that one day you’ll wake up and realise you deserve someone easier, someone warmer, someone who doesn’t need to be dragged out of his own head every time he feels too much.”
Her eyes filled.
He kept going anyway.
“But I’m more terrified of not having you in my life.”
That landed. He saw it land.
“You are,” He stopped, started again. “You are the kindest person I know. The most understanding. The most infuriatingly patient. You’ve loved me with more grace than I ever earned, and you still somehow manage to make everything lighter when you walk into a room.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. He took another step forward, helplessly drawn.
“You’re sunshine personified,” he said, voice softening. “You know that? It sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. You make places feel warm. You make people feel seen. You make my house feel like a home just by existing in it. And instead of being grateful enough to hold onto that, I got scared of how much I wanted it.”
She laughed once through her tears, watery and disbelieving.
He smiled shakily.
“I love the way you fill silence without ruining it. I love the way you call me out when I’m being impossible. I love the way you care for people so naturally, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. I love how you laugh at me when I deserve it and how you see right through me when I’m trying to hide.”
“I love you,” he said.
The words changed the air. Simple. Certain. Late, maybe. But true enough to shake him open.
“I love you,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “And I should’ve said it before. I should’ve said it every time I came back instead of expecting you to understand what I couldn’t bring myself to admit. I love you, and I don’t want to keep hurting you because I’m scared of being loved properly.”
He stopped right in front of her now. Close enough to see the tears on her lashes. The way she was breathing carefully, like one wrong move would tip this into something she couldn’t recover from.
“I’m not asking you to forget what I’ve done,” he said softly. “I know an apology doesn’t fix a pattern. And I know I don’t get to show up here with flowers and a speech and expect everything to be magically alright.”
Her grip tightened on the stems.
“But I am asking for a chance to do this differently,” he whispered. “Properly. No one foot out the door. No disappearing when it gets real. No making you pay for my fear.” His voice shook. “I want to be brave enough for this. For you.”
“I want to let you love me,” he said. “And I want to love you loudly, if you’ll still have me. I’m scared, yeah. But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”
For a long second, she just looked at him.
Then, very quietly: “You really spent all this time working yourself up to come here and say all that?”
A choked laugh broke out of him. “Yeah.”
“And stood outside my door like a Victorian orphan?”
He covered his eyes briefly with one hand, mortified. “Probably.”
She laughed through her tears again, shaking her head. Then she lowered the bouquet onto the table beside her and stepped into him.
Oscar caught her instinctively, breath leaving him in a broken rush as her arms wrapped around his waist.
He held her like something precious and when she buried her face in his chest he thought, distantly, that this must be what relief felt like.
“I’m still angry with you,” she mumbled into his shirt.
“I know.”
“You really hurt me.”
His throat tightened. “I know.”
She leaned back just enough to look up at him, eyes red-rimmed and devastatingly beautiful. “You don’t get to do that again.”
He nodded immediately. “I won’t.”
Her gaze searched his face, as if checking for cracks in the promise.
Then, softly, “you cant keep pushing me away.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I won’t. I swear.”
She reached up and cupped his face.
And Oscar, who had spent so much of his life flinching from tenderness when it came too close, leaned into her palm like he’d been starved for it.
“I love you too,” she said.
His eyes shut. The sound he made was small and wrecked and full of relief. When he opened them again, she was smiling through tears.
“Bit dramatic, aren’t you?” she whispered.
He huffed a laugh. “Says the one who called me cowardly in my own kitchen.”
“You were being cowardly.”
“I know.”
She studied him for another second, then rose onto her toes and kissed him.
It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t frantic.
It was better than that. It was sure.
Oscar kissed her back like he meant it this time. Like he was done holding the best parts of himself at a distance. One hand came to her waist, the other still cradling her face, and every soft press of his mouth against hers felt like a promise: I’m here. I’m staying. I’m not running.
When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers.
“I’m going to be bad at this for a bit,” he admitted quietly. “Not loving you. I’m very good at that, apparently. But the talking, the not retreating, the… not acting like a frightened idiot.”
She smiled. “We’ll work on it.”
“We?” He smiled with a cocky raised eyebrow.
“Don’t make me take it back, Piastri.”
“Thank you,” he murmured.
She threaded her fingers through his. “For what?”
“For not letting me lose you before I figured out how to stop losing myself.”
Her expression softened completely.
Then she glanced toward the flowers on the table. “You did good, by the way.”
He followed her gaze. “I had help.”
“I assumed.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Bit rude.”
She grinned, the first full grin he’d seen from her since opening the door, and it hit him with all the force of salvation.
God. He really had almost lost this.
Never again.
She squeezed his hand. “Come on, then.”
“Where?”
“Kitchen,” she said. “You’ve made your grand declaration. You may as well stay and help me make breakfast.”
Domestic. Ordinary. Everything he’d once found terrifying.
Now it felt like mercy.
He let her lead him toward the kitchen, their hands linked between them, and for the first time Oscar didn’t feel the instinct to pull away from the shape of something real.
He let himself want it. Let himself keep it.
And when she looked back at him over her shoulder, all soft smile and sunlight, Oscar thought with sudden, quiet certainty being loved by her had never been the frightening thing.
Summary: avoidant oscar fighting his feelings & secure reader fighting them harder.
I actually high key love this one. Pat on the back for me.
Written to Rein Me In - Sam Fender With Olivia Dean
F1 Masterlist
Oscar always did this thing where he made loving him feel easy right before he made it impossible.
He’d reach for her hand in public like it was instinct. He’d remember how she took her coffee, how she liked the crusts cut off toast when she was tired, how she always got cold in cinemas and pretended she wasn’t. He’d kiss her forehead absentmindedly, pull her into his side on sofas, send her photos of stupidly shaped clouds and say looks like you.
He’d do all the things a boyfriend did.
And then, as soon as it started to feel too real, too named, too much like something he could lose, he’d go quiet.
Not cruel. Nor mean. That was on of the worst parts.
There were never any slammed doors. No shouting matches. No dramatic endings to pin the blame on. Oscar just retreated. He’d answer texts slower. He’d become impossible to read. He’d act like he was busy, tired, distracted. Like something private had swallowed him whole.
And then a week later, sometimes two, he’d come back with that careful look in his eyes and his hands in his pockets and a soft, “Hi.”
The cycle had continued for the 8 months they’d been seeing each other. Until one day, it was time to break it.
That day had been almost offensively lovely.
The kind of day that made her angry now, in hindsight, because it had been so good she’d let herself believe maybe this time would be different.
They’d stayed in all morning, lazy and laughing, sunlight spilling across Oscar’s kitchen while he attempted pancakes and nearly set off the smoke alarm twice. She’d stood barefoot by the counter stealing strawberries from the bowl and he’d nudged her hip with his, quiet smile tucked into his cheek, eyes softer than he ever let them be for long.
Then he’d let her choose the music. Let her wander around his house like she belonged there. Let her fold the throw blanket over the back of the sofa after they’d used it. Let her rinse out their mugs and line them by the sink. Let her move through his space with a kind of absent domestic ease that felt terrifyingly, beautifully natural.
Like this could be a life and that was exactly the problem.
By evening, she could feel the shift happen.
Oscar was sitting at the kitchen island while she pottered around, talking about something inconsequential, something a friend had texted her, maybe, or a video she’d seen online, and he was barely answering now.
Just humming.
Nodding.
“Mm.”
“Yeah.”
“Right.”
His eyes were distant. His shoulders too tight. His knee bouncing once under the stool, then stilling when he realised.
She stopped talking. The silence stretched.
He looked up at her, blinked once, like he’d forgotten she was there for a second.
That hurt more than it should have.
She dried her hands slowly on the tea towel and studied him. The set jaw. The blank expression he wore when he was trying not to feel too much. The way his hands were clasped together like he was physically holding himself back from bolting.
The whole day had been warm and romantic and sweet, and now he looked at her like she was a his biggest fear.
Like seeing her in his kitchen, in his home, fitting there so naturally, had made him panic.
And that look, that familiar distant look, finally made her snap.
“Oscar.”
His head lifted. “What?”
She let out a breath through her nose. “You’re doing it again.”
A flicker of guilt crossed his face before he could stop it. “Doing what?”
She gave a short, humourless laugh. “That. Exactly that. Pretending you don’t know.”
He looked down at his hands.
“Today was lovely,” she said, quieter now, which somehow made what was to come harsher. “It was sweet, and romantic, and easy, and I was stupid enough to think maybe you were finally okay with that. But now you’ve gone all quiet on me because I made the mistake of existing in your house like I belong here.”
His brows pulled together. “That’s not,”
“It is.” Her voice didn’t rise. It didn’t need to. “You always do this. You let me get close, you pull me in, you make me feel safe, and then the second it starts looking like something real, you panic and push me away.”
He stood from the stool then, restless, agitated. “I’m not pushing you away.”
She stared at him.
Oscar lasted maybe two seconds under the weight of that look before glancing off to the side.
Her chest ached.
“Do you know what the worst part is?” she asked. “There’s never even a big explosion. No huge fight, no terrible thing either of us did. It’s just what you do. You pull away, disappear into your own head, leave me hanging there, and then come back when you’ve decided you can handle me again.”
His jaw worked. “It’s not like that.”
“Then tell me what it’s like.”
He opened his mouth.
Closed it.
Because that was the thing with Oscar. When it mattered most, when it came down to the vulnerable, ugly, honest truth of it, he had nowhere to put his feelings. No language for them. Just silence and retreat and the hope that if he waited long enough, the moment would pass.
But she was done letting it pass.
“You’re too proud to let someone in,” she said, voice steady but trembling at the edges. “Too proud to let someone love you properly. You go round acting like love and emotion make you weak, like being vulnerable is something embarrassing, something beneath you.”
He looked at her then, and the pain she could see in his face nearly undid her. But she kept going.
“It’s cowardly, Oscar.”
His expression shifted, like the word had struck bone.
“You’re not brave because you keep everything locked up,” she said. “You’re running away. That’s what this is. You are so afraid of that heart inside your chest that you’d rather ruin something good than risk letting it matter.”
His breathing had gone shallow.
She could see his thoughts racing, a million miles an hour behind eyes that always gave too little away. But she had spent too long translating silence into hope.
“I’m here,” she said, softer now, because despite everything, she still loved him enough to make this gentle. “I have been here. Patiently. Consistently. Loving you in every quiet space you left open for me.”
His face crumpled for a fraction of a second.
“But I won’t be forever,” she finished. “Not if you can’t let me.”
The kitchen felt unbearably still.
Oscar said nothing.
Just looked at her, his face pale and stricken, like she’d reached inside his chest and named every fear he’d spent the past 8 months trying to hide.
“You can’t rein me in,” she whispered, “and then push me away when I get too close.”
His lips parted. No sound came out.
And that was her answer, really.
She nodded once, more to herself than to him, and set the tea towel on the counter.
“Y/n,” he started, but it was weak, too late, more breath than word.
She grabbed her bag from the chair.
He took half a step forward, then stopped. Always stopping.
“I don’t want to love someone who’s scared of my love,” she said.
⸻
The first night without her, felt different from times before. It felt permanent, Oscar didn’t sleep.
The second night, he drove nowhere for an hour and ended up parked outside a closed supermarket, staring blankly at the steering wheel.
By the third day, the apartment was unbearable.
Her absence was everywhere. In the mug she always reached for. In the blanket folded neatly over the sofa. In the playlist still paused on his speaker because he couldn’t bring himself to change it. In the silence, mostly. The awful, oppressive silence where her voice should’ve been.
He’d spent so long convincing himself distance kept him safe that he’d never really considered what it would feel like when it finally cost him something.
He tried to work. Tried to focus. Tried to bury it under work out routines and discipline and all the things that had always made life feel manageable.
It didn’t work.
Because her words kept coming back.
You’re not brave. You’re running away.
Oscar had told himself every version of the lie. That he was protecting her. That he was being sensible. That he just needed space, that things got too intense, that he wasn’t built for loud, consuming love. But the truth was uglier and simpler.
He was scared.
Scared of needing someone. Scared of not being enough once the shine wore off. Scared that if he let her see all of him, every unsure, silent, insufficient part, she’d realise she deserved better and leave anyway.
So he kept leaving first, in little pieces. Not enough to end it. Just enough to stay unclaimed by it.
And now she was gone for real. On her terms. Because of him.
He sat with that for 3 days before finally calling his mum.
It took him three attempts to press the button.
When she answered, cheerful and unsuspecting, his throat nearly closed.
“Hi, darling,” she said. “Everything alright?”
Oscar looked out the window for a long moment. Grey sky. Nothing weather. The kind that made everything feel flatter.
“No,” he said quietly.
There was a pause. Her voice gentled. “What happened?”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, one hand pressed to his mouth.
For a minute, he genuinely thought he might not say it. That he’d called just to sit there and breathe and then make some excuse and hang up. But even he was so tired of his own cowardice.
“I messed it up,” he said finally. “With her.”
His mum didn’t rush in. Didn’t fill the silence for him. She knew him too well for that.
So the words came, stilted at first, then in a painful, awkward stream. About the cycle. About how good it had been. About her standing in his kitchen, telling him the truth with tears she refused to let fall. About how he’d just stood there like an idiot while the best thing in his life walked out the door.
When he finished, the line was quiet for a beat.
Then, softly, “Oh, Oscar.”
He shut his eyes.
“She sounds like a good one,” his mum said.
“She is.”
“Then don’t lose this. Don’t be scared of a good thing just because it’s good,” she continued. “And don’t convince yourself you don’t deserve it. You do. But that isn’t really the issue, is it?”
Oscar stared at the floor.
“No.”
“No,” she agreed. “The issue is that you hurt her. And I’m not the one you need to be telling that to.”
He huffed out something that was almost a laugh, except it broke halfway through.
His mum’s voice softened further. “You don’t get to protect yourself at the expense of someone who’s trying to love you, sweetheart.”
The truth of it landed heavy.
“I know.”
“Then go and tell her that.”
The next morning, Oscar spent thirty minutes in a flower shop and somehow felt more out of his depth there than on any grid, in any race, under any pressure.
Every arrangement seemed wrong.
Too much. Too little. Too bright. Too impersonal. Too polished. Too random.
He stood staring at a bucket of white lilies like they’d personally offended him.
The florist, after watching him silently spiral for what was probably an embarrassing amount of time, came over with kind eyes and asked, “What’s the occasion?”
Oscar looked at the flowers, then at her.
“I’ve ruined my life a bit,” he said.
She blinked. “Right.”
“I need… I don’t know. Something that says I’m sorry, but also that I love her, but also that she’s,” He broke off, scrubbed a hand over his face. “She’s everything good, basically.”
The florist’s expression softened into something sympathetic.
They built it together in the end. Not too formal. Not too flashy. Soft cream and pale pink and little wild bits of green that made it look alive rather than perfected. The kind of bouquet that looked like spring had been gathered by hand.
He hoped she’d like it.
He hoped she’d even open the door.
By the time he got to her place, his palms were damp and his heartbeat was ridiculous.
He stood on her doorstep for a full minute, clutching the flowers like a complete freak, trying to gather the courage to knock.
Then the door opened before he could.
She froze. Her eyes went wide.
Oscar, caught mid-spiral with a bouquet in his hands and panic written all over his face, probably looked deranged.
She stared at him for one stunned second, then another. And then, to his immense humiliation, she laughed. Just a short, startled burst of it.
He blinked at her. “What?”
“You’re just standing there,” she said, breathless with disbelief. “Like a weirdo.”
Despite everything, despite the nerves and guilt and the fact his entire chest felt flayed open, something warm flickered at the sound of her laugh.
Then she took in his expression properly. The flowers. His pallor. The way he seemed to be holding himself together by force.
Her smile faded.
“Oscar,” she said, stepping forward a little. “Are you okay? You’re pale.”
He swallowed.
“No,” he said honestly. “Not really.”
Concern creased her face immediately, because of course it did. Because she was her. And God, he loved her.
“I,” He exhaled shakily. “Can I come in? Or… no, that’s fair if not. I just, I need to say this.”
She hesitated before opening the door wider.
He stepped inside like he was entering a church.
She led him into the living room, and he remained standing even when she gestured weakly toward the sofa, because sitting felt impossible. The bouquet trembled slightly in his grip. Annoying.
He held them out to her.
She looked surprised as she took them. “These are beautiful.”
“They’re not as beautiful as you,” he said immediately, then looked faintly horrified at himself.
Her brows lifted.
He pressed his lips together. “Sorry. That was,”
“No,” she said, soft and shocked all at once. “No, keep going. This is a bit unbelievable.”
A laugh escaped her, but it was gentler this time.
Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, took one breath, then another.
“I’ve been scared,” he said.
He looked at her, not at the wall, not at the floor, not out the window. He was facing it, facing her head on, like a deer in headlights.
“I’ve been scared for a long time. Of relationships. Of getting it wrong. Of being responsible for someone else’s feelings in that way and not being enough, eventually.” His voice roughened. “Of you realising I’m not enough for you.”
Her expression changed, hurt and tenderness tangling together.
“Oscar,”
“No, let me say it properly.” He shook his head, almost pleading. “Please.”
She nodded.
He drew in a shaky breath.
“When things are easy between us, when it’s just us being us, I feel happy. Calm. Better than calm, actually. Like life makes sense in a way it usually doesn’t.” He swallowed. “And then I notice how much I care, how much room you’ve made inside me without even trying, and I panic. Because if I let myself have it, really have it, then I can lose it. And I think somewhere along the way I decided it would hurt less if I kept one foot out the door.”
“It doesn’t hurt less,” he said quietly. “It just hurts you instead.”
She was very still now, flowers clutched gently to her chest.
Oscar stepped closer.
“I know I’ve made you feel like something to be picked up and put down depending on what I can handle. I know I’ve taken your patience and your understanding and your love and treated them like they’d wait for me forever.” His voice cracked slightly. “That wasn’t fair. It was selfish. And you were right.”
She blinked fast.
“You were right about all of it,” he said. “I was acting like vulnerability made me weak. Like feeling deeply was something shameful. Like shutting you out was somehow me being in control, or protecting myself, or being sensible.” He gave a small, miserable shake of his head. “It wasn’t. It was cowardly.”
Her mouth parted softly on an inhale.
“I was a coward.”
The words sat between them, raw and unadorned.
Oscar had never hated himself more than he had in the days since she left. But saying it now, in front of her, felt less like punishment and more like truth. The necessary kind.
“I’m terrified,” he admitted. “I’m terrified of another relationship going wrong. I’m terrified of disappointing you. I’m terrified that one day you’ll wake up and realise you deserve someone easier, someone warmer, someone who doesn’t need to be dragged out of his own head every time he feels too much.”
Her eyes filled.
He kept going anyway.
“But I’m more terrified of not having you in my life.”
That landed. He saw it land.
“You are,” He stopped, started again. “You are the kindest person I know. The most understanding. The most infuriatingly patient. You’ve loved me with more grace than I ever earned, and you still somehow manage to make everything lighter when you walk into a room.”
A tear slipped down her cheek. He took another step forward, helplessly drawn.
“You’re sunshine personified,” he said, voice softening. “You know that? It sounds ridiculous, but it’s true. You make places feel warm. You make people feel seen. You make my house feel like a home just by existing in it. And instead of being grateful enough to hold onto that, I got scared of how much I wanted it.”
She laughed once through her tears, watery and disbelieving.
He smiled shakily.
“I love the way you fill silence without ruining it. I love the way you call me out when I’m being impossible. I love the way you care for people so naturally, like it’s the easiest thing in the world. I love how you laugh at me when I deserve it and how you see right through me when I’m trying to hide.”
“I love you,” he said.
The words changed the air. Simple. Certain. Late, maybe. But true enough to shake him open.
“I love you,” he repeated, more firmly this time. “And I should’ve said it before. I should’ve said it every time I came back instead of expecting you to understand what I couldn’t bring myself to admit. I love you, and I don’t want to keep hurting you because I’m scared of being loved properly.”
He stopped right in front of her now. Close enough to see the tears on her lashes. The way she was breathing carefully, like one wrong move would tip this into something she couldn’t recover from.
“I’m not asking you to forget what I’ve done,” he said softly. “I know an apology doesn’t fix a pattern. And I know I don’t get to show up here with flowers and a speech and expect everything to be magically alright.”
Her grip tightened on the stems.
“But I am asking for a chance to do this differently,” he whispered. “Properly. No one foot out the door. No disappearing when it gets real. No making you pay for my fear.” His voice shook. “I want to be brave enough for this. For you.”
“I want to let you love me,” he said. “And I want to love you loudly, if you’ll still have me. I’m scared, yeah. But I’d rather be scared with you than safe without you.”
For a long second, she just looked at him.
Then, very quietly: “You really spent all this time working yourself up to come here and say all that?”
A choked laugh broke out of him. “Yeah.”
“And stood outside my door like a Victorian orphan?”
He covered his eyes briefly with one hand, mortified. “Probably.”
She laughed through her tears again, shaking her head. Then she lowered the bouquet onto the table beside her and stepped into him.
Oscar caught her instinctively, breath leaving him in a broken rush as her arms wrapped around his waist.
He held her like something precious and when she buried her face in his chest he thought, distantly, that this must be what relief felt like.
“I’m still angry with you,” she mumbled into his shirt.
“I know.”
“You really hurt me.”
His throat tightened. “I know.”
She leaned back just enough to look up at him, eyes red-rimmed and devastatingly beautiful. “You don’t get to do that again.”
He nodded immediately. “I won’t.”
Her gaze searched his face, as if checking for cracks in the promise.
Then, softly, “you cant keep pushing me away.”
“I know,” he whispered. “I won’t. I swear.”
She reached up and cupped his face.
And Oscar, who had spent so much of his life flinching from tenderness when it came too close, leaned into her palm like he’d been starved for it.
“I love you too,” she said.
His eyes shut. The sound he made was small and wrecked and full of relief. When he opened them again, she was smiling through tears.
“Bit dramatic, aren’t you?” she whispered.
He huffed a laugh. “Says the one who called me cowardly in my own kitchen.”
“You were being cowardly.”
“I know.”
She studied him for another second, then rose onto her toes and kissed him.
It wasn’t desperate. It wasn’t frantic.
It was better than that. It was sure.
Oscar kissed her back like he meant it this time. Like he was done holding the best parts of himself at a distance. One hand came to her waist, the other still cradling her face, and every soft press of his mouth against hers felt like a promise: I’m here. I’m staying. I’m not running.
When they finally pulled apart, he rested his forehead against hers.
“I’m going to be bad at this for a bit,” he admitted quietly. “Not loving you. I’m very good at that, apparently. But the talking, the not retreating, the… not acting like a frightened idiot.”
She smiled. “We’ll work on it.”
“We?” He smiled with a cocky raised eyebrow.
“Don’t make me take it back, Piastri.”
“Thank you,” he murmured.
She threaded her fingers through his. “For what?”
“For not letting me lose you before I figured out how to stop losing myself.”
Her expression softened completely.
Then she glanced toward the flowers on the table. “You did good, by the way.”
He followed her gaze. “I had help.”
“I assumed.”
He narrowed his eyes. “Bit rude.”
She grinned, the first full grin he’d seen from her since opening the door, and it hit him with all the force of salvation.
God. He really had almost lost this.
Never again.
She squeezed his hand. “Come on, then.”
“Where?”
“Kitchen,” she said. “You’ve made your grand declaration. You may as well stay and help me make breakfast.”
Domestic. Ordinary. Everything he’d once found terrifying.
Now it felt like mercy.
He let her lead him toward the kitchen, their hands linked between them, and for the first time Oscar didn’t feel the instinct to pull away from the shape of something real.
He let himself want it. Let himself keep it.
And when she looked back at him over her shoulder, all soft smile and sunlight, Oscar thought with sudden, quiet certainty being loved by her had never been the frightening thing.
NOTE: I am so bad at warnings. Anything with full throttle smut is always labelled, but suggestive language is not. Most of my writing contains angst/is full on angst. I always appreciate feedback good & bad. Thank you for reading & interacting.
Requests are open. I like to write to a song so if you have a song suggestion feel free to slide in ;)
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