lei ⁸¹

friend1 gorgeous gorgeous!! is that a new camera 👀 quality looks much better

yn.png ……..maybeee

yn.png you wanna guess who gave it to me for my birthday…..

isackhadjar :)

pepemartiofficial why do your pictures look so blurry

yn.png i was going for a something okay god forbid people take risks 🙄

isackhadjar Where is the one of us together :(

yn.png it’s my wallpaper ❣️

pepemartiofficial you two sicken me.

MARCH, 2024 : MELBOURNE.

liked by camposracing, pepemartiofficial and 1,379 others

yn.png watched my boyfriend get waterboarded today BUT ON A PODIUM BABY

👤 tagged: isackhadjar, camposracing

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isackhadjar I think i still have champagne up my nose ♥️ liked by author

isackhadjar You’re really making that new lens work 🥷🏽

yn.png i wanna kiss your face

redbulljuniorteam From a DNF to P1? Talk about a redemption arc 👏

pepemartiofficial why is this sepia

yn.png why is being my hater your part time job

pepemartiofficial because spraying champagne up your boyfriend’s nose doesn’t pay the bills 😔 racing is expensive

yn.png isackhadjar get your side piece out of my comment section

isackhadjar replied to your close friends story:

isackhadjar: WHY did you let me leave the hotel with shortsleeves

yourusername: ??? cause you look beautiful in them and you’re always running hot

isackhadjar: I didn’t even realize you bit my arm at the gym until my trainer pointed it out

isackhadjar: mon coeur I was warming up with a BITE MARK on my bicep FOR EVERYONE TO SEE

isackhadjar: I couldn’t focus on anything Warren was saying after that

yourusername: not my fault your arms are so bitable

isackhadjar: Maybe next time I should be the one biting you for a change

yourusername: i’d be into that

isackhadjar: What

yourusername: what

APRIL, 2024 : IMOLA.

liked by isackhadjar, pepemartiofficial and 81 others

yourusername a well-rounded weekend with my favorite boy and his side-chick. next time i will be insisting we get to do the tourist route, though >:(

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isackhadjar ♥️

friend1 a post that isn’t on your alt account??? someone call the president 😨

friend2 ……do i have to remind you that your family follows you on this acc and will read that caption

pepemartiofficial JAJAJAJA

friend3 why did your mum just text me asking if you’re in a throuple

liked by redbulljuniorteam, isackhadjar and 6,871

yn.png 9 points leading the championship i know that’s right 🏆

👤 tagged: isackhadjar, camposracing

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user1 wait why do these look better than the pictures posted by red bull 😭

user2 championship battle in f1 is so boring rn i’ve actually turned to watching f2

user3 is this an isack fanpage

camposracing VAMOS! 💪

user4 okay gunning for that social media job at redbull i see you 👀

user5 idk if this is an unpopular opinion but there’s no way isack wins unless he locks in. too many mistakes

pepemartiofficial these look……. marginally better

yn.png i thought i blocked you

pepemartiofficial you’re just jealous he was looking at me in that first picture 😍

pepemarti_unofficial ??? okay RUDE unblock me

user6 why is pepe commenting on a post by isack’s girlfriend but not isack……? 🤨

JULY, 2024 : SILVERSTONE.

you [ 3:18 PM ] : oh my god!!!!! oh my god ???

you [ 3:18 PM ] : i just saw the quali you were amazing isack 🤍 first pole position!!!!

you [ 3:19 PM ] : wish i could be there to celebrate with you <3

Sent 3:18 PM

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:47 PM ] : Merci chérie 😊

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:48 PM ] : I missed you too. But it gave me the chance to focus all my energy on the race

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:50 PM ] : Bortoleto is still not making any mistakes though. Kinda wish his car would also stall every once in a while 🙃

you [ 9:51 PM ] : bortoleto doesn’t have anything on you <3 you’re still leading the championship

you [ 9:51 PM ] : also wait pause. did you just call me distracting?

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:52 PM ] : Absolument.

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:52 PM ] : How am I supposed stand next to you at the garage and pretend like I don’t wanna kiss you every time you look at me

you [ 9:53 PM ] : JAIL JAIL JAIL you can’t SAY THAT when we’re like two timezones away

you [ 9:53 PM ] : now i wanna kiss you :(

isack 🥷🏽 [ 10:03 PM ] : Sorry, the team is calling me. Still have to get a few things sorted out before the race.

isack 🥷🏽 [ 10:04 PM ] : Can I call you tomorrow?

you [ 10:04 PM ] : yeah!!! sleep well x

you [ 9:06 AM ] : good morning!! i forgot to mention it last night but we haven’t talked about our plans for the upcoming break?

isack 🥷🏽 [ 11:29 AM ] : I still have to work a few things with the team now that we’re leading the championship.

you [ 11:31 AM ] : ahh okay! lmk when you have it figured out so we can start looking at plane tickets x

JULY — AUGUST 2024 : SUMMER BREAK.

liked by pepemartiofficial, isackhadjar and 2,301 others

y/n.png girls trip🍷(on film)

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friend1 wait these look so cute

friend2 voulez-vous coucher avec moi 💘

y/n.png i told you that doesn’t mean what you think 😭

user1 cute! but i thought this was an f2 page…….

user2 are we finally getting a break from f2 pics?

pepemartiofficial “on film” and its just a filter you downloaded

y/n.png your parents don’t love you

pepemartiofficial WOWWWW

user3 where’s isack? 😕

you [ 4:56 PM ] : hey, haven’t heard from you in a while. how’s everything at the factory?

you [ 5:31 PM ] : are we okay?

isack 🥷🏽 [ 5:39 PM ] : Yeah. Why wouldn’t we be?

Read 5:39 PM

SEPTEMBER, 2024 : MONZA.

isack 🥷🏽 [ 8:58 PM ] : Did you watch the race?

you [ 8:59 PM ] : yeah. wish i could’ve been there :(

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:00 PM ] : What for? It was a disaster.

you [ 9:00 PM ] : i know it’s not what you want to hear but it’s one race. there will be others to make up for it.

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:00 PM ] : Except maybe there won’t be. Bortoleto is first now.

you [ 9:01 PM ] : i saw

you [ 9:01 PM ] : do you wanna facetime?

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:11 PM ] : I need a break.

you [ 9:12 PM ] : that’s okay, we can talk tomorrow if you want

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:12 PM ] : No I mean I need a break

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:12 PM ] : From us

Seen 9:12 PM

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:15 PM ] : Mon coeur I can see you read it

you [ 9:16 PM ] : i know.

you [ 9:16 PM ] : i’m giving you the chance to take it back and course correct

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:16 PM ] : That’s not how this works

you [ 9:16 PM ] : exactly. that’s not how this works. why would you think it’d be okay to break up with me over text??

you [ 9:16 PM ] : i mean this so genuinely but are you concussed

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:17 PM ] : I just need to have all my attention on the championship right now. I’m not in the right headspace to be in a relationship

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:17 PM ] : My trainer already told me I can’t afford any distraction if I want to make it to F1

you [ 9:17 PM ] : distraction?

you [ 9:18 PM ] : you’ve already called me that before

you [ 9:19 PM ] : isack how long have you been planning on breaking up with me?

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:19 PM ] : It’s not a break up, it would just be a break.

you [ 9:20 PM ] : until when? until you’re number one again? until the end of the season?

you [ 9:20 PM ] : what happens after that?

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:20 PM ] : I’m sorry

you [ 9:20 PM ] : clearly not if you’re breaking up with me like this. you could’ve at least had the decency to do it to my face

isack 🥷🏽 [ 9:21 PM ] : Chérie it’s not a break up

you [ 9:22 PM ] : no, it is now. fuck you.

you have blocked this number

OCTOBER, 2024 : BAKU.

user1 replied to your story:

user1: no f2 pics this week? :(

user2 replied to your story:

user2: why didn’t you post any isack pictures? is it because he didn’t get any points 🫤

user3 replied to your story:

user3: lmao girl since when are you a pepe marti fan ☠️

pepemartiofficial replied to your story:

pepemartiofficial: hi. do you want me dead

pepemartiofficial: ????? like are you being held at knife point please don’t do this

yourusername: don’t do what

pepemartiofficial: don’t put me in the middle of you two???? i already have to deal with isack as is

pepemartiofficial: ohhh my god he’s gonna put me in the wall when he sees this delete it delete it delete it

yourusername: he won’t see it. i blocked him

pepemartiofficial: well that explains the sulking

yourusername: he’s the one that didn’t want distractions. i just made it easier for him

pepemartiofficial: does this mean you won’t be coming around for the last races?

Read 8:01 PM

DECEMBER, 2024 : YAS MARINA.

You’ve never been good at healing quickly. At outgrowing things, at leaving them in the past. Not that any of your friends could blame you—a three year relationship is not something you can just forget overnight. You did the right thing, the first step towards healing: blocking him in every platform you could think of. Instagram, Twitter, Whatsapp, TikTok—even Facebook. It was easy, quick, as long as you didn’t allow yourself to think twice about it.

The pictures weren’t as easy. You couldn’t find it in yourself to erase them. They’re three years worth of your life—three years worth of you quietly and steadily learning about framing, about lighting, about when to snap a picture and when to wait. Eventually, you convinced yourself it would be unfair to you if you deleted them. They’re your professional portfolio—even that one photo Isack took of the two of you when you fell asleep on his shoulder. Or the one you took with your camera in front of his bathroom mirror—where Isack stands behind you, head tucked against your neck, murmuring something you’ve long since forgotten.

It still makes your throat tighten, the thought of him. You always knew motorsport was his first love, that it was his goal. It had been long before you met him, when he was still round-cheeked, had a high-pitched voice and a heavy accent. Driving had existed in his life years before you. But it stung, knowing that you would always fall second to it. That the chance at a title was worth more than your love.

You feel pin pricks at the back of your eyes, making you blink them away. You’ve always been too good at pouring salt on the wound.

Today, though—today you made a promise to yourself. It’s been months. You’ve already broken your heart enough times with every item of his that seems to spawn in your apartment.

You place them all inside the cardboard box your microwave came in, folding them with far too much care. Shirts. Hoodies. A Redbull windbreaker with his name printed at the back. An MC Alger jersey he forgot when he came over to watch a game—the same one he saw you wearing a night he stayed over, whispering into your ear how it suited you much more than it did him. You stuff them all into the box and stare at it.

Broken pieces of your heart threaten to climb up your throat. Your eyes sting again.

You never return it to him. He never asks for any of it back, either.

By the time you’re done, you find out. Trending on Twitter, or posted by the Formula 2 Instagram account. The results of his last race of the season—the one that ends his championship run before the first lap. You scroll down the comments, searching between the congratulations for Gabriel Bortoleto on his title win. Technical issue. Isack’s car never started, leaving him at the starting line while Bortoleto’s papaya car took off along with his chances for a title.

You sit in your bedroom, empty, alone. He must be destroyed. And for all your anger, all your resentment, your frustration and your tears, he was your friend, before he ever was your boyfriend. You don’t want him to suffer, you never have.

You consider texting him, telling him you’re sorry. Telling him he deserved better.

You don’t.

Instead, you close the box with tape, shove it into the back of your closet. Onto better things.

FEBRUARY, 2025 : BAHRAIN

liked by gabrielbortoleto, stakef1team and 98,371 others

y/n.png to new beginnings 📸

👤 tagged: gabrielbortoleto

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a/n: do yourself a favor and listen to the songs that inspired this fic but ESPECIALLY si no vas a volver by aitana cause what a banger that is. let me know if you enjoyed! this took so long and it’s only part 1

also! huge HUGE shoutout to birdy @cinnamorussell for letting me borrow their gorgeous texting layout 💘 couldn’t have stayed under the image limit without you <3

Liked by yourusername, visacashapprb, and others isackhadjar Snaps of my first week as an F1 driver ! 🏎️Somebody is already replacing me ...

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user1 a papaya hat oh u have competition isack user2 is that isack's gf? ⤷ user3 no she's my gf ⤷ user4 She's ALL of our gf actually. ⤷ user5 they're "just friends"! 😄👍 yourusername YOU SAID YOU WOULDN'T POST THAT ⤷ user6 isack boutta end up in the dog house LMAOOO ⤷ isackhadjar Oops ? ⤷ yourusername isackhadjar I Will Remember This Moment user7 More Isack x Yuki content pls pls pls 🧎 user8 yourusername being a lewis hamilton fangirl <333 i love LH stan bestiesss

Liked by isackhadjar, olliebearman, and others yourusername bit of a long one but i need you all to bear with me. i was there when isackhadjar hung his first Cars poster in his bedroom. he told me je serai comme lightning mcqueen un jour, and while i had made fun of him for wanting to be a car, i also knew he was a man of his word. when he first got behind the wheel in 2012, i knew he would be a natural... and look where he is now!!! breaks my heart i won't be in aus for his official debut but this bahrain weekend was more than enough to remind me why he's the rookie to look out for. je t'aime, ma meilleure moitié x ka-chow! 🏁

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user1 yourusername don't make us cry challenge user2 The photo of baby Isack :( I'm devastated. user3 s'il te plaît, date déjà visacashapprb 💙💙💙 ⤷ user4 ship so good that even the team is on board. user5 "ma meilleure moitié" being "my better half",,, ohhh user6 HE SAID 😭 HE WANTED TO BE 😭 LIKE LIGHTNING MCQUEEN 😭😭😭 user7 Wait why won't you be trackside :( My besties ⤷ yourusername uni 🥲 ⤷ user8 pay for her plane ticket visacashapprb don't be shy isackhadjar Je t'adore ⤷ user9 He ADORES her. Oh Lord i am not your strongest soldier ⤷ user10 i am trying so hard not to ship you 2 but you are making it soooooo hard..

Liked by yourusername, lewishamilton, and others isackhadjar Friday/Saturday was strong, Sunday was painful and unfortunate for the team. Car seems to work, can’t wait to be back racing in Shanghai ! Support has been unreal 🙏🏼 Special thanks to yourusername who said I shouldn't shout her out, but when your best friend flies 19 hours to make you pizza ? A shoutout is the least that can be done

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user1 The comeback will be even better 💪 user2 keep your head up, king. china comeback let's gooo. user3 :( yourusername going through hoops to comfort isack. likeee user4 OGs know about the F3 pizza tradition ⤷ user5 MY SHAYLAS ⤷ user6 Can someone explain this ??? ⤷ user7 We are losing the ancient texts y'all...... ⤷ user8 when yourusername was at one of isack's races, they'd always make homemade pizza for the entire team (for good luck)! it's been going on since isack debuted in f3 asia in 2021, he talks about it on an interview somewhere user9 on est avec toi goat !! 🐐 user10 One bad race doesn't define you , wish u best of luck yourusername tu es un imbécile, mais tu es mon imbécile ❤️ Liked by creator ⤷ user11 Never hit see translation SO fast ⤷ user12 "You're a fool, but you're my fool" COME THE FAWK AWNNN

Liked by user1, user2, and others formu1adrama In case you missed it 🔎 isackhadjar and yourusername are the cutest friendship on the grid! Sources say the two have known each other since childhood. Ask anyone across formulae and they'll tell you yourusername has been a constant fixture in Isack's motorsports career. The two are a pair; do not separate! Photos -- 1) One of Isack's IG stories from 2024; 2) Isack's IG post from 2021; 3) Tagged Facebook photo from 2017.

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user1 and they were CHILDHOOD FRIENDS?! user2 S'il vous plaît … Combien de temps devons-nous souffrir ...? user3 slowburn so crazy tht i'm literally on fire 🔥 user4 Been my ship since Isack's F3 days user5 Does anyone have a clip of their secret handshake (the one the media caught in 2023 iirc??) 🥺 user6 friendship is so beautiful /s user7 isackhadjar JS MAKE A MOVE BRUV FFS U'RE ALREADY A F1 DRIVER user8 I'm boutta get real parasocial in dis household.

Liked by isackhadjar, yukitsunoda0511, and others yourusername je veux que nous mangions tous les deux bien 🍊

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user1 the caption being a translation of wendy cope's "the orange" poem >>> i want us both to eat well supremacy ⤷ user2 And when i say that line actually starts with "I love you"... user3 Did I miss something ??? Are they fr dating now user4 War Is Overrr yukitsunoda0511 is that my date night salad recipe ⤷ user5 who the fuck has a date night salad recipe??? ⤷ user6 YOU'RE ASKING THE WRONG QUESTIONS BRUH SO THEY HAD A DATE NIGHT 🫨 ⤷ yourusername much thanks yukitsunoda0511 ❤️ Liked by yukitsunoda0511 user7 i'll send $1 to everyone who likes this comment if they are actually dating ❤️ Liked by olliebearman, kimi.antonelli, jackdoohan, gabrielbortoleto_

Liked by yourusername, jackdoohan, and others isackhadjar Like the rock bears the weather

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user1 THE FIRST PICJDSKACSAD HELLOOOOO???? user2 Oh Isack Hadjar I was NOT familiar with your game. 👀 user3 Y'ALL DON'T LET THE SHIRTLESS PIC DISTRACT YOU FROM THE SOFT LAUNCHES ⤷ user4 MEEE. is it actually a soft launch when we all know who it is ⤷ user5 The keychains? The flowers? ARE THEY.. YOU KNOW... user6 ih6 lover era ? i used to pray for times like these user7 JE VEUX TE METTRE DANS MA BOUCHE user8 Are we witnessing Isack Hadjar claw himself out of the friendzone real-time ⤷ user9 AND I LOVE TO SEE IT YUPPP 🗣️ ⤷ user10 f2l THE superior trope. user11 ffs if y'all are just messing with us.... i stggg user12 Do u need a 3rd ahahahahaha jk. Unless?

Liked by isackhadjar, visacashapprb, and others yourusername every year, isackhadjar and i mark the day he started racing. a decade and some change later, i find myself in awe of how the boy who once lived next door is now racing all over the world. isack, you may be a menace on the track, but underneath all that is my best friend. may you always choose what makes you happy. in all the languages we know: i love you, je t'aime, nhabek

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user1 just fell to my knees at walmart user2 THIS IS ALL I WANT IN LIFE IS THAT TEW MUCH TO ASK visacashapprb You're not crying, we are 🥲 ⤷ user3 admin can we have a tiktok of these two pls ⤷ user4 Fuck it. Atp put yourusername in the team idc how user5 How will I recover from this?????????? isackhadjar Je te choisis pour toujours et à jamais et à jamais ⤷ user6 [ENG TR] "I choose you forever and ever and ever" ⤷ user7 SHUT UP RIGHT NOWW ☹️☹️☹️ ⤷ user8 i need a moment,,, ⤷ user9 Are we going to talk about how the post said "May you always choose what makes you happy" AND HE SAID . user10 "nhabek" because of isack being algerian :( these two

Liked by isackhadjar, kimi.antonelli, and others yourusername finally

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user1 isack finally finishing a race b/c yourusername was in the stands iktr 🙂‍↕️ user2 Swift x ice cream?? Best pairing isackhadjar Baby's f1rst race as a WAG 👏 ⤷ user3 WHAT ⤷ user4 OMH Y UFCKING GOD ⤷ user5 THIS IS NOT A DRILL?????????????! ⤷ user6 LET OUT THE LOUDEST YEAH BOI OF MY LIFEEE ⤷ user7 IS THAT WHAT TTHE "FINALLY" IS ABOUT ⤷ user8 I DID MY WAITING!! THIRTEEN YEARS OF ITTTT

Liked by yourusername, yukitsunoda0511, and others isackhadjar Better late than never ! C'est toi, ça a toujours été toi ❤️ yourusername

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user1 "it's you, it's always been you" i died .. i died n i'm in heaven user2 THEY ACTUALLY DID IT. THEY ACTUALLY DID IT!! user3 c'est le plus beau jour de ma vie 🙏 user4 Quick. Everybody act surprised ! yourusername just on time :) ❤️ Liked by creator

𝐁𝐎𝐍𝐔𝐒 !

Liked by lewishamilton, visacashapprb, and others yourusername isackhadjar cried to me on facetime after this btw

View all comments isackhadjar Ma chérie delete please.... ⤷ isackhadjar Ma belle please ⤷ isackhadjar Mon amour please delete please

liked by rafaelaferreira.18, visacashapprb and 189,209 others

isackhadjar my first points in f1 !!! on my favorite track with my favorite people 😌🙏🏼 P8 🦾

race was perfectly executed, big thanks to the team 🥷🏽

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user1 WELL DESERVED

rafaelaferreira.18 👏👏👏

user2 isack you don’t know this but i’ve officially adopted you as my favorite rookie

redbullfrance Bravo Champion pour ce week-end PARFAIT et ses premiers points en F1! 👏🙌

user4 iconic

olliebearman mega mega!!

yourusername AHHHH I CAN’T BELIEVE I WAS HERE FOR IT I CAN’T STOP VIBRATING

isackhadjar you’re vibrating??

user5 this is NOT fair since when does isack reply to fans 😭

yourusername @.user5 bestie i’ve been on the hadjar bandwagon since before he learned to cook RICE

isackhadjar @.yourusername my management is telling me to block you

yourusername they’ll get over it 😌😁 they just haven’t met me yet

liked by isackhadjar, yourusername and 199,024

visacashapprb HADJOINTS !!!! 🐐

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user6 YEAHHH MY GOAT

user7 so so so well deserved !!

user8 not vcarb throwing a thirst trap of their driver there at the end 😭

user9 are we not going to talk about that hug between isack and his friend??? they both looked so proud and happy i cannot

user10 wait why is isack kinda….

yourusername oh!

isackhadjar …oh?

user11 wait no witty quip??

user12 someone’s feeling flustered 🤭

olliebearman replied to your story:

it was great meeting you! hope to see you again in the future 🫡

yourusername:

agreed!!!! thanks again for helping me out when i got lost 😭

i’d love to go to another race!!!!! it all depends on whether isack is willing to tolerate me for an entire weekend again lmao

olliebearman:

um

i’ve never seen isack smiling so much before

i’m pretty sure he’d go out of his WAY to get you at the rb garage again

isackhadjar replied to your story:

you should’ve stayed a few more days 😕

y/n?

yourusername:

oh dw i’ll be on your ass soon enough 😌‼️

boarding now!!!!! talk to you later x

isackhadjar replied to your story:

you look pretty

those are pretty :)

yourusername:

ty!!!! a friend gave them to me 😇

isackhadjar:

a friend gave those to you?

yourusername:

…….a date

isackhadjar:

you were on a date???

yourusername:

yeah!! isa told me i should try it out for at least a bit and a guy from one of my classes asked me

isackhadjar:

oh

how was it?

yourusername:

it was fine i guess

i don’t think you would’ve liked him though

isackhadjar:

no?

yourusername:

he was kind of an ass

good taste in flowers though

isackhadjar:

ah

do you still have the same address?

yourusername:

um yeah

why?

isackhadjar:

no reason 🫶

liked by isackhadjar, olliebearman and 13,901 others

yourusername f1 point scorer and my favorite person 🤍

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user13 HELLO??? private account no more?????

olliebearman send me that last slide pls🧎‍♂️

yourusername he’s taken thank you ✋🙄

olliebearman i know????? just send it to me PLEASE

yourusername get me a paddock pass for next weekend and a video from esteban ocon saying hi to me

olliebearman DEAL

yourusername check your dms

user14 whatever you call the opposite of a soft launch THIS IS IT

user15 omfg that last isack pic he was tiny 😭😭

isackhadjar where do you keep getting those pictures from?????

yourusername you will never know x

isackhadjar 🙄

yourusername you still love me

isackhadjar love is a strong word

yourusername tu m’aimes 😁🤭

isack hadjar …je t’aime.

reblogs and comments are always appreciated

His heart sinks, just a little. But at least his number isn’t blocked.

“Y/N? Hey, this is Charles.” He exhales, steadying himself. “I don’t know if you saw—I hope you did, but I don’t know if you still keep up with Formula One—but I finally won Monaco!”

He’s sure you can hear the smile in his voice. Even now, with the weight of this call pressing down on him, the sheer joy of the win lingers.

“I…” He hesitates, his breath shaky. “I’m sorry for calling.” A pause, longer this time. “I’m sorry for everything.”

He paces around the apartment, eyes drifting to the empty spaces where your things used to be—gaps on the bookshelf where your favorite novels once sat, the flower vase beside his piano that hasn’t held a bouquet since you left, the shelf where your little trinkets used to be, now collecting dust.

“I don’t know why I called you,” he admits, voice quieter now. “I just… felt like I needed you to know.”

His gaze lands on the fridge. The photos are still there—pictures of the two of you frozen in time, untouched, unchanged, as if removing them would make the loss too real.

“You were always there for me. Through everything. And I wouldn’t be here without you. I hope you know how grateful I am for that.”

His fingers trace the outline of your smile in one of the photos.

“I wouldn’t be the man I am today without you. No one could put up with me like you could. No one else would stay.”

Your picture is still in his wallet, tucked in the same place it’s always been. A habit he never broke, a piece of you he never let go of.

“I don’t know if what I did then was the right thing,” he confesses, voice raw. “I don’t know if I would have moments like this if we were still together. I don’t know how my life would have been if I never let you go. But I do know one thing—I will always love you.”

A silence stretches between him and the voicemail, like he’s processing the weight of his own words.

“There will always be a part of me that belongs to you,” he murmurs. “No matter how long it’s been, no matter how much time passes—I’m yours. You don’t spend your life with someone and then expect that to just disappear.”

He takes a deep breath, steadying himself.

“If you ever want to come back to me, and God, I hope you do—one day, when we’re wiser, when we’ve healed, when we’ve lived a little more—my door is always open. My arms are always open. For you. Always for you.”

A shuddering exhale.

“I love you. I’ll always love you. And I will always regret letting you go. You’re always going to be everything to me. I would give you all I have, everything you want, everything I could give.”

“I love you,” he says one last time before ending the call, fingers lingering on the phone like he wants to say more. But there’s nothing left—nothing that wouldn’t crack his voice, nothing that wouldn’t let you hear the quiet devastation settling in his chest.

So he puts his phone away and goes to bed, staring at the ceiling, hoping.

Maybe he’ll receive a reply tomorrow. Or next week. Or years from now.

He’ll be waiting, after all.

You listen to his voicemail that night, curled up in your bed, sobbing into your pillow, your chest aching in a way you thought you’d left behind.

Why now?

Why would he choose to break your heart all over again?

You’d think you’d moved on. You’d think you’d healed. And you did. You really did. You built a life without him. You stitched yourself back together, piece by piece.

But then you hear his voice, and suddenly, the wounds aren’t scars—they’re fresh, raw, bleeding all over again. And God, you want to go back. You want to step into the past, into his arms, into the life you used to share.

But that’s not healthy anymore.

You can’t keep waiting for someone to slow down when their entire existence is built around going faster and faster—so fast that a crash is inevitable.

Your finger hovers over his contact. You trace the familiar details—the way his name looks on your screen, the phone number you could recite in your sleep, the goofy picture of him you took all those years ago still set as his image. A piece of the past frozen in time.

A notification pops up.

[Block this contact?]

Your breath catches. For a second, you hesitate. But then you remember—the sleepless nights, the ache of waiting, the empty promises, the way he chose his career over you without a second thought.

And this time, you choose.

You press the button.

No more waiting. No more hoping. No more him.

This time you were choosing yourself. As much as it hurt, as much as it broke you, you were going to let go.

A final notification.

So Oscar swallowed down the lump in his throat.  “Okay, sure, that's cool,” he let out a breath. “I missed her.” The words pained him, as veracious as they were. He didn’t simply miss you like you’d miss someone you hadn’t seen in a while ─ Oscar missed you like an amputee would miss a ghost limb. The kind of pull that tears someone from the inside out, and he only had himself to blame for the ache.

If Hattie suspected something was off, she didn't say it. She chose to scrutinize him instead, eyebrows scrunched in a silent question he answered with a vague smile, as always. She spoke about how you hadn’t come to visit in quite some time, how he rarely updated them on how you were anymore, how you blossomed in your life, but the words went in one ear and out through the other.

Because you were going to the Melbourne Grand Prix, the start of the 2025 season. He didn’t know if he could handle seeing you again, not after the fiasco of the same Grand Prix, a year ago.

Guess he didn’t have much choice.

Oscar Piastri is eight when he meets you for the first time.

He was given his first remote-controlled truck for Christmas and ever since then, rare were the times he spent his full days at home. The playground, with a lot more ground than playthings for children, was a five-minute walk from his house ─ perfect for practicing, he thought. His newfound gadget made him develop a fervency he hadn’t known before, an obsession for speed. He knew Australia had championships for remote-controlled racing, his dad told him so. He wanted a part in it like he never wanted anything in the world before. Except maybe the truck.

But before he could hope of entering, he needed to get to a certain level and that meant practice. So to the playground (or park, park was a cooler word) he went.

Today wasn’t an exception. Vacations had started not so long ago, the sun was high in the sky and Oscar’s knees were raw from being dug in the gravel for so long. His thumbs were branded by the print of the remote in his hand, sweat beaded on his forehead, hair sticking to it, and maybe his vision was blurring a little. But Oscar was nothing if not determined, so he kept going as his truck narrowly avoided obstacles he put in place.

Until a water bottle replaced the self-made circuit in his visual field.

Oscar's eyes slowly trailed up in exasperation, expecting one of his younger sisters or his mother dotting on him, telling him to come back home. Instead, his breath caught a little.

You stood there, the afternoon sun casting a golden glow around you, turning the loose strands of your hair into something almost otherworldly. Oscar had never believed in angels ─ never really thought about them at all, actually ─ but at that moment he wondered if maybe, just maybe they existed. Your sundress, once pristine, was rusted with dirt, the hem brushing against your scraped knees, blood dried in uneven patches. But you didn’t seem to mind. Instead, you smiled ─ as if scuffed knees and torn dresses were just a natural part of being you.

His wide, brown eyes glided from the lukewarm bottle to you, in wonder and shock alike. Your palm was smudged in playground dust, but Oscar barely noticed ─ his gaze caught instead on the way light tangled in your hair, your eyes sparkling with something bright, untamed, unstoppable. You spoke up. “You look like you’re gonna faint. Take it. Drivers need water, right?”

Your voice, soft, shook him out of his trance: he hesitantly took the bottle from your hand, and your fingers brushed against his. Red colored the tip of his ears. He swallowed, hard, bringing the bottle to his chest. You offered him another smile in return, and Oscar felt his heart flutter.

“My name is Y/N.” Before he could even think about protesting ─ about telling you that, actually, he hadn’t asked ─ you plopped down beside him, legs folding underneath you like it was the most natural thing in the world. Your shoulder bumped against his, a casual, thoughtless kind of closeness that sent a foreign heat to the back of his neck.

Then just as he was processing that, you turned to face him- too close. Way too close.

Noses. Your noses nearly touched.

Oscar went rigid. Did you know nothing about personal space?!

You pointed behind him, at the house right next to his, visible from the park. “I live right here!”

“...No, you can’t.” Oscar finally said, frowning. He was trying to be as polite as he could muster to be in those conditions. His mom would kill him if he wasn't.

“Why?”

“Nobody lives here.”

The aggressive neutrality of his voice, a timbre unique to him, didn’t deter you in the slightest. On the contrary, it seemed like his reticence to your presence made you beam brighter at him. “That’s because we just moved here, duh. See that car? It’s my mom’s.”

The indifference in Oscar slowly turned to confusion, or as close as it could get to curiosity. There was indeed a baby blue car parked in the driveway he never saw before. For as long as he could remember, which was not a lot, it was always vacant. Until today, apparently. “Oh. We’re neighbors, then.”

Your smile widened, eyes practically shining in excitement. “That’s so cool! I was scared I was gonna be the only kid here.”

Oscar barely heard you, too busy staring at where your arm pressed against his. Was it normal? Were other kids just… this close of each other? Because he wasn’t used to it, not at all. “... How old are you?”

“Eight!” You practically bounced as you said it.

“Me too.”

Your face lit up. Oh no.

“That’s even better! We can be friends! Best friends, even!”

Wait, what.

Oscar blinked, his mind screeching to a halt. That escalated fast. Weren’t there supposed to be multiple steps before deciding to be lifelong friends? Had he missed something? “Uh─”

“What’s your name?” You asked with renewed enthusiasm if it was even possible to add to that.

“... Oscar. Oscar Piastri.”

“Nice to meet you Oscar Piastri from next door!” You held out your hand and, much to his surprise, Oscar took it. Hesitantly, awkwardly, yes, but he still did. The strange, unfamiliar feeling tugging at his stomach wouldn’t let him do otherwise. “I like your truck,” you continued, fingers still wrapped around his like you didn’t even notice. “Can I try it?”

Oscar was way too focused on your palm still sitting in his to process your words. Was he supposed to pull away first? “I… I don’t─”

“Or I could watch you! I don’t mind. I was watching you in the tree back there anyways.”

Oscar blinked. It explained the stains and the scratches, he thought. He still couldn’t believe that there was a whole girl like her in a tree, spying on him, and he had been so caught up by his remote-controlled truck to even notice it. Just as if you could read his thoughts, a sheepish look made its way to your face, lips pursuing as you finally ─ finally ─ let go of his hand. “Mom doesn’t like when I do that,” you admitted as if it were a secret. “But it’s fine. I can wash the dress.”

He stared. There was… something about you, Something about the way you sparkled even when you sat still, the way your presence felt bigger than your little body. He swallowed, nudging the controller toward you before he could regret his decision. “Try.” His voice came out weird. “It’s boring to watch.” 

The twinkling in your eyes was worth every crash that came after this. You were struggling, and hitting every obstacle he skillfully steered away from. Each and every hit was accompanied by a giggle or an exaggerated groan but even though you were terrible, as Oscar tactfully noticed, it still looked like you were having the most fun you had in years.

When he had to go home, you walked him to the door with a spring in your step, occupying the conversational space with random facts about the world. Something about how octopuses had three hearts, how clouds weren’t actually as soft as they looked, and how the color yellow made people happy. Oscar didn’t say much, he never really did, but he contentedly listened.

And then, just as the door swung open, before he could even process the way he wanted to stay a little bit longer, you turned to his mom with all the confidence of someone who had already decided the outcome. “Can Oscar come back tomorrow?” His mom barely had time to blink, but Oscar already knew─ it was over.

Because the moment she said yes, the second the fierce little girl beside him claimed more time with him like it was hers to take, it was sealed. After that, it came as naturally as breathing. Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. Never one without the other. You led, he followed. And, somewhere along the way, the rest of the world stopped mattering.

You were a constant in Oscar’s life, a lifeline he clung to without realizing he had reached for it in the first place. He got into karting at ten and nothing─ not his dad's last-minute pep talks, not the hours of practice ─ could calm the way his hands trembled on the steering wheel before his first race. His fingers curled on it, hands trembling and grip tight, knuckles aching from the pressure. What if he wasn’t actually good? What if he messed it all up? What if─?

And then, there you were. Signature grin, messy ponytail, a tiny hand sign scribbled in clashy, colorful letters: GO, OSCAR GO!! The words were surrounded by questionable doodles ─ stick-figure cars with lopsided wheels, a few stray hearts in the margins like an afterthought. “I came to watch you win,” you said, like there was no other possibility. After that, the race was just a race.

The moment you dropped a chaste kiss on his helmet, all nerves settled. When he passed by you, you brandished your sign high in the air, a beacon, the only thing he really needed to see. He won that race with his head held high and in the middle of celebration ─ his mom hugging him tight, cheers echoing all around ─ he silently dedicated his victory to you.

Because when he scanned the crowd, your eyes were the easiest to find. Because nothing ever felt better than the feeling of you running in his arms right after.

And just like that─ childhood blurred into early adolescence in a flurry of incandescent polaroids: late afternoon on track, whooping as Oscar made his laps, stolen moments on the swings at the playground between school and training, a thousand shared snacks, juice boxes, whispers, a million inside jokes and secrets. Summers spent side by side, laughter tangled in the air like something meant to last forever.

Years of Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. No space between. No questions about what you were to each other. Not yet. 

But Oscar Piastri is fifteen when he leaves you behind.

He had been offered a seat in Formula 4. The words came in a rush, tumbling from an ecstatic Chris Piastri and an equally thrilled Nicole Piastri, their voices nearly overlapping in excitement. Oscar heard them, he knew what they were saying and yet his mind refused to catch up. He sat there, cereal spoon dangling in the air, milk dripping back in his bowl.

The world around him blurred─ static in his ears, something like disbelief flooding his veins. He had wanted this. Trained for this. But now that it was real, it was as if his body had forgotten how to move. So you did it first.

Your arms wrapped around his neck without a second thought, squeezing tight. A hug that made it impossible to do anything but exist in the moment. He unfroze: the weight of your warmth, how you clung to him without any reservation, it yanked him back. His hands had found your back, gripping instinctively. It hit him all at once: Formula 4. His dream was real. And you were here, like always.

Until you wouldn’t be anymore.

Everything slipped past Oscar in a blur: he applied to a boarding school and got accepted in the same week, his parents were already looking for a house nearby, and his mom searching for job opportunities ─ in Brighton, England, closer to where he would be practicing. A thousand kilometers away from Australia, a thousand memories away from you.

One thing you learned in your years of friendship with Oscar was that he wasn’t much of a talker. He wasn’t big on the expression of feelings either ─ he showed affection softly, when he thought people wouldn’t notice. But you did, and you never planned on doing anything about it because that was just how Oscar was: reserved, hesitant in his tenderness. So the conversation about his departure never came ─ it was just a weight, hanging in the air of your every interaction, untouched. He didn’t want to venture there, to face how he wouldn’t wake up next to you anymore after another sleepover, how he would have to learn how to exist without you at arm’s reach. The lack of you was already digging a hole in his chest, and it was one of the main reasons he said no to your proposition of a send-off party.

But Oscar knew you too, too well, so he was only half-surprised when he turned on the light of his house after training and discovered the crowd of your shared friends amidst colorful balloons and cakes. You stood out in all of them when you offered him the smile that was uniquely his, and Oscar’s chest almost collapsed.

The party was fun. He got goodbye gifts ─ trinkets, plushies and books he knew he’ll lose sleep over. He didn’t dance to the music, but enjoyed watching people lose themselves in the soft light of his kitchen from the sidelines. Some friends cried and some friends didn’t ─ he side-hugged them all, never letting them too close except for a select few, and he accepted the heartfelt speeches with reassurances that he will come back during the summer, without a doubt.

The night slowed, party leftovers forgotten on the counters, and the house was quieter now that most of the guests had filtered out. Only a few stragglers remained inside, their voices dimmed to an unobtrusive murmur. But Oscar, the supposed star of the show, was hesitating in the threshold of his front door ─ because you were outside. And wherever you went, he followed.

You were sitting on the front door steps, arms wrapped around your knees, bathed in the dim glow of the porch light. The soft hum of cicadas filled the space as Oscar sat beside you. He knew he should say something, anything. Thank you for the party, even though he swore he didn’t want one. You were right, because of course, you were. Or finally address what was begging to be talked about ─ he just didn’t know how. Because sitting right here, with you just a few inches away, he realizes this is it. 

This is the last night before everything changes, and he can’t do anything about it. So he stays silent.

“You’re freaking out,” you say. Not a question. Your observant eyes flickered to his face, gaze soft in the way that makes his breath catch.

Oscar exhales sharply, tipping his head back against the wooden railing. “Am not.”

You give him a look. The look that always calls his bullshit. “Alright, I am.” He swallows, voice quieter. “A little.”

A pause. And then─ a nudge. Your knee bumping into his. A small, familiar thing, but somehow it unravels him. His eyes are burning, and he can’t pinpoint why. “You’ll be fine, Osc’’,” you affirmed, as certain as the sun rising tomorrow. “As long as you don’t forget about me.” A quiet laugh escaped you.

And Oscar could feel it, the thick air between you, pressing against his throat and sitting on his tongue. How could he ever forget about you? You were sitting so close, staring at him as if tucking him in some secret place inside of you. Oscar hated it, so much that it finally slipped─ “I don’t want to go.”

It came out quieter than he expected. Your lips parted slightly, brows furrowed, and Oscar felt like he said too much and not enough at the same time. Because he did want to go, but what he meant was, I don’t want to go if it means leaving you, I don’t know how to exist without you in my orbit. What he really meant, he couldn’t understand what it was no matter how hard he tried.

He forced out a chuckle, shaking his head. “I mean─” Oscar cleared his throat. “I do. Obviously. It’s just─ It’s gonna be weird.”

“Yeah, it is,” you murmured, flushing against his shoulder. “But we’ll make it work.”

Oscar looked at you, really did. The way the light caught the edges of your face, the night breeze playing with your hair, how you existed so beautifully and effortlessly, as you belonged in all the places he had ever loved. The words almost slipped out: You could come with me.

It was right there, clawing its way up his throat.

Yet, something stopped him. Because it wasn’t fair. Because he didn’t know what it meant. Because he didn’t know if he was asking like a best friend or something else, and he didn’t know what to do with the way you were constricting his chest, how you pressed against his ribcage, demanding more. You looked at Oscar and he looked at you ─ he swallowed it down, staring at the playground far in front of you. 

And the moment passed.

Oscar left the day after, and the empty house was now the one next to yours.

Your hotel room was eerily quiet.

You were never known for silence ─ all your life, people had repeatedly told you about the overwhelming space you occupied, how loud your laugh echoed, how you never quite knew how to fold and pocket yourself to be less. Growing up, adults meant it in an endearing way. Now, you realized just how much the words stung, even if you never took them as insults. But here, in the uncomfortable coldness of the room you rented for the week-end, everything was quiet: no music, no you talking to yourself. Nothing.

It felt unnatural ─ like something was missing. The one thing that always reassured you about the room you took up.

It left you restless, and your hands trembled a little as you finished applying the last layer of mascara on your lashes. Maybe it was just nerves ─ after all, it’s been a while since you’ve been on a race and hung out with Hattie, Edie, Mae, Nicole, and Chris. Ever since you moved out for university, the city of Melbourne and all of the memories it held always managed to make you a bit anxious.

However, deep down, you knew. It’s the fact that for the first time in over a year, you were going to see Oscar.

Your reflection stared back at you in the mirror as you dropped your makeup next to the sink. You couldn’t decipher your own expression.

Hattie texted you out of nowhere, and even though it wasn’t unusual for you two to talk from time to time, it surprised you a bit when she asked you if you were going to the Grand Prix. It shouldn’t have, she didn’t know ─ or maybe she suspected something, but you still said you’d be coming. So Nicole was on her way to pick you up and take you to the same spot you’ve been occupying since 2023, and you’ll have to sit and act as if everything was alright, as if her son was the best friend you grew up with and didn’t become an acquaintance overnight that you occasionally exchanged “good morning”, “good night”, “happy birthday” and “how are you doing?” texts with.

Because ever since that fateful night after the Melbourne Grand Prix of 2024, something shifted between you and Oscar. Something that had been weighing on you both for years, waiting, waiting, waiting- until it finally cracked, only to narrowly miss you. And now? You didn’t know his weekly schedule, and you couldn’t remember the last time you complained about your teachers to him. You and Oscar weren’t quite strangers, but you weren’t you anymore either. 

Because whatever had been waiting that night never had a chance to be resolved. And maybe it never would.

You shut your eyes, your breathing quickening dangerously. No. You weren’t going to think about that right now. It’s fine ─ you’re just here to watch a race like you always did. Just another race. It didn't have to mean anything more than that, did it? You’ll cheer, you’ll congratulate him, and you’ll leave. Even if it was his home race. Even if it was in the same city you laughed in his backyard, held hands running in the streets, stayed awake at ungodly hours of the night tangled together, the city you had both known and lost each other.

Frankly, you weren’t sure what you were expecting─ what you even wanted this weekend to be. All you knew was that you desperately wanted to grasp at the last semblance of normalcy that used to be between Oscar and you, and if that meant showing up at the Melbourne race and praying for his car to see the checkered flag in pole position like the deepest parts of your heart weren’t screaming for him, so be it.

When Nicole called you to tell you she parked her car, you took a deep breath and walked to the elevator, carefully ignoring the sickening feeling of your stomach reminding you that, in Melbourne, there was no simply ignoring the past anymore.

Oscar Piastri is twenty when he tells you the news.

Five years have passed ever since he moved out of Australia, but no matter how the years stretched between then and now, racetracks and podium dreams, Oscar always made sure of one thing: that he’d come back. Back to his neighborhood, these streets, the quiet buzz of familiarity.

And back to you.

Time had tried its best to pull you apart with different schedules, different time zones, and places, but you two were still an unstoppable force. Y/N and Oscar. Oscar and Y/N. No matter how late the flights, how long the race weekends, how exhausting the training, he always called ─ even if it was past midnight, or he had to wake up in three hours, or he could barely keep his eyes open. Because your voice, distant and barely audible through the crackling of a bad signal, was home. And you always picked up.

Oscar missed it. He made friends in boarding school, a group of laid-back guys who filled the late hours with video games and terrible jokes, making his new world a little less foreign. He enjoyed their company, sure, but none of them were you. None of them could look at him and already know what he was thinking, like the syllables were etched in your bones, and they didn’t tilt their head up at the sky on a rusty swing set, taking him with them, and spun the world into something bigger. God, he missed that. He missed you.

Even though, sometimes, he wondered if you missed him just as much.

Obviously, since Oscar left, you had to build something for yourself in the space he left behind, and it only became more concrete when you enrolled in a university away from Melbourne. He tried to be happy for you when you did. But then you would tell him about a friend group he didn’t know the faces of, threading into the places he used to be and the places he’d never been, the ones he couldn’t visit with you like the café near your 10 a.m. lecture on Fridays. 

Sometimes, only sometimes, when he allowed himself to feel a bit more than he should, the scraps of emotions he usually denied himself ─ he was scared he didn’t belong in the new sphere you’ve constructed for yourself. That he was a dusty polaroid in a wooden box, waiting for the day you’d tuck him away.

But that had to be wrong. It had to be. Because the second your eyes found his as he stepped out of the airport, it was like nothing had changed. Like the months apart, the missed calls, the milestones he couldn’t be there for ─ none of it mattered.

The way you looked at him, like he was still your Oscar, the boy you always had known and always will, it made up for everything.

You had been there when Oscar graduated from Formula 4 to Formula 3. You had been right by his side when Formula 3 turned to Formula 2 the following year. Whether it be by phone or in person when the good news coincided with both of your trips to your childhood neighborhood. Your excited screech, your lips on his cheek twisting his stomach and painting his cheeks red, he figured it was just common sense for you to learn he’s been promoted a third time in person. He wanted to see your reaction.

Whenever you and Oscar came back, your mom would welcome you with open arms in your old home. There were only two bedrooms, one that was your mom’s, which used to be awkward for him before it became a common occurrence for you two to share a bed. Both your parents had forbidden it, but quickly gave up when you used to find a way to sneak into Oscar’s bedroom and keep him awake. Their resolve vanished entirely when they noticed quiet, untroubled Oscar started getting on it as well.

So there you were, twenty years old in your childhood bedroom, sharing a bed too small for your height. The window was half-opened, the air thick and unmoving, letting in the last shreds of sunset that danced across your skin in soft, golden streaks. You were facing each other, which allowed him to see your eyes flutter, heavy with exhaustion, your breathing slow and even as if the mere act of being near him was enough to let you rest.

Oscar flushed at that thought. You had spent hours driving just to come and get him, to fall in bed beside him, limbs tangled, words fading into the quiet comfort of home. Just to be here, with him.

He wanted to wait. Until your eyes were wide open and you were awake enough to react like you always did: in screams and hugs and plans of the future. But the warmth curling in his chest wasn’t allowing him to keep it from you any longer.

“I got a seat in Formula One,” Oscar announced in the silence of the room.

“What?” Your voice was hoarse from tiredness, but it didn’t stop your sharp gaze from snapping to his. Your lips parted, just barely, an inhale caught in your throat, and Oscar gets distracted.

He shouldn’t, not now, but─ he can’t help it.

How many times had he seen you like this? Sleep-heavy, warm with exhaustion, curled up beside him. Too many to count. Not once had it felt like this, like something heavier rested on his shoulders.

He repeats with a little difficulty, forcing himself back to the moment. “I got a seat in Formula One.” He swallows before precising, “Not Alpine. McLaren.”

You blinked. Once, twice, your brain catching up with the weight of his words. Then, before Oscar could brace himself, you were moving.

You crashed into him, as much as you could in the position you were, tucking yourself against his chest in the semblance of a hug. The pressure was nothing, still, the air was knocked out of his lungs. “You did it!” You whispered-yelled against his shoulder, voice trembling with emotion. “Oh my god, Osc’. You did it. I fucking knew you would.”

Of course, you knew. You always knew before Oscar did, before he even started believing in it himself. A scoff, wet with feelings, escaped him as his shaky fingers hovered over your ribs, processing the situation. You pulled back, just enough to look at him, pupils blown wide. The palm that wasn’t resting on his chest slipped up, featherlight, to cup his cheek. Oscar almost flinched. “I wanted to tell you earlier, but─”

“Don’t even start,” you interrupted him. “You’re going to be in Formula One! In McLaren! That’s huge, and─”

Realization hits you like a truck. “Oh my god, Daniel Ricciardo.”

Out of all the things that could have ruined the moment, Oscar wouldn’t have expected it to be Daniel Ricciardo. “Yeah,” he deadpanned. “Everyone loves Daniel. We get it. My mom said the same thing.”

A disbelieving laugh escaped you, and you shoved him a little. “Come on, it’s a shock for me!”

“It’s also pressure, but thank you so much for your consideration.”

“I congratulated you two seconds ago!”

“I’m sure Daniel would love your condolences even more.”

By that point, you were a giggling mess beneath Oscar’s hands, so much that the sound successfully got a few huffs out of him as well. The pressure of the news evaporated at each new chuckle out of your mouth, and the room was finally big enough to breathe.

Laughter died down, reduced to heavy intakes of air between half-sentences, and that’s when Oscar realized.

Your fingers, gently brushing over his cheekbones, nails grazing his skin. His palms capturing your sides as your thigh rested between his legs. He wasn’t pulling you in, clinging to you like he always did ─ instead, he froze. His heart was stuttering too fast, too loud, in a way that had nothing to do with the news he’d just shared and you simply stared at him, eyes sparkling, as if he handed you the World Driver’s Championship trophy right here and there. Waiting for something.

The heat of your body, your usual proximity, the soft cotton of the sheets did nothing to help the blood boiling in Oscar’s veins and thoughts spiraled in a blink, of what it would be like if he just let his hand roam a little lower, if your breath swept over his lips. 

Words lodged themselves in his throat, just like they did when he was fifteen, sitting on his porch. But this time, he knew. No pretense, no excuse. He was twenty years old, not a child anymore. He knew what these words were and what they wanted to be.

You could come with me. You could come to my races. You could stay. Stay with me.

His chest squeezed. His fingers twisted. His mouth stayed shut.

Because you had a life here. A life that, lately, felt like it had more and more spaces he didn’t fit into. What was he supposed to say? Drop everything? Follow me? Give up everything you built and choose me?

Oscar Piastri wasn’t a wishful thinker, he didn’t ask for things he wasn’t sure he could have ─ and he wasn’t sure he could have you. Not because he didn’t want to, he desperately wanted to, but because he still didn’t understand it. He didn’t get why you put that ache in his chest, the weight in his ribs. Why it was more painful to be away from you, to see you live without him, than his old friend group ─ he put the fault on nostalgia, but it wasn’t it. He had spent years trying to figure it out and still ─ still ─ didn’t have the answer.

So he did what he’d usually do when meaning escaped him. 

He buried it. He’ll take a look at it. He’ll figure it out later.

“Being in F1,” he cleared his throat. “It’s going to be harder, with the schedule and all that. But I promise─”

“You don’t need to,” you cut him off and Oscar noticed the light slightly dim in your eyes, then coming back like nothing happened. “We’ll make it work, we always do.”

You pulled back again, taking your hand with you and letting the cold air replace your touch. Somehow, Oscar knew he did something, but once more he didn’t know what. Instead, he let himself believe the moment was nothing more than what it had always been. Nothing more than you, his best friend, happy for him.

But as you fell asleep, the distance put by you larger than it ever was before, even by just a few millimeters, something inside of him whispered─ liar.

Oscar got in his car, and yet his mind was as far away from it as it could be. Walking out the garage, he had seen his entire family cheering for him, his mom dropping a good-luck kiss on his cheek, and he should be grounded in the moment. He should be basking in the cheers of his home crowd and the familiarity of Australian air opening his season, but he couldn't. Because there was no sign of you.

He had thrown a glance at Hattie, a silent question, and she simply shrugged. Oscar didn't know what that meant: if you excused yourself for a moment or didn't come at all. Which one he was hoping for, that was the question.

And so the formation lap started. The car was feeling good, great even ─ Oscar had done well during the testing rounds and free practices, even landing second place in qualifications right behind Lando. His chest had swelled with hope that maybe, just maybe, he could take on his home race. He brushed the podium last year, how far could he be from taking it with both hands this time?

He could hear his race engineer checking last minute details, the impatient buzzing of the crowd, the motor of his car warming up and flaring to life. It was a sound, a rhythm he could recognize eyes closed.

As the lap concluded, cars finally ready to live through 58 rounds, a streak of hair caught his eye.

If he could decipher the metre of a Grand Prix with his eyes closed, Oscar knew he could recognize the pattern of you before you even came into view. It was brief─ almost a blur, but it was more than enough.

Through the haze of rain-slicked asphalt and the relentless roar of the engine, he caught you. Standing with his family against the edge of the garage like you belonged there, which you did, hands clasped tight against your chest like you were the one in the car, navigating the turns for him. Your hair, wild from the wind, dampened by the drizzle, framing your face. God.

You came. 

After everything, you were really there.

For him.

Oscar pulled his car in P2, but the flickering red lights above him did nothing to calm his racing mind. You always watched his races like this: lived through them like they were your own. Somehow, that made it easier. The loneliness of battling against your own, the relentless push forward. You made it lighter, less suffocating. You always have been. And you were ready to watch him race again, after everything. His chest twisted, his grip on the steering wheel tightened.

And even in the current circumstances, Oscar wasn’t thinking about the race. Not at all.

For what he wished could have been the first time, but wasn’t, the car was filled with the thought of you.

Because it hits him. Like a crash, full speed, sparks flying. Why missing you hurt so much. Why, after a year of unnatural distance of swallowing down whatever had possessed him that night in Melbourne a year ago, he still felt like something lacked.

Oh.

And before he could process it all, it was lights out.

Oscar Piastri is twenty-two when he fucks it up.

The Melbourne Grand Prix didn’t go so badly, but it didn’t go well either. Oscar had been so close to getting a podium on his home race, and watching his colleague, his friend, receiving the applause of his home crowd left a bitter feeling in the back of his throat. He cheered and congratulated, because he was a good sport and genuinely happy for Lando, but the uneasiness didn’t leave him when the cameras turned off.

It was a sticky heaviness in his ribcage, glued to it like molten plastic, tightening with every half-smile and “good jobs” aimed at him. He should’ve been happy, ecstatic. But he just wasn’t.

So he forced himself to go out to celebrate anyway, even half-heartedly. He didn’t want to look like the asshole he really felt like, so he nodded at conversations he wasn’t listening to, let the bass drum against his skin in a club he didn’t even want to be into.

Oscar lasted maybe an hour.

The flashing lights felt too bright, the press of bodies too wrong for his current state of mind. The scent of alcohol curled in his nose, sharp and sour, and something in him was teetering to break the last agreeable bone in his body. As he got out of the club, he thought about how he wanted to be anywhere else but here, suffocating in his own unjustified frustration. 

The only place he wanted to be was with you.

He barely had time to see you before he got whisked away by his team and interviewers. He wanted to tell you about the race, about what he thought, because you were the only one he enjoyed being listened to by, the only one it didn’t feel awkward. No matter how much he tried to shove things down, to ignore whatever it was that had been thrumming under his skin- you were still the first person he reached for. So before he could really think about it, he’d already dialed your number. “Hey, I’m sorry, I know─ Can you hear me? Yeah? Alright. I know it’s late but… can you pick me up?”

And of course you did. Because you were Oscar and Y/N. Y/N and Oscar. Because no matter where or when─ when Oscar called, you always came.

Your car was in front of the building not even ten minutes later, and he got in. His favorite music on the aux, he smiled at the attention, easy conversation started flowing between the two of you as you drove to the driveway of your house. You didn’t ask why he left. You knew he’d talk about it when he wanted to, if you pressed on the issue he would only close up more ─ get sarcastic, avoidant.

So you both sat on your front porch, the night silent around you, still warm from the heat of the day. “... don’t think he'll be able to walk home tomorrow,” Oscar commented.

“He got third and he's still getting shitfaced like that?” You asked with a disbelieving laugh. “Wonder what will happen for his first pole position.”

“I don't even want to think about it,” he sighed. “His PR team is gonna have a field day.”

“Wonder what will happen during yours, to be honest.” You bumped your shoulder with his, something so casual that still sent the familiar shivers down his spine. “What kind of celebration are you going to pull in Australia, huh?”

The simple sentence was cold rain on Oscar’s newfound relaxation. He knew you didn’t mean it like that, you never would, but his shoulders tensed up and his gaze drifted away from yours. “Yeah, well, at the rhythm it’s going, maybe we’ll have a party when I retire.”

You threw him a glance, the kind that knew what was lying behind all of his barriers, behind the sudden phone call. Oscar let out a heavy sigh, rubbing the material of his jeans. 

“Is that why you asked me to pick you up?” You ended up asking, voice soft. You weren’t trying to pry too much, and he silently thanked you for it. For everything, really.

“I didn’t want to be there,” he answered.

There was nothing more to say: Oscar was bitter and that was the end of it ─ or maybe not, but he didn’t want to get into it tonight when the feelings were still raw, painfully open to see. Yet, your hand found his, stilling the restless motion of his hand against his thigh. Slowly, deliberately, you wove them together. Your palms, warm and steady, rested above his knee. “Then why’d you go? We could have done something. Just the both of us, y’know.”

This time, Oscar looked at you.

And it was all too much. Worry laced in the edges of your expression, the subtle scrunch of your eyebrows he would have missed if he didn’t know you as well as he did, your hand in his ─ steady, grounding. It belonged there, he thought, it always did. You cared about him, that’s what scared him at first ─ because you were sunlight, not the kind that burned but the kind that warmed. The constant, unwavering glow of a beacon that guided him, never pulled him under.

And yet, there he was. Drowning in the mess he tried to push away for so long and was coming back full force, with a simple touch of the hand.

Oscar had two drinks earlier, and it made everything too sharp, his emotions too messy. His tongue a little too loose.

“I thought if I pretended hard enough, it would go away.” He didn’t know if he was talking about the race anymore.

You scooted closer, as if sharing a secret, but the closeness was too intimate for the situation. “What would?” You asked in a whisper.

Oscar’s breath hitched at the way the streetlamps caught in your hair, how your eyes searched his. There was a shift in the air, in the barely-there space between the two of you, in the way your fingers refused to let go of the grip it had on the other.

He should let go.

But your lips parted, ever so slightly, and Oscar allowed his gaze to dip to them. He kissed girls before, he even had a few short-lived relationships, but none of them ever felt right, like they belonged in a lasting manner in his life. They always felt like placeholders for something else, something more, less of a daunting feeling in his guts. He never really told you about it ─ it had always been an unspoken rule in your friendship, without knowing why. Now, he had a sneaky, unnerving suspicion.

Oscar kissed girls before, but he never kissed you.

He didn’t know if it was a mistake. He didn’t know if he should cross that line, but God he wanted to ─ he only knew that he wasn’t sure of what was waiting for him on the other side of it. His heart hammered in his chest, so hard he was afraid you’d hear it. You leaned in, imperceptibly, and your warm breath brushed against his lips. If he let himself, just for a second─ one tiny, irreversible second─ he would kiss you.

He was close. Too close. Feelings were too many. He needed to tell you before something could happen.

“Come with me,” Oscar blurted out, in a murmur along the shape of your lips, a plea in the leftover space.

And just like that, he felt the moment slip away from him. Your eyes, now sharp, snapped to him in a swift movement. And that’s when he knew. That wasn’t the right thing to say or do.

“What?” Your voice was quiet, laced with disbelief. Confusion swirled in your pupils, wondering if you misheard or if he misspoke.

Maybe he had. Maybe this wasn’t how it was supposed to come out- not here, not now, not like this.

“I- Uh…,” Oscar stammered. “Come with me. Stay. For the next races.” Please.

You pulled away, and the lack of you in his space caused his head to spin, his heart still beating violently against his chest, this time in panic. What did he do?

“What are you asking me exactly, Osc’?”

The question of the day. Because what was he asking, really? To be there for the few days in between flights and training and traveling and pretending his world wasn’t moving too fast for him to catch his breath? Sit in the stands, waiting for him to make up his mind about something he had been wondering about for the past fourteen years? Because what did he mean, and why couldn’t he understand?

It wasn’t fair. Not to you.

He swallowed, throat tight with something he couldn’t name and suddenly the night was too cold to stay outside anymore. Oscar forced out a weak chuckle, like it was just some stupid joke as if the word hadn’t crawled out of his chest on their own. “I meant─” He ran a quick hand through his hair. “Ha. Never mind. Forget it.”

And this time, when the light dimmed in your eyes, it didn’t come back. You won’t forget it. Because you saw right through him. Still, you didn’t push ─ every time you did, disappointment crawled over you like insects. After a beat of silence, one that felt like a lifetime, you exhaled, something fragile flashing across your features before you masked it with a tight-lipped smile. He hated it.

You nodded. “Sure.” Just that. Oscar didn’t know what he was expecting. No questions, accusations.

But that was almost worse, you let him get away with it, with the almost, with all of it.

When you both went to sleep that night, it was the first time in forever you didn’t sleep in the same bed. You pretended to have a headache, said you’d join him once it settled down. Oscar fell into slumber alone. 

For some reason, it felt like losing.

Saying to have known love at eight years old would have to be a lie, but Oscar knew you jump-started his heart the minute your laugh echoed in his ear at that playground, fifteen years ago.

He had been pathetically doomed from the start.

From the first glance, to the first laugh, to when your fingers grazed his when you took the controller to his truck ─ a touch so small that had burned itself into his memory like a brand. He was too young to understand what it meant at fifteen when he sat beside you on his porch. Too blind to recognize it at twenty, lying in your childhood bedroom and hands fisting the sheets to stop them from reaching for you. Too scared to act on it last year, close enough to touch and closer than you had been in years and he still let the moment pass him.

The truth was simply this: no matter what, Oscar had always known. Maybe not at eight, maybe not at fifteen. But deep inside, he had always, always known. And he had spent every year since then trying to ignore it.

Not anymore. He couldn’t ─ not when he messed it up last time. Not when he was on the verge of losing you for good.

Oscar Piastri loves you, like a madman, and he needed to tell you like someone drowning needed air.

But to do that, he’d have to get out of the patch of grass he got himself into first.

The track was slippery due to the rain, and a simple mistake could lead to tragic circumstances: this was one of them. Oscar was stuck in the grass of the circuit after a turn he took too narrowly. He lost his P2, the one of his home race he had been searching for since last year. The scream of frustration he let out had earned a pained groan from his race engineer, and to make it worse, he was apparently already written as Out.

But that wouldn’t happen. Because Oscar didn’t go after things he knew he couldn’t have ─but he knew he could have this race. He could finish it. He wouldn’t DNF.

And after he’d be done with it, he’d go after you.

So he dragged himself out under the cheers of his home crowd, an ecstatic buzz in his ears. The last of the laps passed in an angry blur: Oscar was driven by sheer determination, rage even, he could barely remember overtaking Hamilton, fighting his way to P9, and grabbing as many points as he could have in his situation. He could do it.

The race ended in a flurry of applause, some of them surprisingly directed at him. Oscar tried to get out of his car as fast as he could but under the special circumstances of his race, he knew getting past the journalists and commentators was going to be almost impossible. And it was, because as soon as he put a foot on paddock ground, he was swarmed by microphones, cameras, and flashing lights, waiting for every tear to turn into a headline that people would twist and shape.

A few hours passed by the time he was finally able to reach his family. After the regular hugs and reassurances, one of the first things his mom said was: “That’s too bad you just missed Y/N, she had to go back. I wish she could have stayed, she always knows what to say to you,” with motherly little taps on the cheek.

Oscar felt a hole opening in his chest. “She left?” He asked, trying to muster as much nonchalance as he could. 

It wasn’t very efficient, as Nicole gave him the kind of look you’d give to a kicked puppy. “Yeah, she did.” Quickly, she added, “She didn’t go back to her hotel, though. I asked to drop her off and she refused, saying she had somewhere to be.”

It was as vague as it could possibly get, maybe because you didn’t want Oscar to seek you out. But he needed to, he had to get it off his chest before your relationship could worsen ─ and he couldn’t do that by text or calls, for the little you exchanged over the past year. He had to know if the little gap you almost crossed on that front porch meant something and could have been something if he hadn’t fucked it up. If it was too late for it to become something now. And knowing you, you’d be gone by tomorrow morning.

Oscar dashed. 

He got into his car, drove too fast under the intensifying rain. There was no time to waste for him. What he was thinking about was a long shot, an extremely long one for a non-wishful thinker, but if today put you in the same state as him ─ there was a chance, a small one, that you’d be there. 

When he pulled into your childhood neighborhood, his drenched windshield made the road and its surroundings almost indiscernible. But right before the little street leading to both of your houses, he passed by that old, worn-down playground that somehow stood against the test of time, with its rusted swing set and old dirt roads. But his breath didn’t catch on that, no.

It caught on you, sitting on the lower branches of the tree you spied him on at eight.

Oscar had never parked so hastily. He never ran so fast, soaking the McLaren hoodie he put on in a rush before going out. His hair stuck to his forehead and when he reached the dry soil underneath the tree you were hiding on. Arms around yourself, staring in the empty, like you were holding yourself together.

He hesitated momentarily, and all the fears plaguing his mind the past years came rushing back. What if it was too late? What if all he’d get was a final goodbye?

Then you turned, and your gaze found his in the settling dark. All doubts vanished at the same moment ─ he’d rather regret saying too much and grasp at the chance of something than live the rest of his life in silence, drowning in the regrets of saying nothing at all.

“Y/N,” he called, a little strangled, arms dangling at his side.

“Oscar?” You frowned, jumping the small distance separating you from the ground. “What-? How’d you know─?”

“I… guessed.”

“Oh.”

Silence. The incessant rhythm of the rain filled the space as you both stared each other down. Waiting. What was he supposed to say now? “So… uh. How are you?”

Your eyes widened, and a scoff escaped you. “How am─?” You crossed your arms on your chest, staring at Oscar like he had grown a second head ─ and maybe he had, because he couldn’t even try to think straight. “I’m good, Oscar. Great. How was the race?”

“It was─” He stopped, swallowed. It felt plastic, strange ─ the distance, the iciness. Both of you knew you weren’t really inquiring about the race, you knew him better than anyone and probably guessed how it felt already, and he wasn’t really inquiring about you.

It was the first time you saw each other after last year, and everything felt more real. Heavy.

“Did you forget how to talk, Osc’?”

Osc’. You haven't called him that in a long time.

A nervous chuckle escaped him. You were so far and so close at the same time, hair frizzy from the dampness, knees scratched from your recent climb ─ he missed you, you were right there and he still missed you, because you were slowly slipping through his fingers. The last bit of his resolve crumbled.

“Y/N, I’m sorry. I’m so, so sorry.”

Oscar never showed too much emotion. But here he was, drenched by the rainfall, eyes open and raw. And you didn't know what to do with that. You shifted on your feet. “For what?”

He exhaled sharply, running a hand through his damp hair, frustration bleeding into the gesture. “You know what for.”

“That’s not enough. Not anymore.” Your voice was laced with barely contained emotions, strangling you.

He knew. Oscar stepped forward tentatively, just once. Enough to make you look up at him, and he held your gaze even as it twisted with the kind of hurt he never wanted to be responsible for, but had to be faced with. Because he had. And he had to own up to it ─ so everything spilled out.

“I fucked up, last year. Big time.” His voice cracked. He couldn’t care less. “And I know- shit, I know I’m probably too late. I should’ve said something back then, but I didn’t know how or what or why.”

“I was scared. Not just of ruining things, even though it was a part of it, but of─ of what it meant. I didn’t understand, Y/N. I didn’t get why you were the first person I looked for in a room, why I felt so goddamn lost when I moved out and you weren’t there anymore, why seeing you living your own life without me was─ I don’t know, I guess I’m selfish or something.” His throat burned. “And that night─ here, last year─ I should’ve known. Fuck, I think I knew long before then but I was just so blind. When I asked you to come with me, and we─ I should’ve known why. I did. I just─ I didn’t want to mess it up. I didn’t want to lose you.”

Oscar let out a short, breathless laugh, shaking his head. “But I did anyway. I messed it all up because I couldn’t make up my mind, and I don’t blame you if you don’t─ if you can’t─”

He couldn’t finish the sentence.

The rain pattered against the dirt and the surrounding pavement, unrelenting, like both of your heartbeats. Oscar’s fingers twitched, aching to reach for you ─ but he wouldn’t do it. Not unless you let him.

Finally, you spoke. “You’re the biggest idiot I met in my entire life, Osc’. You’re so stupid.”

Your voice was teary, but you didn’t cry. You weren’t angry. You weren’t turning away. You simply stared at him, lips parted ─ barely smiling, but it was there.

Oscar blinked rapidly, taken aback. “I know,” he admitted, his voice a whisper, “but I love you.”

There it was. After fifteen years, there it was: the plain truth, out in the open for you to see. What he spent his time running from, what he should have told you so long ago.

You didn’t react. Your eyes widened, a sharp inhale went through your mouth and you stared, frozen in place. Oscar panicked. “I understand if you don’t─ I mean, after everything, I get it if─ Or, or maybe I misread, but─”

“Say it again.”

Your voice was authoritative. Hopeful. And this time, a tear slid down your cheek. His heart skipped a bit. “I love you.”

And Oscar Piastri is twenty-three when he kisses you for the first time.

Your hands grabbed the hood of his sweatshirt, pulling him to you. The crash of your lips against his was sudden, but it didn’t take Oscar long to find a rhythm ─ not when it made so much sense, not when it felt so right. Finally.

A shudder rippled through him, something snapping back into place. It was messy, desperate ─ years of missed chances spilling out at once. You exhaled against his mouth and Oscar felt it everywhere, in the way his fingers trembled when he cupped your cheeks, how his knees almost buckled when you got closer, in the way his world narrowed down to just you. His mouth against yours. Fuck.

You pulled away, just for a second. “Osc─”

“Not yet,” he rasped. And he captured your lips a second time, choking out any other words.

How had he gone so long without this? Without knowing what it was like to have you like this?

He tilted his head, deepening the kiss, his tongue slipping past your lips. Desire, want, love, all of it blurred in the way his fingers wove into your hair, when he slowly brought them down to your waist, pulling you against him, hungry, greedy.

If he wanted you to come with him so badly the past few years wasn’t because he needed you at his side ─ he still did, but that wasn’t the gist of it. Now that you were falling apart against his lips, hands making a mess of his rain-drenched hair, he knew he had wanted you next to him because he wasn’t allowing himself to have you. He had wanted you in his chest, curled beneath his ribs, a part of him so irrevocably that no miles, no years, no silence could ever pull you away.

And now, he had you. Shit, if that wasn’t like ascending to heaven felt like, he didn’t know what would.

You put a hand on his chest, slowly, and when you separated Oscar found himself longing for more, for every instance he passed on. Yet, the wide smile on your face stopped him ─ because you looked perfect like this, bright and open, taking up space. That’s why he fell in love with you.

“I love you too. So much,” you said, and the words softly blossomed in Oscar’s chest like spring. He dropped his forehead against yours.

“Me too. I love you. You don’t even know,” he breathed out, his lips slowly dropping a kiss on your forehead. “It feels so good to say it. To know.”

You grabbed the string of his hoodies, toying with them as you’d usually do, but every single one of your actions sent another wave of heat in Oscar’s neck when he remembered what you tasted like. “You could’ve felt good about it earlier, y’know.”

He arched a teasing eyebrow at you and you giggled. “I’m sorry, but the realizing-i’m-in-love-with-my-childhood-best-friend didn’t really come with an instruction material. The confession either.”

“You were pretty dramatic, true, with the rain and the running,” you laughed. “It was gonna be pretty easy for me last year, honestly. Until you bailed.”

Oscar groaned, and his head dropped on your shoulder. “I’m never gonna hear the end of this, am I?”

“Oh yeah, you’re in for a long ride, Piastri.” A long ride. That sounded amazing.

Realization hit him at full force, harder than a crash. “Wait, what do you mean last year?”

Your hand went up, wiping a raindrop dripping down his cheek, and the look you gave him was overflowing with fondness. “I mean that before you tried to kiss me, that night, I would’ve told you I’ve been in love with you ever since I started spying on you at the playground.”

“You…?” Oscar’s mouth dropped open. Had he really been that blind? How many signs had he missed, exactly? “How─”

You kissed him. A quick, hard peck on the lips, but that was enough to shut him up and get him to melt against you once more. “Let’s not talk about it here. I’m cold, and I think it’s the type of discussion that’s too long to have outside,” you said, slipping your hand in his. “My mom would love to make us coffee, if you want.”

Oscar sighed at the familiar feeling, fingers tangling with yours in a well-known pattern. He missed the both of you, and now he got to have it in a better way. “You’re sure? I’d love to, but is your mom─”

“Don’t even worry. She’s been calling me Mrs. Piastri for years now, I think the news will move her to tears.”

So you runned back to the porch of your house where you’d sat years ago, drenched in the deluge but happier than you’ve ever been. Oscar loved you, he knew now. And you loved him back, it was worth the rain, the missed opportunities, the hesitation and the heart wrenching confessions that will follow as you sit down.

You were worth the vulnerability, Oscar thought when you crossed the threshold. You were worth everything.

A year later, Oscar is standing in pole position for the Australian Grand Prix of 2026.

Qualifications went great, keeping the fastest lap position for all rounds. He was confident in his capacity ─ last year had tested his patience and goodwill, but he only came out stronger, more resilient.

The home race curse was a popular saying in Formula One, and sadly he fell victim to it ever since he put his feet in a McLaren in 2023. He had hoped to win the Melbourne race, to bring back the trophy under the cheers of his home crowd and the screams of his family ─ but this year wasn’t for hoping: if there was one thing you taught him, it is that hoping never achieved anything. Actions did. And he was going to win the Australian Grand Prix.

You were standing in your usual spot, orange headphones on, all in smiles and shouts. Hattie next to you playfully shoved an elbow in your ribs to get you to quiet down, which only made you louder. Oscar was persuaded he could hear you above the sound of his race engineer. Or maybe he didn’t. Maybe the thought of you swirled around every mechanism of his car like it always did.

Today marked one year since you and Oscar got together. Since the kiss, the realization, the heartfelt confessions above a steaming cup of gingerbread coffee in the middle of summer because your mom affirmed it was a big occasion before leaving the two of you alone. And the fifteen years it took for you to finally get to that point were a painful obstacle of unsaid and what ifs, taking a few months to finally get out of the way, and plenty of awkward conversations ─ but how beautiful was the other side of it.

Devotion and love, gentle and kind. The impulsive dates, the good morning kisses when Oscar had enough time to come and visit, his hand resting comfortably on your lower back, “Oscar Piastri’s partner” on the screen when the camera was pointing at you during races, the weekend getaways.

Oscar noticed the large, varsity top hung on you, a bright orange with the large number 81 written in white. Just underneath, the words Mrs. Piastri were written in a similar font. You had it custom-made a few months into the relationship, simply because the comment about your mother the day he kissed you became a regular inside joke between the two of you.

It made Oscar’s heart flutter every time you wore it.

He observed the red lights above him, flickering out one by one. He thought about it: how the fifteen years of being apart made every day spent with you seem like too little, how he couldn’t get enough of you and how he didn’t want to.

Suddenly, Oscar couldn’t wait for the race to end. Because he was going to keep his P1 with his skills and the speed of his car, and brandish the trophy high on the podium for the country who raised him. Because after, he will rush out in your arms and kiss you until the air in his body runs out. Because he had a girl to get, and plans to make.

Because even though it was only a year spent together, Oscar Piastri is twenty-four when he decides he wants to marry you, and he was not about to wait fifteen more years to make it happen.

"You have a key," you tell him as you pull the door open, stepping aside to let him in.

"It's your space," he says simply. "I didn't want to impose."

This is our space, you want to tell him. This is our home. 

But the words lodge in your throat like splinters. Instead, you turn away, walking toward the kitchen counter where the last of his things sit packed away—boxes filled with the remnants of a life that, not too long ago, felt unshakable.

You hand one over, your fingers brushing his.

You hate it. The fire that still flickers beneath your skin when he touches you. The way your body betrays you, how your heart still trips over itself, clinging to some fragile, stupid hope. That this is a mistake. That he’ll realize it, take it all back, and come home.

But he doesn’t. He turns to leave, silent and sure, just like he did that night—the night he decided you weren’t worth staying for.

"Why?" The word slips out before you can stop it, the weight of it filling the room. "Why are you doing this to me?"

Your voice is barely above a whisper, but he hears you. Of course, he does.

He pauses, shoulders tense.

Tears blur your vision, hot and unwelcome, but you refuse to let them fall. You won’t give him that. You won’t let him see you break.

He turns slowly, meeting your gaze. "I don’t know what you want me to say."

"Anything." Your voice shakes. "Literally anything."

He exhales, a quiet, tired sound, rubbing the back of his neck the way he always does when he’s searching for the right words. Or when he knows there aren’t any.

"I didn’t want it to be like this.” His voice is low, careful, like he’s stepping over shattered glass. "This isn’t easy for me either. I…" He exhales, voice softening. "I never wanted to hurt you."

"But you did."

"I’m sorry,” he whispers.

"You walked away, Oscar," you say, the words trembling but firm. "You left, and you didn’t think I’d be hurt?"

"I didn’t walk away," he says after a beat. "I just—" He sighs, shaking his head. "You wanted things I couldn’t give you."

“I wanted things that you promised me!” The tears fall, and it feels like you’ve lost, like your very heart has betrayed you. “You said you wanted me—a family, a home. You said you loved me!”

“I do!" His voice is sharp, insistent.

"Then why?"

He falls silent, the weight of the question pressing between you. When he finally speaks, his voice is quieter. “I’ve worked my entire life for this. To get that seat. To win. I—” He looks at you then, and it’s the worst part—the way his gaze still holds that tenderness, that warmth, the one you’ve memorized like a scripture, a prayer. The one that makes you hope, even now. “It’s my dream.”

“You said I was your dream.”

“We were seventeen," he breathes. "What did we know then?”

“I knew I loved you.” The sob rips through you, raw and helpless. “Fuck, I still love you.”

His face twists, pained. “You think I don’t?” His voice is gentle. Soft. Guilty. “You think I don’t regret it?”

For a long moment, it’s just silence. The space between you stretching, breaking, unraveling like the seams of something that was never meant to last.

Finally, you whisper, the words barely holding together—fragile, afraid.

“Oscar…did you ever even love me?”

He doesn’t answer right away. And maybe that’s the answer. Maybe he did. Once. When love was simple and young, when life hadn’t wedged itself between you. When dreams were still dreams, untouched by sacrifice, and the future was some distant thing you had all the time in the world to figure out.

Maybe he’s right and he still does. Just not enough.

Not enough to stay.

He takes a breath, slow and measured, like he’s been holding it in for too long. Then he shifts the box under his arm, adjusting his grip like it’s heavier than it should be.

“Goodbye, Y/N.”

And just like that, he turns.

Walks to the door.

Opens it.

Leaves.

The sound of it clicking shut echoes through the room, louder than it should. Louder than it has any right to be.

You stand there, staring at the empty space where he stood just moments ago, waiting. For something—anything. For him to come back. To say he made a mistake. To tell you this isn’t the end. Or at the very least, to give you some kind of answer, some final piece to help you understand where it all went wrong.

But there’s nothing.

Only silence.

A silence he will never hear.

His grip tightened on the strap of his bag. “You’ve got dreams?” He sneered. “Must be hard for a princess like you to have to be here and work for them then.”

You rolled your eyes, but there was something sharp in the way you did it, like you were daring him to say more. “Don’t act like you know me, Piastri.”

He huffed out a dry laugh. “I could say the same for you.”

You turn your head away from him at the sound of light footsteps—faculty returning, this time accompanied by older students meant to be your guides. And just like that, the stupidly perfect, fake smile was back on your face, as if the last few minutes of exchanged barbs had never happened.

“I see you two have been conversing,” says the headmaster, smiling warmly. If only she knew about the jabs you’d taken at each other. Would she still be smiling?

“He’s been lovely company, Mrs. Berkshire,” you lie with effortless charm, your voice smooth as silk. “It’s been comforting to know I’m not the only transfer student.”

Then, as if to twist the knife a little deeper, you turn to him with a look so deceptively sweet it could almost pass as genuine—almost. “I’m glad Oscar feels the same.”

There’s a glint in your eyes, something smug and self-satisfied, and he wonders if anyone else in the room can see just how full of it you are. Probably not. Mrs. Berkshire certainly doesn’t. She beams, clearly pleased at the thought of her two new students becoming fast friends.

Oscar clenches his jaw. He could call you out, make it clear that you’re full of it—but what’s the point? Instead, he forces himself to nod, his voice tight as he grits out, “Yeah. She’s been great.”

He sees it then—that flicker of amusement, the way your lips almost twitch like you’re holding back a laugh. Almost. Couldn’t let your facade slip, not even for a second.

And it pissed him off.

You spend most of your first year at boarding school in different circles.

Oscar lays low, slipping easily into a group of laid-back boys who are effortlessly easy to be around. They play video games in dorm rooms until lights out, kick a ball around after class, and never demand much from each other beyond good company. They cheer him on when he leaves to compete and catch him up on everything he’s missed when he comes back. They’re great. Better than he could have ever imagined.

You, on the other hand, carve out your place at the top of the food chain. Academically untouchable, always two steps ahead. First in your class, a key member of the Debate Team and MUN Club, and well on your way to securing a prefect badge. Your uniform is always pristine, your headband perfectly in place, not a single strand of hair out of order. You have a small group of friends who he assumes are just as intelligent, uptight, and snooty as you are.

And yet—when he sees you laughing with them, head thrown back, completely unguarded—something about you seems softer. You don’t look like the girl who calculated every move, who smiled just enough to be polite but never enough to be real. In those moments, with that rare, genuine laugh, he thinks—begrudgingly—that you actually look quite…pretty.

Not that he’d ever say it out loud.

In all honesty, he doesn’t know why he even notices. It’s not like he cares.

But sometimes, in the middle of a dull afternoon or while walking past the library, he catches glimpses of you—not the polished, picture-perfect version of you that you show everyone else, but something different. Unpolished. Real.

Like when you’re sprawled across a bench outside with your friends, books and papers in a chaotic mess around you, groaning about an impossible assignment—right up until someone cracks a joke that sends you into a fit of laughter. The kind of laugh that makes you cover your mouth, eyes crinkling at the corners, completely unguarded.

Or when, on those rare occasions, he catches you slipping up in class, head bobbing forward as you fight off sleep, fingers twitching as you try—and fail—to take notes.

Or when he walks past the debate team’s practice room and sees you in your element, arguing fiercely, hands moving with conviction, voice steady and sure. Confidence radiating off you in a way that has nothing to do with arrogance and everything to do with certainty.

And for a second, just a second, he forgets to be annoyed by you.

But then you glance up, catch him staring, and arch a perfectly shaped brow in challenge—like you know something he doesn’t.

Right. He still hates you. Definitely.

He shoves his hands into his pockets and keeps walking.

2017: Year 11 [16 years old]

Oscar was back at school regularly after the summer holidays and the season ending. He was pretty pleased with himself—2nd place wasn’t anything to scoff at. Sure, first would’ve been better, but it was fairly won. Besides, it had been a fun season, his best yet. More importantly, he hadn’t thought about you for months. Too busy with his Formula 4 campaign, too focused on climbing the motorsport ladder, too—

Well. That’s what he told himself.

He stepped through the iron gates of the academy, duffel bag slung over one shoulder, his phone buzzing with check-up texts from his mom. The familiar scent of freshly cut grass and old stone filled his lungs, a quiet signal that summer was officially over. Students crowded the courtyard, reuniting after the break, voices overlapping in a chorus of excitement. His friends spotted him almost immediately, calling his name, pulling him into easy conversation—asking about his races, his wins, his losses, his plans.

And then—there you were.

Standing by the main building, perfect posture as always, chatting with one of your equally polished friends. Your hair was different, slightly shorter, but the headband remained, a signature piece of armor. Your uniform was just as crisp as it had been last year, not a wrinkle in sight, now complete with a new prefect’s badge that you wore with unmistakable pride. And when you laughed at something your friend said, it was that same light, practiced sound he recognized all too well.

It took exactly eight seconds for you to notice him.

Your gaze flicked toward him, assessing, calculating—just like it had in the headmaster’s office when you first met. Then—because you were you—your lips curled into a polite, almost saccharine smile, the kind reserved for faculty members and people you didn’t actually care about.

He scoffed. Typical.

“Piastri,” you greeted, voice smooth, just a little too pleasant.

“Princess,” he shot back, just to see if he could get a reaction.

And for a split second, he did—your brow twitched, barely noticeable, but he caught it. Then, just as quickly, you smoothed your expression, tilting your head ever so slightly in mock amusement.

“We’re in Year 11 now, and you’re still calling me that?”

“You’re still acting like one.”

You huffed a quiet laugh, shaking your head. But then, after a beat, you said, “I saw that you got second in the championship. Congratulations.”

Oscar blinked. He hadn’t expected that. Compliments from you were rare, practically unheard of. He studied your face, searching for sarcasm, but found none. Just a simple, matter-of-fact acknowledgment.

“…Thanks,” he said, accepting it before you could take it back. “Bet it was a little more interesting than your summer,” he added, smirking.

You raised a brow. “What, don’t tell  me you’re…curious about my summer, Piastri.”

His smirk vanished. His brain short-circuited.

And just like that, you had him cornered.

His mouth opened, but nothing came out. He shut it. His brain scrambled for a way to recover, but all it did was replay the way you’d said his name just now—not in the usual clipped, disapproving way. No, this time it had been lighter, teasing. Maybe even…amused.

Suddenly, the two of you were locked in a silent standoff, neither willing to look away first.

Your friend cleared her throat, shifting uncomfortably. Oscar barely noticed. Because in that moment—standing there, the summer heat giving way to the crispness of early autumn, your eyes locked onto his with that same sharp, knowing look—he realized something.

He hadn’t actually stopped thinking about you at all.

The mere thought made his stomach twist, and before he could process it any further, he turned on his heel, raising a hasty hand in goodbye as he strode back to his friends. Fast. Like putting distance between you would somehow fix whatever the hell had just happened in his head.

“Okay, that was a little weird,” he heard your friend murmur behind him. “Is he alright?”

“Maybe the gasoline finally got to his brain,” you quipped. “A pity. He was a little smart, too.”

Oscar nearly tripped.

He wanted to say the comment about his "off attitude" annoyed him. He wanted to say that the gasoline remark made him dislike you more. He wanted to say that he had a cutting comeback ready to fire back at you.

But all he could think about was how you called him smart.

God, what was happening to him?

He knew something was going to go wrong last week when their teacher announced he’d be the one pairing up students for the project, taking matters into his own hands with a kind of cruel indifference that made Oscar’s stomach twist.

He knew something was going to go wrong when, at the start of class, the teacher gave both you and him a pointed look—sharp, knowing—before moving on like nothing had happened. You had shot him a confused glance then, your brow furrowing ever so slightly in a rare moment of shared uncertainty. He had stared back, just as lost. Neither of you had any idea what was coming, but for once, you were both on the same side of the battlefield.

And then the teacher started listing off partners.

It started harmless enough—his friends were getting paired with each other, easy matches. So were yours. Names fell into place like puzzle pieces, creating perfectly balanced, cooperative duos that wouldn’t cause trouble. And then—

“And finally, Oscar and...Y/N.”

Silence.

For a moment, he swore he misheard. But then he turned, and there you were, staring at the teacher like you were considering staging a full-scale academic rebellion. The slight tightening of your jaw, the way your fingers curled subtly against your sleeves—he could practically hear the calculations running through your head, weighing the pros and cons of outright protesting.

A second ticked by. Then another.

“You’ve got to be kidding,” you muttered under your breath, but the teacher either didn’t hear or didn’t care.

“I expect full collaboration,” they continued, already moving on. “This project is a significant portion of your grade, so I suggest you all put any personal differences aside and focus on the work.”

Oscar barely heard the rest. He was too busy glaring at his desk, resisting the urge to run a hand down his face. Of course, this just had to happen. Most teachers kept the two of you apart, aware of the silent war you had waged since the day you met. But not this one. No, this one was smarter—or crueler—ready and waiting to watch the fire combust.

Great. Just great. Out of everyone in this class, he was stuck with you.

By the time class ended, he had barely processed anything. He was about to make his escape when he felt a presence beside him.

“You.”

He sighed before even turning around.

You had stopped him just outside the door, arms crossed, expression unreadable except for the slight, irritated furrow of your brow. The usual superiority was absent—no smug glint in your eyes, no perfectly poised smirk. Just frustration, quiet but simmering.

“This doesn’t mean we’re friends,” you said flatly.

Oscar let out a sharp breath, shaking his head. “Trust me, Princess, I’d rather fail.”

And then—you smiled.

Not the polite, school-perfect kind you used on teachers. Not the barely-there one reserved for acquaintances. No, this one was slow, sharp, and just smug enough to make his blood boil.

“Then I guess we have very different priorities.”

He hated that he had no comeback.

God, this was going to be a disaster.

“We should take a break,” Oscar says, hunching over the library table, rubbing his temples like the weight of academia is physically crushing him. “We’ve been at this for hours.”

You barely spare him a glance. “It’s been two hours and seven minutes.”

“See? It’s been so long,” he complains, dragging a hand down his face. “Let’s take a break. You’re done with your part anyway.”

You turn to him, assessing. “Are you finished with your part?”

He hesitates. Then, with a slow shake of his head, he sighs. “Give me like an hour, and I’ll be finished.”

You straighten, your posture sharpening into something unreadable, something that makes him feel like a student being reprimanded. “Piastri, this is due tomorrow. We need to get it done today.”

“And we will,” he argues, matching your intensity. “Just let me nap for a bit.”

You inhale sharply, clenching your jaw, and he already knows what’s coming. That calm facade. That practiced composure. That same tone you use when talking to teachers, the one that makes him want to throw his pen at the wall.

“The library closes in three hours,” you say evenly. “This is just the first draft, so we still need to revise. And not to mention we have to properly format our sources—thirteen of them, by the way. Do you know how long that’s going to take?”

Oscar groans, letting his head fall dramatically onto the open textbook in front of him. “Princess, we can afford not to revise this. It’s literally a first draft for comments. We can just start formatting the citations.”

You don’t budge. Instead, you tilt your head slightly, eyes narrowing. “What page of the document are you working on?”

He blinks, suspicious. “…Why?”

“I’ll finish it.”

His head snaps up. “What?”

“We need to finish on time, and I refuse to let my grade be pulled down because we don’t submit a good output.”

“You’re not doing my work.” His voice comes out sharper than he expects, but the idea of you just taking over, of you thinking you have to—he hates it. “It’s literally my work for a reason.”

“And you aren’t getting it done, so let me do it.” You nearly exclaim, only to catch yourself, voice lowering when you remember where you are. The library is quiet, save for the occasional rustling of pages and distant whispers. You press your lips together like you’re trying to hold the rest of the argument inside.

It’s silent between you for a long moment.

And then—

“…Do you always end up doing the work?”

You freeze. Just for a second. Then your gaze flickers away, shifting toward the window. Anywhere but him.

Oscar watches you carefully, something tightening in his chest. “Y/N, what the hell? People have just been riding on your work?”

“It doesn’t matter,” you say, voice even. Practiced. “We get it done. And we get it done well.”

His brows furrow. He doesn’t know why he’s so upset. He shouldn’t care. It’s not his problem, right? It was your choice to take on the workload, to let people walk over you.

But still…knowing that people just expect you to pick up the slack, that they let you do it without even thinking—

It pisses him off.

And what pisses him off more is the way you look right now. Not angry. Not frustrated. Just resigned.

Like this is just the way things are. Like you’re used to it. And he hates that more than anything.

“Give me like forty-five minutes,” Oscar says after a beat, exhaling through his nose. “We’ll start revising after, and then we can split the citations.”

You blink, eyes flickering with something unreadable—surprise, maybe. He can’t tell. But then, just for a second, he swears he sees the corners of your lips twitch upward, like you’re trying not to smile.

“Just…” You hesitate, fingers tracing absent patterns against the edge of your notebook. “Tell me if you need help. Or…y’know. If you have questions.”

Your voice is quieter this time, less clipped, lacking the usual sharp edge you use when you’re exasperated with him.

Oscar doesn’t respond right away. The library is quieter now, the golden hues of the sunset stretching across the wooden tables and casting long shadows over your open books. The light catches on your face—soft, warm—and for the first time, he gets a proper look at you up close.

You look tired. Not just from today, but in the way that lingers—faint bags under your eyes, a kind of weariness that no amount of perfect posture or crisp uniforms can fully hide. And yet, right now, there’s something peaceful about you. The way you rest your head against your palm, watching him work—not impatient, not irritated. Just…watching.

You must notice, because your brows furrow slightly. “Do I have something on my face?”

“What?” He blinks, snapping out of whatever trance he had fallen into.

“You were staring.”

“No, I wasn’t.”

“Yes, you were.”

“It was nothing,” he says quickly, looking back at his laptop. “Just zoning out.”

You hum, unconvinced. But instead of arguing, you simply go back to flipping through your notes, like it’s nothing. Like it doesn’t matter.

“…Okay,” you say.

He exhales, forcing himself to focus. “Okay.”

Somehow, he feels like forty-five minutes is going to take much longer.

Three weeks into the project, Oscar realizes something: you’re actually kind of well-known on campus. 

Or, at the very least, you know a lot of people.

It’s not like he was completely unaware of it before. Your perfect reputation precedes you—your name carries weight in every class. Teachers mention you as an example of excellence, throwing your name around as if it alone should inspire the rest of them to do better. But working with you forces him to see it firsthand.

It seems like every five seconds, someone is coming up to greet you.

It doesn’t matter where you are—library, hallways, common areas. Someone always stops by.

Underclassmen ask for help on assignments—apparently, you tutor them sometimes, though Oscar doesn’t know how you find the time. Classmates ask about group projects. A girl from the debate team once yelled and waved from across the quad while you were in the middle of explaining a research point. Even the Year 13s, the ones Oscar barely interacts with, acknowledge you with nods and casual greetings.

And the weirdest part? You handle it all effortlessly.

He expected you to treat them the way you treat him—polite but cold, maybe even dismissive. But you don’t.

Instead, you smile. The fake one. The one he recognizes now, warm but not inviting. Like a wall disguised as a door, keeping people at a carefully measured distance. You don’t brush them off, but you don’t encourage them either. Your reactions are controlled, calculated. Just like everything else about you.

It’s impressive.

It’s annoying.

And it shouldn’t bother him. Not really.

But after three weeks of constantly being in your presence, after working side by side for hours on end, after getting into at least five arguments over formatting and research sources and the exact tone an introduction should have—he feels a little close to you. Not enough to like you, obviously. But enough that his respect for you has grown, just a little.

And with that, he’s started to notice things.

Like how you always twirl your pen when you’re deep in thought, but you never drop it. How you tap your fingers against your notebook in the exact rhythm of whatever song is stuck in your head. How you drink tea instead of coffee and always wince at the first sip, like it’s too hot but you drink it anyway. How you use hair ties instead of your signature headband when you’re frustrated, tying and untying your hair over and over again only to fall back to your tried and tested headband after a while. How you let out a tiny sigh whenever you finish an assignment, as if mentally crossing it off a never-ending list.

He notices these things, and he tells himself it’s just because you’re working together. Because you’re spending time together. Because of course he’s going to pick up on small details when you’re stuck in the same space for hours.

That’s all it is.

Right?

Definitely.

And then, one afternoon, as you sit across from him at the library, books and notes spread between you, someone approaches.

"Y/N, hey."

Oscar looks up. It’s some guy—one of the Year 12s from the student council. He’s polished and confident, wearing the kind of casual smirk Oscar immediately finds irritating.

You blink in mild surprise before offering a smile—thankfully, the fake one. The one that’s polite, effortless, and just distant enough.

"Hello, Eric."

Eric leans against the table, his entire focus on you. He doesn’t even acknowledge Oscar.

"Haven’t seen you at any events lately. You’ve been busy?"

You glance at the open laptop in front of you, gesturing vaguely to your notes. "Yeah, the project’s been taking up a lot of time."

"Oh, right. This is for—" He finally gives Oscar a glance, his brows lifting slightly, like he’s only just realizing he’s there. "This is your partner?"

Oscar doesn’t like the way he says that.

You nod. "Yeah. We’ve been working on it together for a while now."

Eric hums, then—too casually—grins. "Well, don’t work too hard. Wouldn’t want you burning out before the weekend." His voice drops slightly, just enough to sound a little too suggestive for Oscar’s liking. "You should take a break. Come to the council’s seminar on Friday afternoon."

You hesitate, and for some reason, Oscar finds himself gripping his pen just a little tighter.

"It sounds fun," you admit, "But, with my schedule, I’m not sure—"

"You should go," Eric insists, tilting his head. "C’mon. You worked hard to help organize it—Thanks for the great speakers you found, by the way—I’ll even save you a seat next to me."

Something bristles in Oscar’s chest.

He doesn’t know why, but the entire interaction irks him. Maybe it’s the way Eric acts like he already knows you’ll say yes. Maybe it’s the casual confidence, the assumption that you’d drop everything just because he asked. Or maybe it’s the way you’re actually considering it.

Before he can stop himself, Oscar lets out a scoff.

Both you and Eric turn toward him.

"You good, man?" Eric asks, clearly amused.

Oscar leans back in his chair, crossing his arms. "Didn’t realize we were in the middle of a social hour, Y/N. Thought we were working."

Your eyes narrow slightly, but before you can say anything, Eric just laughs, pushing off the table. "Relax, Piastri. Didn’t mean to interrupt." He turns back to you, giving you an easy grin. "Think about it, yeah? It’d be nice to see you there."

You give a noncommittal nod, and just like that, he walks off.

The moment he’s gone, you exhale, turning to Oscar with a raised brow. "Was that necessary?"

He shrugs. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

You stare at him for a moment before shaking your head, muttering, "You’re so weird."

Oscar clenches his jaw, tapping his fingers against the table, suddenly annoyed.

Not at you. Not even at Eric.

Just at the fact that, for some stupid reason, the thought of you actually going to that seminar is really bothering him.

And he has no idea why.

He sneaks out of the dorms on Friday night, hands in his pockets, head low as he moves through the dimly lit pathways of the school. The night air is crisp, the kind that clears his mind if he lets it, but tonight, it does nothing to untangle the thoughts looping through his head.

It’s stupid. The fact that he even cares. That the idea of you and Eric sitting together, side by side, laughing at some dull student council joke, is bothering him.

It doesn’t.

It shouldn’t.

Because he doesn’t like you.

He still thinks you’re stuck-up, overly competitive, and have a way of looking at him like you know exactly how to get under his skin. The faces you make, the way you roll your eyes when he so much as breathes the wrong way—it’s all infuriating.

But you’re smart. Intelligent. And your work ethic is something he respects, even if he won’t admit it.

And, yeah, you’re pretty. Even he has to acknowledge that much. But not the obvious kind of pretty. It’s the kind that sneaks up on you. The kind that feels like a place you recognize, a feeling that lingers in the quiet spaces between conversations. It’s the kind that makes you feel at home.

The kind that—if he were the type to believe in this kind of thing—you’d find when you’re in love.

Not that he is. Obviously.

He shakes the thought away, sighing as he rounds the corner of the old courtyard. And then—

"It’s lights out, Piastri."

Your voice cuts through the silence, and he stops dead in his tracks.

You’re standing a few feet away, arms crossed, the dim glow of the campus lamps casting soft shadows across your face. You look unimpressed but not surprised, like you already expected to catch someone out of bed tonight.

He exhales, shoulders dropping. Of course.

"Then what are you doing here?" he mutters.

You raise an eyebrow. "I’m a prefect, remember? Tonight’s my shift to make rounds before security does."

"Oh."

A beat.

"So," you say, tilting your head slightly. "What made you break curfew? You don’t seem like the type."

"Just needed to walk. Clear my head."

You hum in response, your gaze flicking over him, assessing. Then, after a moment:

"Well, the classrooms in the east wing don't get much attention. You can stay there and then sneak back out when the prefects and security switch shifts."

Oscar blinks. Of all the responses he expected from you, that wasn’t one of them.

He raises a brow, smirking. "And you know this…how?"

Your expression doesn’t change, but he catches the way your lips twitch slightly, like you’re holding back a smile. "I can be a little disobedient too. Sometimes."

That surprises him.

"You?" he says, skeptical.

You shrug. "It doesn’t happen often. Just when I need to clear my head." A pause, then, voice quieter, "Those classrooms are my spot, so don’t go there too often. I don’t need to see you when I’m stressed."

Oscar snorts. "Wow. What an honor."

"Exactly."

For a moment, neither of you move. There’s something odd about standing here, talking like this—like you’re two people who aren’t constantly at each other’s throats. Like, in this sliver of time, there’s something unspoken but mutual between you.

It doesn’t last long.

You straighten your posture, clearing your throat. "Now, get going before I change my mind and actually report you."

"Noted, Princess."

You roll your eyes and turn away, disappearing down the corridor.

And for some stupid reason, as Oscar watches you leave, he wonders if you ever feel as restless as he does.

2018: Year 12 [17 years old]

He’s been using the classrooms in the east wing as a secret place to clear his head since the night you told him about it. So far, he’s never run into you.

Maybe you use a different classroom. Maybe you come on different days. Or maybe—like everything else in your life—you have a system, a strict schedule he’s unknowingly managed to avoid.

Either way, he’s always had the classrooms to himself.

Until tonight.

The air is heavier than usual as he makes his way through the dimly lit hallways, his hands shoved deep into the pockets of his hoodie. He’s restless. Frustrated. He tells himself it’s because of the season he’s just had. The Eurocup was brutal and he definitely wasn’t at his best. Every race felt like a battle he couldn’t ever win and every misstep made the weight in his chest grow heavier.

All he wants is to be home. Back in Australia, where everything is familiar—the streets, the skies, the people who don’t expect anything from him except to just be. But instead, he’s here. At fucking boarding school.

He exhales sharply as he pushes the classroom door open, stepping into the quiet. He doesn’t bother turning on the lights—he knows this space well enough now. The desks are still arranged the way they always are, the faint scent of old paper and dry-erase markers lingering in the air. It’s not much, but it’s his for the night.

At least, that’s what he thinks.

Not even five minutes later, the door swings open behind him, and he barely has time to turn his head before—

You.

You freeze in the doorway, hand still on the handle. There’s a flicker of something across your face—surprise, maybe even slight irritation. You definitely thought you were going to be alone.

He should’ve figured this would happen eventually.

Your lips part slightly before you collect yourself. “I’ll use a different—”

“You can stay.”

It’s out of his mouth before he can stop himself.

You hesitate, eyebrows drawing together slightly, like you’re trying to figure out if this is some kind of trap. He doesn’t blame you.

But then, after a beat, you nod, stepping inside and shutting the door behind you, switching on one of the lights and dimly lighting up the room. Neither of you say anything as you move to opposite sides of the room, like unspoken rules are being established in real time.

Oscar exhales, rolling his shoulders back as he leans against one of the desks. He tells himself it doesn’t matter. That you being here changes nothing.

So why does the room suddenly feel smaller?

He looks over at you. You’re scrolling through your phone, eyes scanning over messages he can’t see—but whatever’s on the screen has your jaw clenched tight. His gaze flickers down to your hands, the way your fingers tremble slightly over the glass. And then, in the dim light, he sees it. Faint but undeniable—tear stains trailing down your flushed cheeks.

His stomach twists.

“Are you okay?” he asks, voice careful.

“Fine.” You don’t even look up.

He doesn’t buy it. Not for a second. “You sure?”

“Why do you care, Piastri?” You finally glance at him, but your expression is unreadable. “You don’t even like me.”

He stills. He wasn’t expecting you to be that blunt about your whole dynamic.

“Any decent person would care about someone who looks like they’ve just bawled their eyes out,” he says, crossing his arms.

You let out a short, humorless laugh. “Well, I’m fine.” Your posture shifts, back straightening as your expression smooths out into something eerily familiar. And then it’s there—the mask. The same sweet, practiced smile you wear around everyone else, the one he’s hated since the moment he first saw it in the headmaster’s office years ago. The one that hides everything.

“You don’t have to worry,” you say smoothly. “I have everything under control.” You turn to leave. “I’ll be off now—”

“Cut the bullshit, Y/N.”

The sharpness in his voice makes you freeze, hand hovering over the door handle.

“We both know you’re not fine.” His voice is lower now, steadier, but just as firm. “I know that face. I think I’m the only one who knows that face and how it’s not real. It’s never been real.” He exhales sharply, running a hand through his hair. “For once in your life, just be fucking honest.”

You don’t turn around immediately. When you do, your face is unreadable. Then—so quietly he almost doesn’t hear it—you whisper,

“I’m not at the top of our class anymore.”

His breath catches.

“My grades are dropping—fast,” you continue, voice shaking despite how hard you try to control it. “My A-levels are harder than I expected. I thought I could handle it, but I—” You swallow. “I’m failing. And I’m letting everyone down.” Your voice cracks on the last word.

His chest tightens.

“My parents are pissed. My siblings are pissed because now my parents are pissed at them too. If I were just smarter, if I were better, none of this would be happening. Everything would be fine. Everyone would be happy.” You suck in a sharp breath, but it doesn’t stop the fresh tears from spilling down your cheeks. You don’t wipe them away. You just stand there, breathing unevenly, shoulders tense like you’re bracing for something.

“I’m just tired,” you whisper.

Silence.

It hangs thick between you, pressing against the walls, settling into the space between your feet.

Before he can think twice about it, Oscar moves. Slowly. Carefully. Until he’s standing in front of you. Not too close, but close enough that he can see the way your lashes clump together from the tears, the way your breathing is still uneven, the way you’re still trying to keep yourself from breaking completely.

“I…didn’t think you could cry,” he mutters, before realizing how weird that sounds.

You blink at him, and for once, there’s no condescension in your expression—just something flat, unimpressed.

“You’re weird,” you say, voice hitching slightly from crying, “But you’re pretty good.”

His brows furrow. “Like, as a person?”

“Take it however you want.” You chuckle, a small, tired sound. You wipe your tears away, then, tilting your head, you ask, “So, why’d you come here?”

He hesitates. Looks down at his hands. Then, finally, exhales.

“I got ninth at the Eurocup this season.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah.” His jaw tightens. “I let everyone down. The team. The sponsors. My family.” His fists clench. “I did everything right. I trained harder than ever, I did my best, I gave everything—and it still wasn’t enough. I failed and I don’t know what I did wrong.”

The room is quiet again. Until—

You move.

Soft footsteps against the tiled floor, slow and deliberate, until you’re standing even closer to him. And then, hesitantly, you lift a hand and rest it on his shoulder. The warmth of your touch is unexpected, but grounding.

“Well,” you say, your voice quieter now, “I guess that makes us both failures.”

He lets out a breathless laugh, half in disbelief at the words that just left your mouth, half at the sheer irony of it all.

The girl he’s spent years hating is somehow the only person who understands exactly how he feels.

And when you laugh along with him—soft and real, no mask in sight—he thinks it might be the prettiest sound he’s ever heard.

But just in an objective way. 

Obviously.

Something shifts after that night.

The jabs between you are still there, but they’ve lost their edge—less snark and spite, more playful banter. The kind that lingers just long enough to be amusing but never actually stings.

You smile at him when you pass each other in the hallway now. Not the polite, distant one you give everyone else, but a real one—small, barely-there, but real. You don’t avoid sitting with him anymore when the study hall is packed, and somehow, he swears people have started reserving a seat next to him for you.

He finds that he doesn’t mind at all.

It was weird at first—falling into this easy rhythm with you. He doesn’t quite know when it happened, only that it did.

Now, you help each other out when you can, despite having different A-levels.

You teach him how to organize his notes properly, finally getting him to admit that his system of stuffing everything into his bag “where I can find it later” is inefficient. In return, you steal scratch paper from him when you need to jot things down quickly, muttering a half-hearted “thanks” while he snorts and tells you to bring your own next time.

You ask him to explain things you don’t have the patience to reread, and he—after weeks of resisting—finally accepts your request to have a shared study playlist, since, for some reason, you two find yourselves next to each other so often.

It’s fun. Organic. Comfortable.

And then one day, in the middle of study hall, as he’s flipping through notes and barely paying attention, you look up from your work and—completely unprompted—ask:

“So, tell me about racing.”

He freezes, caught completely off guard.

“…Finally interested in my hobby?” He smirks, leaning back in his chair, twirling his pen between his fingers just like you’d taught him.

You roll your eyes, but there’s a smile tugging at your lips. “Ugh. Let it go, we were like fifteen.”

He laughs, shaking his head. Yeah, something’s definitely changed.

“So…” He watches you intently, trying to gauge if you actually want to know. “You really wanna hear about it?”

“Well, you won’t shut up about it,” you say, propping your chin on your hand. “Might as well figure out what’s so cool about it.”

He snorts. “Then sure, princess, let’s introduce you to motorsport, yeah?”

You roll your eyes at the nickname, but he catches the way you shift slightly in your seat, just a little closer, just a little more engaged.

“There’s a few types of it,” he starts, leaning back against the desk. “You’ve got the motorcycles and there’s even stuff where there’s two people in one car. But I’m in single-seater racing, so it’s just me.” His voice gains a certain ease as he speaks, his usual sharp edges softening. “I’m aiming for Formula One, which is like… the top of it all.”

You tilt your head, studying him. He always seemed most alive when he was annoyed at something—eyes sharp, jaw tight, voice lined with exasperation. But this? This is different. His posture is looser, his words flowing without the usual bite. There’s no frustration here, just passion.

You nod, and—true to form—pull out your notebook, flipping to a fresh page. The sharp click of your pen echoes in the room.

He stops. Stares.

“…Are you seriously taking notes?”

"Duh,” you reply, completely serious. “I need to keep up.”

For a moment, he just blinks at you. Then he huffs out a disbelieving chuckle, shaking his head. But he doesn’t tell you to stop.

“Alright then,” he says, smirking slightly. “Most of us start in karting as kids. Like, literally kids. I was ten when I started—a little late, actually—but that’s where you learn the basics. Overtaking, defending, racing lines, racecraft—the whole lot.”

You hum thoughtfully, jotting something down. Then you glance up at him, the corner of your lips lifting. “Were you fast?”

“In karting?” His mouth twitches in amusement. “Obviously.”

You snicker. “I’ll take your word for it.”

He shoots you a look, rolling his eyes before continuing. “Well, after that, you move up into junior divisions. It’s harder, more competitive, and way more expensive.” His fingers drum against the desk absently. “Talent alone isn’t enough there. There’s sponsors, funding, getting with a good team—and even with all that, nothing’s guaranteed.”

You watch him carefully, catching the way his jaw clenches at that last part.

It’s subtle, but there. The briefest flicker of frustration—of something deeper—before he forces it back down.

You don’t comment on it.

Instead, you tap your pen against your notebook, tilting your head. “So, let me get this straight,” you say, holding back a smile, pretending to examine your notes. “You’re telling me that you just drive in circles really fast, and you need rich people to like you?”

His head snaps toward you, eyes narrowing. “It is not just driving in circles.”

"Of course." You grin. “You drive in different squiggles really fast."

“Oh my god—”

You both burst out laughing, your voices filling the mostly quiet study hall, and the tension lifts.

He finds that you've been doing that lately—smoothing out the tightness in his chest until there's nothing but left but peace.

The kind he realizes he only really finds with you.

The annual retreat was supposed to be a break—a chance for students to step away from deadlines and exams, breathe in fresh air, and pretend they weren’t slowly losing their minds under the weight of classes.

Traditionally, it was some wilderness training program, the kind where they’d be forced to build shelters out of sticks and start fires with nothing but sheer willpower. But this year, the school had gone easy on them.

Instead of roughing it in the wild, they were headed to a quiet camping site tucked away in the countryside. Cabins instead of tents, a scenic lake, and just enough planned activities to call it "team-building" without making it actual suffering. Oscar didn't mind. A few days away from campus, where he didn’t have to think about exams or sponsors or whatever the hell he was supposed to be doing with his life? Yeah, he’d take it.

By the time they arrived, the sun was already slipping lower in the sky, casting warm gold over the treetops. The air was crisp, cooler than the city, carrying the distant scent of pine and lake water. As he stepped off the bus, stretching out his limbs, he could hear his friends already making plans—who was bunking with who, what they were sneaking into the cabins, whether or not they could get away with "accidentally" skipping the reflection sessions.

And then, of course, he spotted you.

Standing near the second bus, arms crossed, listening to one of your friends ramble about something—probably the itinerary. Your uniform blazer was gone, replaced by a jacket, and for once, your hair wasn’t held back by your usual headband. Something about it made you seem different. Less put together, less perfect. More like a person, less like the image of one.

His gaze lingered longer than it should have.

Not that it mattered.

Because when you finally noticed him watching, you raised a brow, expression unreadable for all of two seconds before you smirked—just slightly, just enough to mouth: Stop staring, you weirdo.

Oscar exhaled, shaking his head with a small smile as he shouldered his duffel bag.

Just his luck—two days in the outdoors with you.

Or so he thought.

He didn’t see you at all that first night, too caught up in settling into the cabin with his friends, planning out their excursions for the next day. The schedule was packed but perfect: kayaking in the morning, followed by a swim in the lake. Archery in the afternoon, right after lunch. Then they’d spend the evening holed up in their cabin, pretending to nap so they could conveniently "miss" the reflection exercises. After dinner, they'd break out the snacks and board games they’d smuggled in, playing well past curfew.

Between all that, he was sure he’d run into you at some point. The camp wasn’t that big.

And yet, as the new day unfolded, you were nowhere to be found.

Well, that wasn’t entirely true. He did see you. But only in passing—too focused on organizing the next day’s team-building activities, pouring over notes with the other prefects to even notice him.

Which was fine. Totally fine.

You were busy, after all.

Not that it mattered.

Not that it should have mattered.

And yet, for some reason, it did.

If the first day at camp was a relaxed free period with a required meditation session, the second was the complete opposite. Designed as a full-day competition, the campgrounds buzzed with energy as different challenges ran simultaneously—relay races, strategy games, problem-solving tasks. Every student was assigned to a random team and a random event. When they said team-building, they meant it.

Oscar got assigned to the obstacle course.

Which would’ve been fine—great, even—if it weren’t for the immediate complaints from the other teams the second they saw his name on the roster.

“Oh, come on,” someone groaned. “How’s that fair? He’s literally a professional athlete!”

“We’re going against a guy who has an actual training regimen,” another muttered, crossing their arms.

Oscar rubbed the back of his neck, feeling an unfamiliar prickle of embarrassment as all eyes turned to him. Great. He didn’t even want an unfair advantage, but now he was public enemy number one.

And then, of course, you stepped in.

“Alright, alright, settle down,” you said, somehow managing to corral the complaints into grumbling silence. Then, after a pause, you turned to him, a slow smirk pulling at your lips. “How about we give him a handicap, then?”

Oscar narrowed his eyes immediately. He knew that tone. That was your I’m about to mess with you tone.

“What do you think, Piastri?” you continued, crossing your arms. “Up for the challenge?”

He wasn’t, actually. Not at all. But some part of him—some deeply irrational, definitely stupid part—thought you might be a little impressed if he pulled it off.

“Sure,” he said, tilting his head at you. “What’s the handicap?”

You grinned. Too pleased. “We’re adding some weight on you.”

His brows furrowed. “What?”

Another facilitator stepped forward, handing you a backpack that looked harmless enough. That is, until you struggled just a little to lift it, adjusting your stance to keep from stumbling.

Oscar stared. Oh, hell no.

“You…” He sighed heavily, reaching for the bag. The second he strapped it on, he felt the weight drag at his shoulders, and he let out a quiet grunt. Okay. Yeah. That’s ridiculous.

“You,” he muttered, adjusting the straps, “Are so lucky I tolerate you.”

You just flashed him a teasing smile and—because you were the actual worst—blew him a mocking kiss before turning back to the rest of the group.

“Alright!” you clapped your hands together. “Now that we’re all happy with the arrangements, let’s go over the rules!”

Oscar exhaled through his nose, shifting the weight on his back as you explained the mechanics. A team-based obstacle course where every challenge had to be completed by every member. Fastest team wins.

His team shot him a look, somewhere between amusement and pity.

Oscar just rolled his shoulders and took a deep breath.

Fine. He could do this.

And maybe—just maybe—he’d make sure to throw you in the lake after.

“Are we all ready?” you call out over the crowd.

“Yeah!” they cheer back, voices full of energy.

“On your marks!”

Oscar positions himself at the back of his team, muscles tensed, ready. He could’ve started at the front—probably should have, considering he was technically the athlete—but he stayed behind instead, ready to help if anyone needed it. Team-building and all that.

“Get set!”

You scan the group, making sure everyone is in place. Then, for the briefest moment, your eyes lock with his.

His fingers twitch. Yours drum against your clipboard.

And because he’s him and you’re you, he casually flips you off.

You grin, wide and smug, like you’ve already won.

“Go!”

Oscar takes off.

The weight of the bag is brutal, but he barely registers it. All he knows is that he is not going to let you have the satisfaction of messing with him too much.

He was so going to win this.

Okay, so he was a little disappointed that you weren’t at the awarding ceremony when they handed out medals to his team for winning—even with the practically evil handicap you gave him.

But you were probably just busy cleaning up after the competitions.

No big deal.

And, yes, he did get a little annoyed when he spotted you later—freshened up and back in your usual composed state—smiling and giggling with another prefect.

But you were probably just planning the bonfire for tonight.

Totally valid.

He was fine.

At least, he was. 

And then… 

“So, you wanna sit with me at the bonfire tonight?”

Oscar stops in his tracks.

He doesn’t see your reaction, but he hears it. That soft hum of consideration, the one he’s learned you make when you’re actually thinking about something.

You were actually considering it.

Before he can hear your answer, he turns and walks away, jaw tight, steps a little heavier than necessary.

He doesn’t know what pisses him off more—the fact that you might say yes, or the fact that he cares if you do.

As suspected, you’re nowhere to be seen the entire bonfire.

Not that it mattered.

Oscar spent the night exactly how he should—hanging out with his friends, caught up in the whirlwind of music, laughter, and an excessive, probably unhealthy amount of s’mores. Someone had smuggled in a speaker, blasting everything from classic rock to obnoxious pop songs that made everyone yell along. They danced, they joked, they reveled in the rare freedom of being away from school.

He had a blast.

Seriously. A fucking great time.

So why the hell couldn’t he shake the thought of you?

The question stuck to the back of his mind, clinging like sap, stubborn and impossible to ignore. It wasn’t like you had to be here. Maybe you weren’t a bonfire person. Maybe you were holed up in your cabin, exhausted from running the competitions all day. Maybe you were off somewhere with that prefect—

Oscar scowled, shaking the thought away as he stretched out on the wooden bench outside his cabin. The night air was cool, the distant crackle of the bonfire still audible from the main clearing.

It was supposed to be two days in the outdoors with you.

With you.

Late into the night, long after most of the camp had settled down, the thought hadn’t left him.

Annoyed—at himself, at you, at whatever this was—he exhaled sharply, pushing off the bench and shoving his hands in his hoodie pockets. Without thinking, his feet carried him toward the bonfire.

The flames had burned lower, flickering embers casting soft orange glows across the empty clearing. Most of the students had already turned in for the night, only a few stragglers left chatting quietly at the edges of the fire.

And then—finally—he saw you.

Sitting alone on the other side of the fire, half-hidden by the flickering glow, arms wrapped around your knees as you stared into the flames.

His steps faltered.

Where the hell had you been all night?

More importantly—why did you look so…lost?

Oscar takes a deep breath before stepping forward, his footsteps quiet against the dirt. You don’t notice him at first, too lost in whatever thoughts have anchored you to this spot. He sinks down beside you on the makeshift seat—a sturdy log warmed by the fire—resting his arms on his knees.

The bonfire crackles, embers drifting up into the night, casting flickering light across your face. The voices of other students murmur in the background, distant and indistinct. Crickets chirp in the trees.

You don’t look at him.

Oscar watches you instead, studying the way your shoulders curve inward as you sit cross-legged, the way your fingers fidget absently in your lap. You look…small, in a way he isn’t used to seeing. Like you’re carrying something heavy and don’t know where to set it down.

It’s silent, but strangely enough, he doesn’t feel alone.

Then, after a moment, you break the quiet.

“Why do you hate me?”

It’s a sudden question, one that hits sharper than he expects. A question about feelings he decided he had when he was fifteen, feelings he had held onto tightly—until a few months ago, when you had sat in that quiet classroom and shared your struggles with each other.

Feelings he honestly forgot he had.

“I don’t,” he says. “I don’t hate you.”

You let out a dry laugh. “Not anymore, at least. But you did. Once.”

Finally, you turn to him, firelight reflected in your eyes. “Why did you?”

“I…” He pauses, considering his words. “I thought you were kind of stuck-up when we first met. And fake. And…and you called racing a hobby.”

Your lips twitch, amused. “Well, at least one of those things is actually something I did wrong.” Then, softer, “I’m sorry I said that. About racing.”

You lift a hand, smoothing down his hair in a gesture so natural, so easy, that it catches him completely off guard. “It’s your passion, your life. You worked really hard for it.”

A small chuckle escapes you. “I was a little stuck-up though, wasn’t I?”

“You wouldn’t even look at me.” Oscar smirks. “Though you were great at returning the attitude I gave you,” he admits, tilting his head.

You roll your eyes. “And yet you think I’m the fake one? I was very honest about how much I didn’t appreciate you disliking me.”

“I just think—”

“Not thought?” you interrupt. “Present tense?”

Oscar hesitates, then nods. “You don’t show what’s in your head…What’s in your heart. You have all these smiles and scripts practiced. And you always look put together—even now that we’re literally out in nature. And you’re never seen with bad posture. Your grades are perfect and so is your conduct, and you’re actually kinda nice to be with. By all accounts, you’re…perfect.” He pauses, voice softer now. “But no one’s perfect, Y/N. Not even you. No matter how much distance you put between yourself and everyone else so they can think that you are.”

At that, you finally look away, gaze dropping to the ground.

“You can say that because you’re all set, Oscar,” you murmur. “You don’t need to be perfect because you already know what you want. You have a path, and you work hard for it. You can take your mistakes and turn them into lessons because you have something you want to be great for. You can try again and again when things don’t work out because you actually have a dream.”

Your breath catches slightly, and you swallow hard before continuing.

“I don’t have that.”

The words are quiet but heavy, settling in the space between you.

“So, I need to be perfect, Oscar.” Your fingers tighten over your knee. “Because I don’t know where I’ll end up if I’m not.”

The fire crackles. The night feels impossibly still.

And for the first time since he met you, Oscar doesn’t know what to say.

He just sits next to you for a while, keeping you company as the fire crackles and burns lower. The murmured conversations of the last few stragglers fade one by one, until eventually, it’s just the two of you left.

The night air is cool, carrying the distant sounds of the forest—rustling leaves, the faint chirping of crickets. The firelight flickers, casting shifting shadows across your face, across the way your shoulders remain tense, like you’re still bracing for something unseen.

Oscar exhales, shifting slightly closer. “I don’t think you need to have everything sorted out yet,” he says, voice quiet but certain. “We still have next year. And there’s the year after that. And the year after.”

You don’t respond. Not immediately.

“Y/N,” he calls, softer this time. “We have a lot left to live. You’ll find your place. You’ll figure everything out.”

You finally turn to him, eyes uncertain, on the verge of overflowing.

“Do you mean it?” Your voice is shaky, fragile in a way he’s not used to hearing.

“I do.”

You look away, but before you can retreat entirely, Oscar moves without thinking—cupping your face gently with one hand, tilting your chin just enough to meet his gaze.

It’s foreign. Surprising.

But not…unwelcome.

Your breath catches, and for a split second, everything feels suspended. The air between you shifts, something unspoken stretching thin and taut, the space closing inch by inch.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

His thumb brushes against your cheek, just barely.

“Everything will be fine.”

And then the dam breaks.

A sharp inhale, then a quiet sob. The first tear slips down your cheek, then another, and before you can stop it, you’re crying—really crying, shoulders shaking as you press your face into his chest.

Oscar doesn’t hesitate.

He pulls you in without a second thought, wrapping his arms around you, shielding you from the weight of whatever’s been crushing you for so long. His hand rests at the back of your head, fingers threading lightly through your hair as you let yourself fall apart against him.

And all he can do—all he wants to do—is hold you.

It’s strange.

He doesn’t ever see you like this. Just once before. You’re so composed, always controlled, always held together by perfectly measured smiles.

But right now, you’re none of those things.

You’re just you.

You're real.

You're in his arms and you're real.

And it hits him, in the stillness of the moment, in the way the firelight dances across tear-streaked skin—You’re beautiful.

Not in the way he used to think, not just in the way everyone already knew.

But in the way that matters.

The kind of beautiful that settles in the quiet spaces, that lingers, that takes you home. The kind that isn’t just seen but felt—woven into the way you carry yourself, the way you fight so hard to hold everything together, the way you’re allowing yourself to not be perfect, just for a moment.

Even in your worst state, you're the most beautiful thing he's ever laid eyes on.

And suddenly—too fast—he wonders if maybe, just maybe, there’s something more there. If there’s a chance he likes you. In that way.

If, deep down, he’s been falling this whole time.

2019: Year 13 [18 years old]

When autumn rolls around and he’s back at school again, Oscar Piastri is a Eurocup champion. Testing for Formula 3 is lined up, doors are opening, and for the first time, the dream that once felt impossibly distant is now right in front of him. He’s buzzing, electric with the thrill of it all.

And you’re the person he most wants to tell everything to.

Not much has changed between you two after the bonfire. You still bicker, still trade sharp remarks, but there’s a warmth underneath it now—something softer, something unspoken. Something that makes his stomach twist in a way he’s beginning to understand.

Because, yes, he’s finally realized it.

He likes you. In that way.

And maybe, just maybe, there’s a chance you feel the same.

He runs into you in the hallway, where your hair is still neatly styled, your uniform still crisp, but there’s something new. The prefect’s badge you once wore with careful pride is gone, replaced by a Head Girl badge gleaming against your blazer.

“You’ve come a long way, princess,” he says, stopping in front of you, hands casually shoved in his pockets. “Congrats on being Head Girl.”

Your smile is wide, genuine—the kind he doesn’t see you give to just anyone. “Congratulations to you too, Piastri—Eurocup champion.”

The way you say it, like you mean it, like you’re proud of him, makes something tighten in his chest.

“Wanna walk to class together?” he asks, like it’s easy. Like it’s normal. Like the idea of just existing next to you isn’t becoming something he needs.

You tilt your head, a flicker of disappointment crossing your face. “I have study hall for most of the day, actually.” Then, as if to soften the blow, you brighten. “I’ll send you my schedule, though, so we can coordinate!”

Something about that—coordinating, making time for each other—sits so naturally between you.

“Sure,” he says, nodding. “See you later?”

“See you later, Piastri.”

You turn and walk away, and just the thought of syncing your schedules is enough motivation for him to get through the day.

Except…when he finally gets your message, his stomach drops.

Because there, glaring back at him, is one unavoidable fact:

Nothing aligns.

Oscar had always been good at adjusting. Racing taught him that—how to adapt, how to move forward, how to deal with losing things and making peace with it.

But this? This was different.

He wasn’t used to missing someone. Not like this.

Sure, he missed his mom and dad. He missed his sisters. He missed the Australian heat and slang. He missed his racing friends when he went back to school. He missed the tracks and his car. But never in his life did he think he’d miss you.

And maybe that’s why the switch was so jarring. He’d spent years wishing he was away from you, wishing for different classes, wishing to never see your face.

Now that he has that, he wants nothing more than to bring back the simpler days—when you were always classmates, always orbiting each other, always trying to avoid the other but never quite succeeding at staying away.

Ever since he’d gotten your schedule and realized that nothing aligned, it was like there was an empty space in his day where you were supposed to be.

It wasn’t like you’d disappeared. He still saw you, sometimes—passing glimpses in hallways, quick nods across the library, an occasional “Hey, Piastri” when your paths crossed. But it wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t like before.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

Because before, he didn’t think he’d need more.

Now, though? It was all he could think about.

Oscar had wanted a lot of things in his life, but rarely did he ever want something back.

He wants back the way you twirl your pen in between your fingers at a speed he still can’t match, no matter how many times you try to teach him. He wants the ever-changing rearrangement of your hair when you get stressed, never sticking to one style within the hour. He wants your study sessions and your stealing of his scratch papers. He wants your smiles and your quips and your banter. 

He wants you back.

So, like in racing, he strategizes.

He figures out which routes you take so he can walk by at just the right moment, just to get a minute of conversation before you scurry off to class. He starts showing up at the library earlier, knowing you’ll pass by on your way to study hall. He “accidentally” bumps into you at the cafeteria, acting surprised even though he knows exactly when you go.

He even texts you more, something he never used to do before. Just small things at first—jokes, complaints about assignments, links to articles about topics he knows will spark an argument. Anything to keep the conversation going.

And yet, it isn’t the same.

No matter what he does, it’s not enough of you.

At some point, it’s wasn't just missing you anymore—it’s something heavier, something that sits in his chest and refuses to leave. Because no matter how many stolen moments he squeezes into his day, no matter how often he “accidentally” finds himself in your orbit, it never lasts long enough.

And the worst part?

You don’t even notice.

Not in the way he wants you to.

You’re busy—busier than ever. Between Head Girl responsibilities, exams, and whatever future you’re silently trying to carve out for yourself, it feels like you’re slipping further and further away. And Oscar, for the first time in his life, hates the idea of being left behind.

He tries not to let it bother him. You’re just focused, that’s all. It’s not like you’re avoiding him.

Except maybe you are.

Not in an obvious way. Not in a mean way.

But in the way that means he’s no longer a priority.

And that realization hits harder than he expects.

Because before, if he wanted to see you, he could. If he wanted to talk to you, he’d find a way, and you’d let him.

But now?

Now, you’re harder to reach. Harder to catch. Harder to keep.

And the closer graduation gets, the more he starts to wonder—If he doesn’t do something soon, will you slip away completely?

It’s right as the holiday break approaches that he finally gets a moment alone with you again—on a random night, past curfew, when you both somehow end up sneaking into the same empty classroom.

It’s similar, but different.

The lights are still dimmed, casting familiar shadows against the walls. The air is still heavy, thick with exhaustion from exams and the looming uncertainty of the future. But this time, you’re standing closer together. This time, the silence between you isn’t uncomfortable—it’s something known, something safe.

Because this time, no matter how much is changing, you both know one thing for sure—You’ve got each other.

How’s life been for you, Oscar?” you ask, leaning against the wall, a warm smile on your face. “It’s been a while, so tell me everything.”

“I don’t think it’s been any different from yours,” he says, mirroring your smile. “Tests, papers…” He hesitates. “Graduation. The future.”

You exhale, the weight of that word hanging between you. “Well, those are definitely in my head.” A small chuckle escapes your lips. “Is it weird that I miss those early days here at the academy?”

“What, the ones where we hated each other?” He smirks.

You roll your eyes. “Yes and no.” Turning toward the window, you watch the campus lights flicker in the distance, the glow casting soft light across your features. Oscar should look away, but he doesn’t.  He can’t.

“I mean, things were simpler then,” you continue. “We had all the time in the world.”

He hums in response, watching the way your fingers trace absent patterns against the windowsill.

“I wish we could go back to then,” you say softly. “I’d be nicer to you. We could have been friends faster.”

You both giggle at this, the sound light and easy, but something in his chest pulls.

“What about you, Oscar? Would you change anything?”

He thinks for a moment. He thinks about the previous year—the late-night study sessions, the bickering that turned into something softer, the night by the bonfire when you let your walls down. He thinks about being paired with you for that stupid project in your second year, about meeting you in this exact room right around this time last year. He thinks about the very first time he saw you, sitting so perfectly poised in the headmaster’s office, completely unaware of the way you’d wedge yourself into his life, piece by stubborn piece.

He thinks.

Then—

“Nothing.”

You blink, turning back to face him. “Nothing?”

“I think…” He exhales, searching for the right words. “I think we’re where we’re at because it took a while to get to know each other. If we had been friends from the start, maybe things would’ve been easier—but I don’t think they would’ve been right.”

You tilt your head, curious. “What do you mean?”

He shrugs, shifting his weight slightly. “If we had been friends back then, I think I would’ve liked you the way everyone else does. The way people admire you from a distance.” His voice is quieter now. “But…I got to see you. Not just the perfect grades or the Head Girl badge. I got to see the way you actually think, the way you talk when you’re not putting on a front. The way you try so hard even when you don’t have to.”

You don’t say anything. You just look at him, eyes flickering with something unreadable.

And then, finally, you smile. Not the polite kind. Not the practiced one.

The real one.

“Well,” you say, voice softer than before. “I’m glad you got to know me.”

He’s glad too. More than you’ll ever know.

You just bask in the silence for a while, letting the quiet settle between you like something warm, something known. The window glass is cool beneath your fingertips as you both watch the lights flicker outside, the campus stretched out before you, vast and unchanging.

Your fingers brush against each other.

It’s light—barely even there, just a whisper of a touch. But it burns.

Something inside him ignites, sharp and immediate, like the flick of a match against dry kindling.

“Y/N?”

“Yes?”

He doesn’t move his hand away. Neither do you.

“You should call me by my name more.”

You tilt your head slightly, raising a brow. “Tired of hearing your last name?” The corner of your lips lilts in amusement.

Well, you might have it one day, he thinks.

But instead, he just shrugs. “I like hearing you say it.”

The teasing look in your eyes falters for just a second—your lips parting slightly, a flicker of surprise crossing your face before your cheeks flush.

You blink at him, the weight of his words lingering between you.

And then—

“Okay, then,” you say softly, watching him just as intently.

“…Oscar.”

You still don’t see much of each other throughout the rest of the year.

Between exams, responsibilities, and the looming pressure of the future, time slips through your fingers faster than either of you can catch it. Even texting becomes rare—just the occasional Good luck on your exam or a late-night complaint about an assignment. Nothing deep. Nothing real.

But Oscar takes what he can get.

His comfort comes in brief meetings in the hallways—your rushed conversations between classes, cramming a day’s worth of thoughts into a handful of stolen seconds.

“Got a physics test after lunch,” you’d say, adjusting the strap of your bag. “If I fail, I’m blaming you.”

He’d smirk. “What did I do?”

“The playlist you gave me last time distracted me.”

“Hey, I have great taste.”

“You can keep telling yourself that.”

And then the bell would ring, and just like that, you’d be gone—your presence slipping through his fingers before he could even think about holding on.

Hearing you call out his name in the busy hallway became the highlight of his day. A moment of certainty in a year that felt anything but steady.

But the times your knuckles brushed, the moments your shoulders bumped in passing, those felt like something more. Like maybe, if things had been different, there would’ve been time for more.

Except there wasn’t.

And maybe that’s why the thought of you leaving hits harder than it should.

He isn’t expecting to hear it—not like this, not by accident. But as he’s passing the debate room on his way to class, your voice stops him in his tracks.

“The university there offered me a great scholarship,” you tell a friend, your tone measured, practical. “It would be stupid not to take it.”

There’s a beat of silence before your friend speaks, quieter, hesitant. “So, that’s it then? You’re just…leaving?”

Oscar freezes mid-step.

A heartbeat passes.

Then another.

And then—

“Yeah,” you say, and it’s so final. No hesitation. No second-guessing. Just a quiet certainty that settles deep in his chest, heavier than it should be. “I’m leaving.”

And suddenly, the ground beneath him doesn’t feel so steady anymore.

“What do you mean you’re leaving?” The words slip out before he can stop them, raw and too loud, cutting through the quiet corridor.

You blink, taken aback by the sharpness in his tone, by the urgency in his voice.

“Y/N, what are you even talking about?”

The hurt is there, unmistakable, woven between the syllables. And maybe if he hadn’t spent so long trying to deny it, he’d understand it better.

No. He does understand.

Because there was so much he wanted to tell you.

Because you were supposed to have time.

You were supposed to figure this out together.

“Oscar,” you say cautiously, as if approaching something fragile, something breakable. You glance at your friend, giving them a small nod, a silent request for space. They hesitate before excusing themselves, leaving just the two of you.

You inhale deeply, as if preparing yourself.

“I got an offer from a university outside the country,” you say, voice steady, like you’ve rehearsed this before, like you’ve already convinced yourself that this is good. That this is right. “Full-ride scholarship with room and board and a possible slot in a master’s program after I get my undergraduate.”

It’s a perfect opportunity.

It’s everything you’ve worked for.

You should be thrilled. You are thrilled.

So why does your heart ache at the way he’s looking at you?

Oscar doesn’t speak right away, just stares, his lips parting slightly like he’s still trying to process what you just said.

And then, finally, he breathes, “It’s a great opportunity.”

You nod, stepping closer, reaching for his hand before you can stop yourself. You don’t know why you do it—maybe to reassure him, maybe to reassure yourself. His palm is warm, his fingers rough but familiar, grounding.

“I’m going to take it,” you say. And you mean it.

But when his grip tightens around yours, when his thumb brushes absently against your skin like he’s memorizing the feeling, something inside you wavers.

Oscar swallows, staring at your joined hands like they hold all the answers he’s been looking for. He doesn’t know what he expected—that you’d stay? That you’d change your mind? That he’d still have more time to figure out what you mean to him before you slip away completely?

He thought he had more time.

He thought—

“I love you.”

It comes out before he can second-guess it, before he can tell himself that this isn’t the right time, that this isn’t how he was supposed to say it. But none of that matters now.

His grip on your hand tightens. His voice is softer the second time, but truer, like the words are settling into something real.

“I love you.”

The world tilts slightly.

Your breath catches.

Because of course he does. Of course this is what it’s been building up to—every argument, every stolen glance, every almost-moment that neither of you dared to name.

But now that it’s here, now that he’s standing in front of you with his heart in his hands, you don’t know what to do with it.

Because you’re leaving.

Because you’ve already decided.

And because some part of you wonders if maybe, maybe, you were waiting for him to say it sooner.

You look down, your eyes fixed on the floor because it’s easier than looking at him. Easier than facing the way his voice cracks, the way his words hang heavy between you.

“I don’t know what to tell you,” you whisper, and even that feels like too much.

“Do you feel the same?” he asks, his voice quiet but firm.

You close your eyes. “I’m leaving, Oscar.”

“That’s not what I asked.” His voice softens, but the urgency stays. “Do you feel the same?”

“It’s not going to work,” you say, your breath hitching. You hate how your voice shakes, hate the way your heart is pounding so fast it hurts. “We’re going in very different directions and—”

“Do you feel the same, Y/N?” he asks again, his voice breaking just slightly.

And that—that’s what makes you falter. Because you can hear it. The way he’s holding on so tight, the way he’s afraid of your answer.

“Just let me go,” you whisper, even though it’s the last thing you want.

“I can’t,” he says after a beat, and his voice is so soft when he says it, but there’s no mistaking the weight of those words. “I can’t because I know you. Because I know I’m not the only one who feels this.”

Your throat tightens. “I’m trying to be practical—”

“I’m trying to tell you I love you!” His voice rises, frustration and desperation bleeding into every word.

And then—

“So do I!” The words burst out of you before you can stop them, loud and broken and everything you’ve been trying to bury.

The silence after is deafening.

You look up at him, your eyes brimming with tears. “I love you too,” you whisper, like it’s a secret you’re only brave enough to say now. And when you step forward and press your forehead to his chest, his arms come around you without hesitation, holding you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

“I love you,” you say again, softer this time. “But it’s too late, Oscar. I’m leaving.”

“It’s not too late.”

He pulls back just enough to cup your face in his hands, his thumbs brushing against your cheeks—wiping away tears you hadn’t even realized were falling. His touch is so gentle it breaks you a little more.

“We’re right here,” he says, his voice quiet and steady. “So, it’s not too late.”

And then—slowly, carefully, like he’s giving you every chance to pull away—he leans in.

Your breath catches.

And when his lips finally meet yours, the world falls away.

It’s soft at first—tentative and slow, like both of you are afraid of pushing too far, afraid of what this means. But then your fingers curl into the fabric of his shirt, and his hand slips into your hair, and the kiss deepens. It becomes something warmer, desperate—like making up for every second you wasted, every word you never said.

And for a while, there’s no leaving. No future pulling you in different directions. No goodbye waiting on the horizon.

It’s just you.

It’s just him.

The warmth of his hands on your skin, the way he holds you like you’re something precious. The way your fingers curl into his shirt like you’re afraid to let go. The quiet, shared ache in every kiss—like you’re both trying to memorize this, to keep this, even when you know you can’t.

And maybe this is all you get—this moment, this kiss, this fragile space where neither of you has to think about what comes next.

But maybe…maybe it’s just the beginning.

Because when you finally pull apart, breathless and trembling, your foreheads still pressed together, his breath still tangled with yours—you both know the truth.

This moment? It’s fleeting.

But his eyes—warm and steady—hold you there.

“We’ll figure it out,” he whispers, and somehow, you believe him.

You nod, your voice barely more than a breath. “Yeah. We will.”

And even if the future is uncertain, even if the next steps take you miles apart—right now, this?

This is yours.

And for the first time, even with your heart breaking in the most beautiful way, it feels like enough.

2022: Epilogue 1

“I can’t believe you just did that!” you exclaim over the phone, your voice half-outraged, half-incredulous. “Oscar, you’re giving me a heart attack from like fifty thousand miles away!”

“Everything’s under control,” he says, grinning as he leans back against the wall of his hotel room, the adrenaline still buzzing through his veins. “Trust me. It’s all in motion—you’ll see.”

“Honey,” you huff, and he can hear the dramatic eye roll in your voice, “I’ll believe you when you’re in that fucking Formula One seat, driving around squiggles for two hours.”

He chuckles, the sound low and easy, and God, he misses you. “You worry too much.”

“I have to worry,” you snap, but there’s no real heat behind it. “Because my idiot boyfriend decided to end his partnership with the team that made him their reserve driver by tweeting about it!” You huff. “I mean, listen to this: I understand that without my consent—”

“Okay, yeah, I typed that out,” he groans, running a hand through his hair. “I don’t need to relive it, thanks.”

“I’m just saying,” you tease, your voice softening just enough to make him smile.

Then there’s the unmistakable sound of your keyboard clacking in the background. “Anyway, experts are absolutely shitting on you online,” you inform him. “But don’t worry—I’m your biggest defender.”

“Please don’t fight with analysts on the internet,” he laughs, though the image of you going to battle for him is both hilarious and weirdly endearing. “They’re going to eat you alive.”

“Oscar, I had to deal with your attitude for years before we got together,” you shoot back, your tone sweet as sugar. “Trust me— some slimy little reporters are nothing to me.”

He laughs, the sound full and warm—the kind of laugh only you ever seem to pull out of him.

And as the miles stretch between you, the distance feels just a little smaller.

2023: Epilogue 2

The roar of the crowd was deafening — a steady pulse of noise that vibrated through the air, through the track, through Oscar’s bones. He could feel it, even from the garage, where the final checks were being made on his car. The smell of fuel and rubber mixed with the electric tension of the starting grid, and the weight of what was about to happen settled heavily on his chest.

Bahrain 2023. 

His first Formula One race.

Everything he had worked for, fought for—the years of training, the endless sacrifices, the victories and the failures—had led him here. To this moment. To this seat. To this dream.

And still, when his eyes flicked to the edge of the garage, searching through the sea of engineers and team personnel, it wasn’t the car or the track or even the starting lights that grounded him.

It was her.

Y/N stood just beyond the bustle of the team, arms crossed and wearing his team’s colors, her ever-pristine hair now tucked beneath a cap. But the calm, poised version of her he’d fallen for wasn’t here today. Today, her excitement cracked through the surface—eyes bright, smile wide, nerves barely contained.

Three years, and she were still his greatest victory.

As if sensing his gaze, she turned—and when she smiled at him, everything else faded away. The crowd, the noise, the pressure.

It was just her. It was always her.

He lifted his hand in a small wave, and she grinned, mouthing words he didn’t need to hear to understand.

You’ve got this.

And just like that, the weight in his chest eased.

Because no matter what happened on the track today—win or lose, first place or last—she’d still be there.

And that? That was enough to make him feel unstoppable.

Which is why, against his better judgment, Oscar is now standing in line at a café that smells overwhelmingly like roasted coffee beans and vanilla. He eyes the display of pastries, hands stuffed in the pockets of his hoodie, and tries to ignore the way his hair sticks to his forehead from the walk over.

“You should get something,” Hattie says, nudging his side.

“I don’t drink coffee.”

She rolls her eyes, as if this is a personal insult. “They have other stuff. You could try tea. Or a hot chocolate. Or—”

“Next!”

Oscar looks up, and that’s when he sees you.

You’re behind the counter, all smiles and easy confidence, a pencil tucked behind your ear. The apron you wear is a little big on you, the straps tied in a messy bow at the back. There’s a small streak of flour on your cheek and you lean onto the counter like you’re genuinely excited to take their order.

“What can I get for you guys?”

Hattie launches into her order with the determination of a girl on a mission, listing out her exact specifications for an iced mocha with extra whipped cream. You write everything down with a nod, your fingers deftly clicking buttons on the register.

“And for you?” you ask, turning to Oscar with the kind of warmth that makes his skin prickle.

“I, uh—” he clears his throat, resisting the urge to look away. “I don’t drink coffee.”

“That’s okay,” you say, like it actually is. “We’ve got some pretty good non-coffee options. Do you like chocolate? Or maybe something fruity?”

Your kindness is standard Melbourne hospitality, he tells himself. It’s not personal. 

But there’s a lightness to the way you speak to him, patient and unbothered, that makes something unfamiliar stir in his chest. “Fruit tea’s fine,” he says, trying not to sound as awkward as he feels.

You smile, really smile, like he’s made the best choice in the world. “One fruit tea, coming up.”

And just like that, it’s done.

Hattie drags him to a table by the window, her enthusiasm buzzing loud enough to fill the entire space. Oscar watches as you move behind the counter, steaming milk and melting chocolate, and thinks that maybe, just maybe, he’ll let Hattie convince him to come back tomorrow.

You carry their drinks to the table with practiced ease, setting them down carefully to avoid any spills. Hattie beams as you place her elaborate drink in front of her. Oscar watches quietly as you slide his drink toward him— a peach iced tea, condensation already gathering on the glass.

“Enjoy,” you say with that same warm smile.

Oscar mutters a thanks, wrapping his hands around the cold glass. He takes a sip, the sweetness clinging to his tongue, and casts a glance at the door. 

He could leave. They’ve got their drinks, Hattie’s satisfied, and his obligation is technically fulfilled.

But he doesn’t move.

Instead, he sits back in his chair, sipping at his tea like he’s got all the time in the world. Hattie chatters about her netball games and how she’s trying to convince their parents to get a puppy, but Oscar only half-listens, eyes flicking up every now and then to watch you.

Maybe he should buy something else. 

A snack, maybe. 

For Hattie, obviously.

Or he could offer to take Hattie’s cup back to the counter when she’s done. (Except the café has self-service return trays, and he’d already clocked that the second they sat down.) 

He hates how obvious he’s being. And he hates even more how he doesn’t seem to care.

Eventually, you circle back to their table, wiping your hands on a dish towel.

“Hey,” you say, leaning slightly against the chair next to Hattie’s. “Everything alright? Drinks okay?”

Oscar nods wordlessly, swallowing his drink. It tastes a bit too sugary now.

“It’s so good,” Hattie gushes, kicking her legs under the table. “I’m gonna make mum bring me back next weekend!”

Your eyes brighten. “That’s great. We’ve only been open a few weeks, so we’re still figuring stuff out. The owner’s a nice guy, but he’s old school. Doesn’t know how to use the cash register half the time.”

Oscar finally speaks, his voice scratchy as if he’s forgotten how to use it. “You work here by yourself?”

“Most days,” you admit, shrugging. “He’s got grandkids, so sometimes he dips out early to see them. But I don’t mind. It’s just part-time, and I live nearby.”

Oscar processes this slowly, like if he takes long enough, the conversation won’t end.

“How old are you?” Hattie asks, her bluntness making Oscar cringe.

You don’t seem to mind, though. You laugh, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “Fifteen. I’m starting Year 10 next term.”

Oscar blinks. The fact that you’re the same age as him shouldn’t feel as significant as it does, but it lands like a surprise punch to the gut.

“I’m fourteen,” Hattie announces proudly.

"That’s a fun age," you tell her kindly; she looks at you like you’re the coolest person in the world, and Oscar is half-inclined to agree. 

Then you glance at Oscar, head tilting. “What about you? You go to school around here?”

He shifts in his seat, rubbing at the condensation ring his glass left on the table. “Boarding school,” he says curtly. “Just home for the summer.”

“Ah,” you say, like that explains something.

Hattie pipes up again, because of course she does. “He races cars,” she declares. “He’s, like, really good.”

Oscar feels his face heat. He glares at Hattie, who just grins, already licking melted whipped cream off her finger.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “Seriously? That’s awesome,” you say, and you don’t sound condescending or anything. You sound genuinely awed, and Oscar fears he’s going to replay it in his head the entire night. 

“We should go,” he says abruptly, pushing back from the table.

“What?” Hattie pouts. “But I want a pastry!”

“We can get one,” Oscar promises through gritted teeth, standing and grabbing her empty cup so fast the ceramic clinks loudly against the saucer. He forces himself to slow down, his fingers a little shaky. “Next time.”

Hattie hops out of her seat, already skipping toward the door. Oscar follows, grateful for the escape, but you call out before he makes it too far.

“I hope you do come back,” you say, smiling again. This time, it feels like it’s just for him. The words, the smile, the look. 

Oscar nods stiffly, tugging at the sleeves of his hoodie.

He doesn’t know if he will. But, as he lingers on the way out, he wonders how many summers he has left— and how many excuses he can make before you start to notice.

Inevitably, his appearances at the café become almost routine.

It starts small: once a week, maybe twice, a stop by for a drink he doesn’t actually want. But Hattie catches on fast, and soon she’s dragging Edie and Mae along too, the three of them whispering and snickering at a volume they absolutely think is subtle.

“I like the pastries,” he claims when Edie wiggles her eyebrows at him.

“Sure,” Mae chirps, swinging her feet as she dangles them off her chair. “Totally the pastries. Not the barista who always makes your drink herself even when there’s someone else on shift.”

Oscar gives her a withering look, but she remains undeterred, biting into her muffin with the smugness of someone who knows she’s right.

He denies it. Again and again. Because he doesn’t know what to do with the idea of having a crush, let alone on you. He’s already awkward enough on his own, and he refuses to fuel his sisters’ relentless teasing.

But then he comes in one day— alone, this time— and you’re not there.

Oscar knows he shouldn’t care. It’s not like you promised to be here. And yet, disappointment settles heavy in his chest.

The barista on shift is nice enough, but Oscar barely listens as he orders. He can’t even remember what he picked when he sits down, staring at the drink like it personally offended him.

The café feels quieter without you buzzing around, chatting with regulars and teasing old Mr. Callahan about his crossword puzzles. The emptiness gnaws at him, and he knows he looks so obvious, sulking into his untouched drink.

He tells himself he’ll leave after finishing it. He lingers for an hour.

Oscar doesn’t look back at the café as he leaves, but he feels its absence like a dull ache. His hands are shoved deep into his pockets, chin tucked to his chest as he stalks down the street. 

He tells himself it’t stupid to feel this way. He doesn’t even know you. He definitely shouldn’t care if you’re there or not. 

And yet.

Fine. 

It’s over. He’ll get over it. 

He’ll spend the school term back at boarding school, surrounded by motorsport and homework and people who don’t know how to steam milk into a heart shape. 

It’ll be better this way.

At least that’s the plan.

He’s halfway home when he nearly collides with you on the footpath.

“Oh! Oscar, right?” you say, blinking up at him like he’s an unexpected surprise.

He freezes. “Um.”

“You left in a hurry. Not a fan of the other barista?” You tilt your head, a teasing smile tugging at your mouth.

Oscar feels like he might short-circuit. “I— I just noticed you weren’t there,” he blurts out, horrified as the words tumble out without permission.

Your smile grows. “Noticed, huh?”

“I mean—” He’s desperate to backtrack, but it’s useless. The damage is done. You’re grinning, and he can already imagine the relentless teasing he’d get if his sisters caught wind of this.

“You’re heading home?” you ask, mercifully letting him off the hook.

“Yeah,” he mutters, already planning to walk faster. Maybe he’ll get away with half-jogging the entire way. 

“Big plans for your last day of summer?”

He squints at you. “How’d you know it’s my last day?”

You tap your temple. “I’m observant.”

“Or you got it out of Hattie.”

“Maybe,” you say, shameless. Then, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world: “Wanna grab a bite at Albert Park?”

Oscar blinks. “What?”

“There’s a food truck that sells the best fish and chips,” you explain. “It’s not too far. C’mon, it’s your last day home.”

“I—” He should say no. He was just lecturing himself on the walk back. 

But you’re looking at him like it’s not a big deal, like you’re not aware of the internal war waging in his head, and Oscar’s resolve crumples like paper.

“Okay,” he hears himself say, voice tight.

You beam. “Cool.”

Oscar follows you to Albert Park, his heart thudding with every step. He wonders if he’ll ever forgive himself for agreeing to this. Or if, maybe, it’ll turn out to be the best mistake he’s ever made.

The fish and chips are at least good. Better than good, actually, and Oscar begrudgingly tells you so between bites, like the admission costs him something. 

He tries to be subtle about how much he likes it, chewing carefully, but you notice anyway, your grin bright and uncontainable.

“Told you,” you say smugly, elbow propped on the table as you pick at your fries. “You doubted me, didn’t you?”

“I don’t usually trust people who enjoy serving coffee for a living,” he deadpans.

You laugh, and the sound rattles through him like a loose bolt. “Fair,” you concede. “But I’m right about most things, so you should get used to it.”

Oscar snorts but doesn’t argue. He’s happy enough to let you fill the gaps in conversation, listening as you ramble about everything from the café’s horrible playlist to how the Albert Park sunset is always a little better in the summer. 

He only nods and hums, content to let your words fill the space between bites.

But then you flip the script.

“So,” you start, resting your chin on your hand. “When do you start boarding school again?”

“Monday.”

You make a face. “Brutal.”

Oscar shrugs. “It’s not that bad.”

“Sure,” you say, dubious. “And racing? How’s that going?”

His fingers pause around a chip. “You remember I race?”

“I’m not some ditzy barista, you know.” You tilt your head, like you’re studying him. “I know you kart. Or, karted?”

“Yeah,” he says slowly. “I moved up to junior formulae this year.”

Your eyes widen. “That’s huge, right?”

“I guess.”

You nudge his foot under the table. “Don’t be modest. It’s cool.”

He looks away, that telltale heat prickling at his collar again. “It’s not, like, F1 or anything.”

“Yet,” you point out.

Oscar smiles, small and self-conscious. “That’s the goal, I guess.”

“You guess?” You feign offense, sitting up straighter. “You guess? Come on. Say it with your chest.”

He laughs, shaking his head. Then, a little louder, a little firmer, “I want to drive in F1.”

“See?” you say, satisfied. “Not so hard, was it?”

Oscar’s throat tightens around the next bite. It is hard— saying it out loud. It makes the dream sound ridiculous, even when he knows exactly how much he’s giving up to chase it.

It makes it sound real. 

But you don’t tease him. You only smile, eyes crinkling at the corners.

“That’s awesome,” you say. “Can I have your number?”

Oscar nearly chokes. “What?”

“Your number,” you repeat, leaning back with an easy grin. “Would be cool to have a future F1 driver on speed dial.”

He huffs out a laugh, assuming you’re joking. You must be joking. People don’t ask for his number.

Oscar doesn’t give it to you, brushing it off like it’s nothing, and you don’t press. The two of you linger at Albert Park until the sky blushes purple, talking until Oscar’s curfew has him bidding you goodbye. 

It’s only when he’s halfway home, kicking at loose gravel on the footpath, that it hits him like a freight train.

You might’ve actually been serious.

Oscar groans, dragging a hand down his face.

He never does figure out if you’d meant it. 

He reconciles with the fact that he’ll only see you in the summers and during off-seasons. It becomes a rhythm he slips into with practiced ease, like shifting gears without thinking.

His sisters’ teasing remains relentless, but he endures it because they’re right— he can’t seem to stay away from the café. 

It’s a quiet sort of comfort, walking in and hearing your voice floating through the space, catching snippets of your conversations with regulars before you inevitably drift his way.

He contemplates asking for your number or your socials more times than he can count, always catching himself at the last second. The thought lingers like an engine idling, never quite stalling out but never revving forward either. 

He tells himself it’s fine. The café is your domain, a fixed point in the chaos of his ever-moving life. 

It’s fine. It’s enough. It has to be. 

In the break before he transitions into Formula Two, you place his usual non-coffee drink on the counter with a different sort of grin.

“You’re looking at the new owner of this place,” you announce, voice light with amusement. “The old man decided to go on a lifelong cruise. Said he wants to see the world while he still can.”

Oscar blinks. “He gave you the café?”

“Left it in my name. He figured I’d been running it anyway, might as well make it official.” You tilt your head. “What about you? I saw the news — Formula Two, huh? That’s huge.”

“Yeah,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s... a step closer.”

You lean against the counter, eyes warm. “Congrats, Piastri. Guess we both got what we wanted.”

He smiles and mumbles a quiet “Congrats to you too,” but as he takes his drink and watches you serve other customers, he’s not sure how true that statement is. 

Because he thinks about how your name is tied to this café now, how you belong to this little pocket of Melbourne while he chases circuits around the world. 

And he wonders— for the first time, with startling clarity— if what he wants might not be as far from this place as he thought.

Oscar doesn’t have time to dwell on it. 

That’s what he tells himself, anyway. He’s too busy. Too preoccupied with the whirlwind of signing with McLaren, of finally reaching the dream he’s been chasing since he first wrapped his fingers around a steering wheel. 

He celebrates with his family, his sisters loudly teasing him, his parents beaming with pride. It should be enough.

But then he finds himself at the café, hovering by the entrance, fingers curled around the door handle.

The bell jingles when he steps inside, sharp against the hum of the espresso machine. You glance up from wiping down the counter, eyebrows raising in surprise.

“We’re closed in ten,” you call out, drying your hands on a dish towel.

Oscar nods, shutting the door behind him. The sleeves of his hoodie are shoved up to his elbows, hair mussed like he’s been running his fingers through it. His heart is pounding, and he tells himself it’s just leftover adrenaline from the day’s excitement.

“I know. I just—” He falters, mouth opening and closing before he finally blurts out, “I got signed. With McLaren.”

You blink, then toss the dish towel onto the counter.

“Wait, what?”

He barely gets a nod in before you’re circling out from behind the counter, barreling into him with enough force to make him stumble back a step. Oscar stiffens at first, arms hovering awkwardly around you— then he exhales, tension seeping from his shoulders as he wraps his arms around you in return.

“Holy crap,” you say, squeezing him tight. “You did it. Oscar Piastri, you’re a Formula One driver.”

“Yeah,” he breathes, like he’s still trying to believe it himself. His voice is quieter when he adds, “I wanted to tell you in person.”

You pull back, beaming up at him. “I’m so proud of you. Seriously. I can’t wait to see you race.”

His heart thuds against his ribs, too loud, too fast. He drops his arms when you do, shoving his hands into the pocket of his hoodie.

His face feels hot, but you don’t seem to notice, already launching into a ramble about how you’re going to make the café play the races on the TV in the corner.

Oscar watches you talk, nodding along, though he can’t really process your words. All he can think about is the way your smile had split your face, how easily you’d hugged him, how your arms had fit around him like you belonged there.

He leaves that night more certain than ever.

This crush isn’t going anywhere.

Oscar privately decides he’ll use the feelings to his advantage. A secret, unspoken fuel source. It becomes most obvious at his first-ever home race.

The roar of the crowd fades into static beneath the hum of his engine, but he knows they’re there. Knows the grandstands are packed with fans waving papaya flags, knows somewhere among them are his parents and sisters— and maybe you.

He pretends you are. Imagines you leaning forward in your seat, hands cupped around your mouth as you cheer. He thinks about how you’d probably tease him later if he botched his first home race, how you might promise him a pity pastry from the café if he placed last.

That thought alone keeps his foot steady on the throttle.

He crosses the finish line in eighth, his first points in Formula One. The team is ecstatic, patting his back and ruffling his hair until he can barely breathe through the congratulations. 

Later, at the house, the celebration is in full swing. His family is buzzing with excitement, and the living room is littered with leftover food and streamers. Still, Oscar keeps glancing at the door, brow furrowed. 

He tells himself the weight in his chest is only exhaustion, not the ridiculous, misplaced disappointment that you aren’t at the post-race party.

“What’s your problem?” Edie asks, plopping onto the couch next to him.

He shrugs, pretending to focus on the race replay flashing on the TV. “Nothing. Just tired.”

Edie snorts. “Yeah, sure. You’ve been looking at the door like a lost puppy. Thought you’d finally get your act together and invite your favorite barista?”

Oscar flushes. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Uh-huh.” Edie smirks, then gestures toward the kitchen. “They sent stuff, by the way. Practically wiped out their stock.”

He blinks, heart thudding as he follows hsi sister into the kitchen. The counter is packed with pastries and drinks, each one carefully labeled. A small, folded note sits on top of the pile, your handwriting unmistakable.

For future world champion OP81. I’ll save a spot on the TV for your podium finish.

Oscar stares at the note for a beat too long, then flips it shut, like that’ll stop the embarrassing warmth spreading through him.

He’s suddenly, overwhelmingly glad you’re not there, because he might’ve done something incredibly stupid. Like kissed you.

Or worse— asked you to keep a spot open forever.

Oscar’s schedule is relentless, though. An endless cycle of races, travel, media obligations. He still makes it back home when he can, even if it’s just for a few days. The café becomes a pit stop as routine as visiting his parents.

He never stays long, though. He catches glimpses of you between customers, exchanges pleasantries, hears about you secondhand through his sisters’ chatter.

Edie mentions you started taking a business course. Hattie swears you went on a date (Oscar pretends he doesn't care). Mae tells him you got a new coffee machine.

But it’s never from you.

Until one evening, when he swings by the café, and you ask him to stay until closing.

His heart lodges itself in his throat.

The café empties out, and Oscar helps you stack chairs and wipe tables. His fingers jitter against the rag, adrenaline buzzing under his skin like he’s on the starting grid. He wonders how he’ll respond when you confess, how to let you down gently when he inevitably leaves for another race weekend. 

(He also can’t stop imagining what it would be like to kiss you.)

When you finally sit him down, your words knock the air out of his lungs.

“The café might close,” you say, tone steadier than your hands wringing your apron in your lap. “Rent’s gone up, and I just... I don’t know if I can keep up."

Oscar stares, words dissolving before they can form. He thinks about the old man who first owned the place, about you proudly taking over. He thinks about all the hours he’s spent lingering here, all the drinks you’ve made him, all the moments he’s stolen just to see you.

The idea of it all disappearing feels like a punch to the chest.

“I just thought you should know,” you continue, voice quieter now. “You've been coming here for years, and— I don’t know, I guess I wanted to thank you for that. For being a loyal customer.” 

Oscar frowns. “I’m not just— I mean, yeah, I like the café, but…”

You smile, but it’s small, tired. “I know. But still. It means a lot. And hey, we had a good run, right?”

He hates the way you talk like it's already over.

Without thinking, he reaches across the table and covers your hand with his own. You flinch, just barely, before curling your fingers around his.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, like it’s something you should apologize for.

“Don’t be,” he says back. 

He doesn’t know what else to offer. And so he holds your hand, and the two of you sit in relative silence.

Oscar tries not to think of this being the last time he’ll get to do this. He resists the urge to study the weight of your hand, because then that would be admitting to a certain kind of preemptive loss. 

You close up shop, the two of you lingering outside the café under the glow of the streetlights, hands still linked. The night air is cool, the streets quiet, and it feels like you’re waiting for something.

Oscar doesn’t know what.

He racks his brain for words, for solutions, for something that might make you stay, but all he comes up with is static. The same helplessness he feels when a car failure knocks him out of a race.

You give his hand a gentle squeeze. “Good night, Oscar.”

“Good night,” he says, his fingers tightening around yours for a fraction of a second before he’s letting you go. 

He watches you walk away, the distance stretching between you like a rubber band about to snap. And— as usual— he doesn’t realize what to do or say until much, much later.

But he knows you’ll forgive him for this one.

It takes some convincing, some pulling of strings. In the end, he doesn’t know if he even manages it. Not until he’s back in Melbourne for the prix, and Lando is bringing him closer to the spot he’s tried to avoid all morning. 

“New caterer this year,” Lando says, peering at his phone. “Some local place. Looks sick.”

Oscar feigns interest, even as dread pools in his stomach.

He lasts all of twenty minutes before Lando physically drags him to the hospitality area. Oscar immediately clocks the familiar pastries, the neat line of carefully curated drinks— but it’s the sight of you, grinning behind the counter, that sends his pulse into overdrive.

“Oh, this is dangerous,” Lando jokes. “I might never leave.”

Oscar, meanwhile, contemplates leaving immediately.

You spot him mid-pour, your smile faltering. And Oscar knows he’s screwed.

The confrontation comes after Lando flits away, croissant in hand, leaving Oscar cornered by the espresso machine.

“You.” You jab a finger at his chest. “You did this.”

Oscar glances around him. The Netflix boom microphone is gracefully not around. No one from his team is, either.

He allows himself this small joy of bickering with you. “Technically, McLaren did this,” he says dryly. 

“Bullshit.” Your eyes narrow, but there’s no real venom. “You got me this gig so I could afford to keep the café, didn’t you?”

A corner of his lip twitches upward. “You’ve got no proof.”

You stare at him for a beat, then you let out an exasperated sigh. That smile of yours— the one that has ruined Oscar for everyone else— threatens to break on your face. “I could kiss you, you know,” you say, and he privately wishes you’d run him over with a car instead. 

You’re kidding. You sound like you’re kidding. But Oscar isn’t fifteen and stupid anymore. The only thing that hasn’t changed from back then is the way he feels for you, and it’s what has him finally giving in.

“How about I give you my number first?” he says. 

It takes you a moment. A full thirty seconds to realize what he’s getting at.

When it does hit you, though, you laugh. “A couple years late, Piastri,” you jab. 

Oscar dares to meet your eyes. He hopes it doesn’t show on his face— the way his heart is clenching in his chest. 

His voice is quieter when he says, “Please tell me you still want it.”

Your smile softens. 

He braces himself for a gentle denial, a spiel about friendship. Instead, he holds his breath as you fish for your phone. 

“Put it in before I change my mind,” you say, sliding it across the counter. Your coolness is betrayed by just the hint of giddiness in your tone, because you’ve wanted this for as long as he has, haven’t you? You hadn’t been kidding back then, and you still want this. 

Still want him. 

Oscar fumbles to type his number, adrenaline roaring louder than any engine. When he hands the phone back, your fingers brush his, lingering just a second too long.

“Good luck out there,” you tell him.

Oscar doesn’t feel like he needs any luck.