I cry a lot, but I am so productive

Reason 8: Violet’s unsettling hobbies

Violet had hobbies.

This should have been good.

Healthy, even.

People were supposed to have hobbies. Lando had hobbies. Golf. Streaming. Annoying Oscar. Accidentally agreeing to Quadrant ideas that later became his problem. Perfectly normal things.

Violet’s hobbies were not normal.

Violet pressed flowers.

That sounded normal at first.

Sweet, even.

Until Lando found out that half the flowers she pressed were poisonous.

“Vi likes botany,” Oscar said, like this was supposed to be comforting.

“She pressed foxglove in a book.”

“It’s pretty.”

“It can stop your heart.”

“So can your driving sometimes.”

“That was unnecessary.”

Violet also embroidered.

Again, normal in theory.

Except she embroidered tiny skulls onto tote bags, black flowers onto handkerchiefs, and once, horrifyingly, a tiny anatomically correct heart onto the sleeve of one of Oscar’s hoodies.

Oscar loved it.

Of course Oscar loved it.

Oscar walked into the McLaren garage wearing it like Violet had stitched his name into the stars.

Lando pointed at the sleeve. “Is that a heart?”

Oscar looked down. “Yeah.”

“Like a Valentine heart?”

“No.”

“No,” Lando said slowly, staring at the little red embroidered organ. “Of course not.”

“Vi made it.”

“I gathered.”

“She said it suited me.”

Lando stared at him.

Oscar stared back.

“Mate,” Lando said, “your girlfriend embroidered an organ on your clothes and said it suited you.”

Oscar’s face softened. “Yeah.”

Lando turned away. “You’re beyond help.”

Then there was the taxidermy.

Not real taxidermy, Violet insisted.

Ethical taxidermy.

Which, according to her, meant she only collected things that had already died naturally.

According to Lando, that did not make it better.

It made it sound like she had terms and conditions.

He found this out at Oscar’s apartment.

Obviously.

Because Oscar’s apartment had slowly become less Oscar’s apartment and more Violet’s tasteful little gothic nature museum.

There were pressed flowers in frames.

Antique books.

Black candles.

A tiny cabinet full of bones.

Bones.

Lando had stopped in front of it and gone completely still.

Oscar, carrying drinks from the kitchen, said, “Don’t be weird.”

Lando pointed. “There are bones in your living room.”

“They’re Vi’s.”

“That does not help.”

“They’re cleaned.”

“Again. Not helping.”

Violet appeared beside them silently, because of course she did, and looked at the cabinet.

“They’re mostly from owl pellets,” she said softly.

Lando stared at her.

Violet looked back.

Oscar took a sip of water like this was a normal evening.

“Owl pellets,” Lando repeated.

Violet nodded. “Owls can’t digest bones and fur properly, so they regurgitate them.”

There was a pause.

Lando slowly turned to Oscar.

Oscar looked at him.

“Your girlfriend collects owl vomit bones.”

Violet’s eyes widened.

Oscar closed his eyes.

“I clean them first,” Violet said quickly.

“Oh,” Lando said. “Brilliant. That fixes everything.”

Violet’s mouth twitched.

Lando pointed at her. “Don’t laugh. This is deeply concerning.”

“I’m not laughing.”

“You’re doing it silently.”

“She does that,” Oscar said fondly.

“Stop being fond about owl vomit bones!”

Violet laughed then. A real little laugh.

Oscar looked delighted.

Lando looked at the cabinet again and decided there were some battles he would simply never win.

And then there were the books.

The books were a separate category of concern.

Violet’s books had titles like:

Victorian Mourning Rituals.

Poisonous Plants of Europe.

The Social History of Death.

Witchcraft, Women, and Medicine.

Funerary Jewellery and Memory.

Oscar said she liked history.

Lando said there were better historical periods to enjoy.

“Has she considered the Romans?” Lando asked once.

Oscar looked up. “They killed a lot of people.”

“Fine. The Renaissance.”

“Also a lot of death.”

“The moon landing.”

Oscar stared at him. “That’s not a period.”

“It has less embalming.”

Violet, sitting beside Oscar with a cup of tea, whispered, “Not necessarily.”

Lando went cold.

Oscar started laughing.

“No,” Lando said immediately. “No. I don’t want to know. Keep your moon embalming facts to yourself.”

Violet smiled into her tea.

That was the other problem with her hobbies.

They gave her facts.

Terrible facts. Unsettling facts. Facts nobody had asked for.

You could say something innocent, like, “I hate the smell of almonds,” and Violet would softly explain that bitter almonds were historically associated with cyanide.

You could mention wedding rings, and Violet would tell you about mourning jewellery made from human hair.

You could say, “That flower is pretty,” and Violet would say, “It can cause paralysis.”

Always gently. Always politely. Like she was offering someone a biscuit.

Lando began to fear educational conversations.

One afternoon, he found her sitting in hospitality with a small embroidery hoop, carefully stitching something black and delicate onto fabric.

Lando approached with caution.

“What are you making?”

Violet looked up. “A moth.”

Lando relaxed slightly. “Oh. That’s nice.”

“A death’s-head hawkmoth.”

Lando stopped relaxing.

Oscar, without looking up, said, “Don’t start.”

“It has death in the name.”

“It’s a moth.”

“It has a skull on its back.”

“It didn’t choose that.”

Violet looked down at the embroidery. “I think it’s beautiful.”

Lando opened his mouth.

Then closed it.

Because she said it softly, with such genuine affection, and suddenly the whole thing became annoying again.

Because yes, it was unsettling.

But Violet did not like these things because they were creepy.

Not really.

She liked fragile things. Forgotten things. Misunderstood things. Things people looked at once and decided were ugly or frightening or morbid before they bothered to understand them.

Poisonous flowers.

Snakes.

Moths.

Old mourning jewellery.

Tiny bones cleaned carefully and placed in glass jars.

Oscar.

Actually, that one made sense.

Lando looked at Oscar, who was sitting beside Violet, entirely comfortable in the middle of her gothic little ecosystem.

Oscar had one hand resting near hers on the table. Not touching, exactly. Just close enough that Violet could hook her little finger around his whenever she wanted.

She did.

Oscar’s thumb brushed over her knuckle.

***

Reason 9: Oscar was brainwashed

Reason 9 was the most disturbing reason of all.

Oscar was brainwashed.

There was no other explanation.

Lando had considered the evidence carefully, as any reasonable person would.

Oscar Piastri, who reacted to most things with the emotional intensity of a printer loading paper, had become soft.

Not generally.

Not in public.

Not with Lando, obviously, because Lando was apparently not worthy of gentleness despite being charming, funny, and essential to team morale.

But with Violet?

Oscar was gone.

Completely.

Tragically.

Embarrassingly gone.

He smiled at his phone.

He saved her the quiet seat in every room.

He carried her black tote bag without complaint, even though it had a tiny embroidered skull on it and made him look like an unwilling assistant in a gothic bakery.

He knew exactly how she liked her tea.

He could tell, from one tiny glance, when she was overwhelmed.

He listened when she whispered.

He leaned down so she didn’t have to speak louder.

He did not even blink when Belladonna was mentioned at the dinner table, which Lando thought was a very clear sign that Oscar’s survival instincts had been tampered with.

“He’s under her spell,” Lando told Max Fewtrell very seriously.

Max, who had unfortunately met Violet and decided she was “nice, actually,” did not look concerned enough.

“Maybe he just loves her.”

Lando stared at him.

“That’s what I said.”

“No,” Max said. “You said brainwashed.”

“Same thing.”

“It’s really not.”

“It is when she owns a snake named Belladonna.”

Max considered that. “Fair.”

Exactly.

Exactly.

But then the situation got worse.

Because Lando found the ring.

Not on purpose.

That was important.

He was not snooping.

He was not.

Oscar had asked him to grab a charger from his backpack. Those were the words Oscar had used. Can you grab my charger? It’s in the front pocket.

A normal request.

A teammate request.

A request that did not, in any reasonable world, suggest that Lando Norris would end up holding evidence of Oscar Piastri’s complete and irreversible emotional destruction.

The backpack was in Oscar’s driver room.

The charger was not in the front pocket.

Which was typical Oscar, because for someone who acted like a very organised spreadsheet, he was terrible at knowing where his own things were.

Lando opened the side pocket.

Nothing.

He opened the bigger pocket.

Still no charger.

He opened the smaller zipped pocket inside the bigger pocket, because at this point he was committed and also slightly annoyed.

There was no charger.

There was, however, a small velvet box.

Black velvet.

Of course.

Lando froze.

“No,” he whispered.

The box sat there innocently.

Too innocently.

Lando looked at the door.

Then back at the box.

He was not snooping.

He was investigating.

There was a difference.

Also, Oscar had put it in a backpack pocket and then sent Lando into the backpack unsupervised, which was practically entrapment.

Lando picked up the box.

It was heavy in his palm.

Not very heavy. Just heavy enough to feel ominous.

Like a cursed object.

Like something Violet would own.

“Oh no,” Lando whispered.

He opened it.

Then immediately shut it again.

Then opened it again, because his brain needed confirmation that it had not invented what it had just seen.

Inside was a ring.

An antique ring.

Not a normal shiny modern ring from a jewellery shop with clean lighting and champagne and sales assistants who said things like timeless elegance.

No.

This ring looked like it had a history.

A backstory.

A potential haunting.

It was Victorian-looking, all delicate gold scrollwork and tiny old-fashioned details, with little pale stones around the outside like stars caught in metal. But in the centre, where Lando assumed something normal was supposed to be — a diamond, a sapphire, maybe some romantic pastel thing — there was a black diamond.

A black diamond.

Deep and glossy and dark, catching the light like a secret.

Lando stared at it.

Then he stared harder.

Then, very calmly, he said, “Oscar Piastri, what the actual fuck.”

Behind him, Oscar said, “That is not the charger.”

Lando screamed.

Not a controlled exhale.

A scream.

The box nearly left his hand.

Oscar crossed the room in three long steps and caught Lando’s wrist before the ring could become a very expensive tragedy.

“Careful,” Oscar said sharply.

Lando clutched the box to his chest. “You appeared silently.”

“I walked in.”

“You and Violet are becoming one person and I hate it.”

Oscar’s eyes dropped to the box.

His face changed.

Not much.

But enough.

He reached out.

Lando held the box away from him.

“No.”

Oscar blinked. “Lando.”

“No. Explain yourself.”

“It’s a ring.”

“It’s a Victorian death ring.”

“It is not a death ring.”

“It has a black diamond in the middle.”

Oscar’s ears went slightly pink.

Oh.

Oh, Lando hated that.

“I changed the centre stone,” Oscar said.

Lando stared.

“You changed the centre stone.”

“Yes.”

“To a black diamond.”

“Yes.”

“On an antique Victorian ring.”

Oscar nodded.

Lando inhaled slowly.

“Right,” he said. “Right. Of course. Obviously. Why would you propose with something normal when you could give Wednesday Addams a ring that looks like it was pried from the hand of a tragic widow?”

Oscar’s expression went flat, but his ears were still pink.

“Vi will like it.”

That was the problem.

She would.

Violet would like it.

Violet would probably look at this alarming little piece of jewellery with its old gold and its black diamond heart and its faint air of moonlit inheritance drama, and she would go completely soft.

Worse, she would probably cry.

Silently.

Into Oscar’s shoulder.

And Oscar would look at her like he had personally been entrusted with the last fragile thing in the world.

Lando suddenly felt ill.

“You’re proposing,” he said.

Oscar was quiet.

Then, very simply, “Yeah.”

Lando looked at him.

Oscar Piastri, standing in his driver room in McLaren kit, looking infuriatingly calm except for the pink at the tips of his ears and the way his eyes kept flicking back to the ring box like he needed to make sure it was still there.

“You’re proposing,” Lando repeated.

“Yes.”

“To Violet.”

Oscar gave him a look. “Yes, Lando.”

“With this.”

“Yes.”

“A Victorian ring.”

“Yes.”

“With a black diamond.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched. “You’ve covered the important details.”

Lando sank down onto the little sofa.

He still held the ring box.

Oscar did not take it from him immediately, which meant he was either very trusting or very stupid.

Possibly both.

“You are brainwashed,” Lando said faintly.

Oscar sighed. “I am not brainwashed.”

“You bought an antique gothic proposal ring for your girlfriend who owns a snake named Belladonna.”

“I didn’t buy it because of the snake.”

“That is not the defence you think it is.”

Oscar sat down beside him.

Carefully, he took the ring box from Lando’s hand.

Lando let him, mostly because Oscar was looking at the ring in a way that made jokes feel slightly more difficult.

Annoyingly.

“It was originally an old mine cut diamond,” Oscar said, quieter now.

Lando blinked. “You know ring facts?”

Oscar ignored that. “It was pretty, but it didn’t feel like her.”

“Right, because it wasn’t ominous enough.”

Oscar gave him a sideways look.

Lando shut up.

For once.

Oscar opened the box again.

The black diamond caught the light.

“It’s old,” Oscar said. “Not perfect. The setting’s a bit unusual. The jeweller said some people wouldn’t like that because it’s not symmetrical enough.”

Lando looked at him.

Oscar’s thumb rested against the edge of the box.

“But Violet likes things with history,” he continued. “And she likes things that other people think are strange before they bother looking properly.”

Oh.

No.

Lando hated this.

He hated Oscar’s soft voice. He hated the stupid ring. He hated that it suited Violet. He hated that Oscar had clearly thought about this for longer than he had ever thought about anything Lando said to him.

“I thought about getting something modern,” Oscar said. “Something easy. But she wouldn’t want easy.”

Lando swallowed.

“She’d want haunted,” he said, because he needed to say something.

Oscar’s mouth curved.

“Probably.”

“And the black diamond?”

Oscar’s eyes stayed on the ring.

“She likes black,” he said.

“Yes, Oscar, we’ve all noticed.”

“And she doesn’t like being looked at too directly. Big bright diamonds felt wrong.”

Lando went quiet.

Oscar turned the box slightly, making the stone flash darkly under the light.

“This felt like her,” he said. “Soft around the edges. Strong in the middle.”

(Oh, come on. Come on.)

That was illegal.

Oscar was not allowed to say things like that.

Oscar was supposed to be emotionally constipated and deadpan and slightly annoying. He was not supposed to sit there holding an antique Victorian engagement ring with a black diamond and say things like soft around the edges, strong in the middle about his terrifying gothic girlfriend.

Lando rubbed both hands over his face.

“You are so gone,” he said.

Oscar did not deny it.

That was worse.

He simply looked at the ring for another second, then closed the box.

“I know.”

Lando froze.

Oscar did not look at him.

His ears were pink again.

Lando stared.

“You know?”

Oscar shrugged one shoulder. “Yeah.”

“You admit it?”

“I’m not brainwashed.”

“But you’re in love.”

Oscar was silent.

Then, very softly, “Yeah.”

Oh.

Oh, no.

No, this was becoming sincere.

Lando did not do well with sincere. He could mock. He could tease. He could turn anything into a joke and then pretend the joke had not revealed something deeply emotional. But Oscar saying yeah like that, quiet and certain and not even embarrassed enough to hide from it properly, was a problem.

A serious one.

Lando looked away first.

Obviously.

He had to preserve himself.

“Disgusting,” he muttered.

Oscar huffed a laugh.

“You can’t tell anyone,” Oscar said.

Lando turned back to him, offended. “Do I look like someone who would ruin your proposal?”

Oscar just looked at him.

“That is hurtful.”

“You told three people when I changed shampoo.”

“It smelled different.”

“Lando.”

“I won’t tell anyone,” Lando said. “Obviously.”

Oscar studied him for a second.

Then nodded.

Lando sat back, unsettled.

The ring sat between them in its black velvet box like a tiny gothic bomb.

“When?” Lando asked.

Oscar hesitated.

“Soon.”

“Soon?”

“After the triple-header. She hates big scenes, so not anywhere public. Not at a race. Not around cameras.”

Lando nodded slowly.

That made sense.

Violet would probably dissolve into the floor if Oscar proposed in front of people.

Or summon fog.

Either.

“I thought at home,” Oscar said. “After dinner. Just us.”

“Just you, Violet, and the snake named after poison.”

Oscar’s mouth twitched. “Belladonna will be in her enclosure.”

“That’s not the same as not being present.”

“She’s family.”

Lando pointed at him. “That remains concerning.”

Oscar smiled down at the ring box.

Idiot.

Complete idiot.

Brainwashed idiot.

And the worst part was that Lando could see it now.

Not the proposal exactly, because that felt private in a way even his imagination hesitated to intrude upon.

But the shape of it.

Violet in Oscar’s apartment, probably wearing black, probably barefoot, probably with her braids loose or half undone after a long day. Oscar making tea because Oscar always made tea when Violet seemed nervous. The quiet of it. The softness of it. Oscar, who could barely perform romance for a camera to save his life, kneeling down in their living room with an antique ring that looked like it belonged in one of Violet’s gothic novels.

Violet would go still.

Completely still.

Then her eyes would fill.

Then she would say his name in that tiny voice, like she could not believe someone had chosen her so precisely.

And Oscar would say something low and simple and devastating, because apparently he had that ability when it came to her.

Something like, It was always going to be you.

Lando groaned.

Oscar looked at him. “What?”

“I just imagined it.”

“Don’t.”

“I didn’t want to.”

“Then stop.”

“I can’t. It’s in my head now. You’re going to propose with a haunted ring and she’s going to cry and you’re going to look at her like that.”

Oscar frowned. “Like what?”

“Like she’s the softest thing in the world even when she’s reading about corpse flowers.”

Oscar looked down at the box.

His face softened.

“That,” Lando said, pointing. “Exactly that. Stop it.”

Oscar did not stop it.

Obviously.

Because he was useless.

Then, because apparently the universe had decided Lando had not suffered enough, the door opened.

Violet appeared.

Silently.

Of course.

Both Oscar and Lando jolted.

Oscar snapped the ring box shut so fast the little click sounded like a gunshot.

Violet stopped in the doorway.

She was wearing black, obviously. A long black skirt, black cardigan, black boots. Her braids were tied with little ribbons, and she held her skull tote bag against her side.

Her eyes moved from Oscar to Lando.

Then to Oscar’s hand.

Then back up.

“Is everything okay?” she asked softly.

Lando’s soul left his body.

Oscar, somehow, remained calm.

“Yes,” he said.

Lando nodded too quickly. “Yep. Normal. Very normal. We were just talking about chargers.”

Violet blinked.

Oscar slowly turned his head toward him.

Lando smiled.

Badly.

“Chargers,” Violet repeated.

“Yes,” Lando said. “Phone chargers. Electrical. Very modern. Not Victorian at all.”

Oscar closed his eyes.

Violet’s brows drew together.

Lando wanted to throw himself into the harbour.

Oscar stood, sliding the box into his pocket with a smoothness that frankly suggested he had been practicing hiding evidence from his terrifying girlfriend.

“Lando couldn’t find my charger,” Oscar said.

That, at least, was technically true.

Violet looked at Lando.

Lando looked at Violet.

For once, she did not look like a murder suspect.

She looked suspicious.

Which was fair.

Because Lando was acting like a man who had just been caught holding an engagement ring with a black diamond in a driver's room.

Which he had.

Violet tilted her head.

Lando panicked.

“I’m going to go,” he said.

Oscar said, “Good.”

Rude.

Violet stepped slightly aside to let him pass.

As Lando moved by her, she said softly, “Bye, Lando.”

He stopped.

Looked at her.

Black clothes. Braids. Pale face. Big dark eyes. Glossy black nails. Skull tote bag. Probably a book about death in there somewhere. Probably vegan snacks. Probably the emotional centre of Oscar’s entire universe.

Still suspicious.

Objectively.

But not dangerous.

Not to Oscar.

And maybe not to Lando either.

“Bye, Violet,” he said.

Then, because he had no self-preservation and possibly never had, he added, “Nice ribbons.”

Violet’s eyes widened.

Her hand lifted to one braid.

“Oh,” she said. “Thank you.”

Her cheeks went pink.

Oscar looked at Lando.

Not smug.

Not annoyed.

Grateful.

Again.

Absolutely unbearable.

Lando pointed at him. “Don’t.”

Oscar’s mouth curved. “I didn’t say anything.”

“You were thinking something.”

“Occasionally I do that.”

Violet made a tiny sound into her sleeve.

Lando narrowed his eyes. “You two deserve each other.”

Oscar looked at Violet.

Violet looked at Oscar.

And there it was again.

That stupid, quiet, obvious love.

Lando left before it could become worse.

But after that, Reason 9 changed.

Because yes, Oscar was brainwashed.

Or in love.

Whatever.

But Violet was not exactly escaping unharmed either.

Violet, who barely spoke to anyone else, spoke to Oscar like words were something she had been saving just for him.

Violet, who moved silently through rooms like a ghost trying not to disturb the living, always drifted toward Oscar.

Violet, who hid behind her sleeves and her braids and sometimes, absurdly, her black lace parasol, looked at Oscar like he was the safest place in the world.

And Oscar was planning to propose to her with a ring that understood her.

That was the part that kept bothering Lando.

Not because it was weird.

Although it was weird.

The black diamond was insane.

The antique Victorian setting was insane.

The fact that Belladonna would probably witness the proposal from her enclosure like a tiny scaly chaperone was insane.

But the ring was not random.

Oscar had looked at Violet — really looked at her — and chosen something strange and old and dark and delicate, because anything else would have been wrong.

That was harder to make fun of.

Lando still tried.

Obviously.

But it was harder.

One evening, after a long day at the track, Lando found them in the quiet corner of McLaren hospitality.

Oscar was sitting on one of the sofas, hoodie sleeves pushed up, phone abandoned beside him. Violet was tucked into his side, black skirt folded neatly over her knees, one braid falling across Oscar’s shoulder like it had decided to live there.

She was reading.

Oscar was not.

Oscar was just sitting there, perfectly still, one hand resting loosely over Violet’s, thumb moving in slow, absent strokes over her knuckles.

Lando stopped in the doorway.

Neither of them noticed him.

That was unusual, because Violet noticed everything.

But her head was slightly bowed, her face softer than Lando had ever seen it, and Oscar was looking at her like the rest of the world had gone quiet for once.

Violet turned a page.

Oscar looked down. “Good?”

She nodded.

Then, after a moment, she tilted the book slightly so he could see the paragraph.

Oscar read it.

His eyebrows drew together. “That’s grim, Vi.”

Violet’s mouth twitched. “You say that about all my books.”

“Because all your books are grim.”

“They’re interesting.”

“They’re grim and interesting.”

She leaned a little more into him. “You still listen.”

Oscar’s face softened.

“Yeah,” he said. “Of course.”

Violet looked up at him.

And there it was.

The thing Lando had been trying very hard not to look at directly.

Love.

Not creepy gothic brainwashing.

Not snake-related enchantment.

Not whatever parasol-based spell Lando had originally suspected.

Just love.

Quiet and obvious and deeply inconvenient.

Violet looked at Oscar like he had found her in a world too loud for her and decided to lower his voice instead of asking her to be different.

Oscar looked at Violet like she had handed him all her sharp, strange, shadowy pieces and he had found every single one worth holding.

It was disgusting.

It was beautiful.

Lando hated it.

Mostly because he suddenly felt like an idiot.

A charming idiot, but still.

He cleared his throat.

Oscar looked up first.

His face immediately flattened into its usual public setting, which was rude because Lando had just witnessed softness and now Oscar was trying to pretend he was furniture again.

Violet looked up too.

For once, Lando did not feel like she was assessing his organs.

She looked nervous.

Not ominous.

Just nervous.

“Hi,” she said softly.

Lando looked at her.

Black clothes. Braids. Pale face. Big dark eyes. Glossy black nails. Book probably about death. Snake owner. Parasol enthusiast. Silent walker. Vegan gummy bear refuser.

Still suspicious.

Objectively.

But not dangerous.

Not to Oscar.

Maybe not to Lando either.

“Hi,” Lando said.

Oscar narrowed his eyes. “Why are you standing there like that?”

“Like what?”

“Like you’ve had a thought.”

“I have thoughts.”

“Occasionally.”

Violet made a tiny sound into her sleeve.

Lando pointed at her. “See? That. You’re getting meaner.”

Her eyes widened.

Oscar smiled. “She is.”

“I’m not,” Violet whispered.

“You are,” Lando said. “Quietly. It’s very unsettling.”

Her mouth twitched.

Then, to Lando’s complete horror, she looked almost pleased.

Oscar looked at her like he wanted to wrap her in a blanket and give her the moon.

Lando groaned. “Oh, for god’s sake.”

“What?” Oscar asked.

“You.”

“Me?”

“Yes, you. Sitting there all brainwashed.”

Oscar blinked. “Brainwashed.”

“By love.”

Violet went very still.

Oscar’s ears went pink.

Excellent.

Finally.

A reaction.

Lando folded his arms. “Don’t deny it.”

Oscar looked away.

Which was Oscar for screaming.

Violet looked down at her book, cheeks turning pink beneath the black curtain of her braids.

Lando stared between them.

“Oh my god,” he said. “You’re both useless.”

Oscar muttered, “Shut up.”

“No. I won’t. I’ve been living in fear for months.”

“Of Violet?”

“Yes.”

Violet looked up, stricken. “I didn’t mean to scare you.”

And there it was again.

That softness.

That awful, earnest little voice.

Lando immediately felt like a monster.

“No,” he said quickly. “No, not like— I mean, yes, technically, but not in a bad way.”

Oscar stared at him. “How is that not in a bad way?”

“Because it was funny.”

“To whom?”

“To me, mostly.”

Violet blinked.

Then, very quietly, “I thought you didn’t like me.”

Oh.

Lando froze.

Oscar’s expression shifted.

Not angry.

Exactly.

But protective.

Very protective.

Lando swallowed.

“No,” he said. “No, I like you.”

Violet looked surprised.

Painfully surprised.

Which made Lando want to walk into the sea.

“I do,” he said, because apparently this was happening now. “You’re just… terrifying.”

Her mouth parted slightly.

Oscar closed his eyes.

Lando rushed on. “But in a good way. Mostly. Like a small, polite ghost. With baking skills. And alarming books.”

Violet stared at him.

Then her mouth twitched.

“You think I’m a ghost?”

“A polite one.”

She looked down, smiling now. “That’s nice.”

“It was not meant to be nice.”

“It still is.”

Oscar opened his eyes and looked at Lando with the most unbearable expression he had ever worn.

Grateful.

Lando could handle smug Oscar. He could handle sarcastic Oscar. He could handle blank Oscar, annoyed Oscar, and emotionally unavailable Oscar.

He could not handle grateful Oscar.

Absolutely not.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Lando said immediately.

Oscar’s mouth curved. “Like what?”

“Like I’ve done something good.”

“You have.”

“Stop.”

Violet looked between them, still pink, still smiling a little.

Then she reached for Oscar’s hand.

Not dramatically.

Just quietly.

Her fingers slipped around his.

Oscar turned his hand immediately and held on.

Like it was instinct.

Like breathing.

Lando watched them.

And suddenly the whole evidence board in his head rearranged itself.

The black clothes were not mourning clothes. They were armour.

The braids were not sinister. They were comfort.

The parasol was not a funeral accessory. It was something to hold when the world was too bright.

The silence was not judgement. It was shyness.

Belladonna was not foreshadowing. She was a rescued snake with a strong name.

The unsettling hobbies were not murder preparation. They were Violet loving strange, fragile, misunderstood things because maybe she knew what that felt like.

And Oscar?

Oscar was not brainwashed.

Oscar was in love.

Completely.

Stupidly.

Quietly.

Hopelessly in love.

And Violet loved him too.

That was obvious now.

In the way she looked for him first in every room.

In the way she relaxed when his hand touched her back.

In the way she saved her best sentences for him.

In the way she trusted him to understand the words she did not say out loud.

In the way Oscar’s whole world seemed to narrow down to making sure Violet never had to become louder than she wanted to be.

Lando hated how romantic that was.

He hated it so much he had to sit down.

Oscar watched him warily. “Are you okay?”

“No.”

Violet’s eyes widened. “What’s wrong?”

“You two,” Lando said. “You’re in love.”

Oscar stared.

Violet turned scarlet.

Lando pointed at them. “Disgusting.”

Oscar looked down at their joined hands.

Then, very quietly, he said, “Yeah.”

Violet looked at him.

Oscar looked back.

For one second, neither of them seemed to remember Lando existed.

Their hands stayed tangled together.

Violet’s eyes were wide and soft.

Oscar’s face was open in a way Lando almost never saw.

Then Violet whispered, “Yeah?”

Oscar’s thumb moved over her knuckles.

“Yeah.”

Oh.

Oh, that was private.

Lando stood up so fast the sofa squeaked.

“Right,” he said loudly. “I’m leaving before you start being emotionally sincere at each other.”

Oscar did not look away from Violet. “Bye, Lando.”

“Unbelievable. Months of concern for your safety and this is the thanks I get.”

Violet looked at him then.

She was still blushing, but she smiled.

A real smile.

Small, shy, and entirely un-haunting.

“Bye, Lando.”

He paused.

Then sighed.

“Bye, Violet.”

He made it three steps before turning back.

“For the record,” he said, “if you ever do murder him, I will still tell Netflix I saw the signs.”

Violet’s smile widened.

Oscar groaned.

“I won’t,” Violet said softly.

Lando narrowed his eyes.

Then she added, “Probably.”

Oscar dropped his head.

Lando pointed at her. “See? This is why the list exists.”

But he was smiling when he said it.

And Violet was smiling too.

Oscar looked between them like he could not decide whether to be annoyed or happy.

He settled, unfortunately, on happy.

Lando left before it got worse.

That night, he opened the evidence file one last time.

Reason 9: Oscar was brainwashed.

He stared at it.

Then deleted brainwashed and rewrote it.

Reason 9: Oscar was in love.

Supporting evidence:

One, Oscar smiled at Violet like an idiot.

Two, Oscar understood Violet’s silence better than most people understood full speeches.

Three, Oscar carried her skull tote bag in public without complaint.

Four, Oscar considered Belladonna part of the family, which remained concerning.

Five, Oscar looked at Violet like she was the softest thing in the world, even when she was reading about Victorian funerals.

Six, Violet looked at Oscar like he made the world less frightening.

Seven, Violet loved him too.

Lando stopped typing.

Then added the final footnote.

Additional note: Maybe I am going to survive after all.

He considered that.

Then added:

Further note: Still do not eat any unlabelled brownies without checking if they are vegan or cursed.

And finally:

Further further note: Violet is not going to murder me.

A pause.

Then: