Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
summary: during a quiet summer break in monaco, oscar plans the most important question of his life. elena knows he is acting strange — she just does not know why. between family calls, chaotic group chats, and one candlelit dinner at home, august fourteenth becomes the night everything changes.
contains: smau, established relationship, fluff, soft boyfriend oscar, family approval, chaotic group chats, dinner at home, private balcony proposal
a/n: this is a continuation of two grand slams because some of you asked for more oscar and elena, so here it is! i’m planning to make one or two more parts after this because they are just soooo 😍 enjoy!
oscar called his mum twice before he actually said it.
the first time, he asked about home.
the second time, he asked about nothing at all.
nicole piastri listened to her son talk about the weather in monaco for nearly four minutes before she finally cut in.
“oscar.”
he stopped.
“yeah?”
“what did you do?”
oscar blinked, sitting at the kitchen island in the apartment he shared with elena, one hand around a mug of coffee he had forgotten to drink.
“nothing.”
“then what are you going to do?”
he looked toward the hallway.
elena was still asleep.
summer break had made their apartment softer. quieter. no suitcases half-open on the floor. no tournament bags by the door. no race weekend schedules stuck to the fridge. just monaco sunlight, slow mornings, and elena’s shoes left beside his in a way that made something in his chest ache every time he noticed.
oscar lowered his voice anyway.
“i’m going to ask elena to marry me.”
there was silence on the other end.
then nicole let out a breath that sounded like it broke halfway through.
“oh, osc.”
he looked down at the mug.
“yeah.”
“you sound sure.”
oscar looked toward the hallway again and felt the answer settle in him without any hesitation.
“i am.”
that part came easy.
he had known for a while.
maybe not in one dramatic moment. not under fireworks, not after a win, not in a way that belonged in a story people would tell later. oscar had known in pieces.
in hotel rooms where elena fell asleep with one hand still tangled in his shirt.
in race garages where she stood quietly behind the monitors, pretending not to panic.
in the way she remembered tiny things no one else did.
four years had done that.
four years had taken love and made it ordinary in the best possible way.
“i bought the ring,” he admitted.
nicole was quiet for a second.
when she spoke again, her voice was softer.
“you already bought the ring?”
“six months ago.”
“six months?”
“yeah.”
“and you’ve been carrying that around all this time?”
oscar glanced at the open velvet box on the counter beside him, the ring catching the morning light like it was trying very hard to ruin his composure.
“pretty much.”
nicole made a sound that was halfway between crying and laughing.
“oscar.”
“i wasn’t sure how to bring it up.”
“you just did,” she said, and he could hear the smile in her voice. “and i’m so happy for you.”
oscar swallowed.
“yeah?”
“of course i am.” her voice wavered slightly. “i’ve watched you grow up. i know how careful you are with the things that matter to you.”
he looked down at his hands.
“and she matters,” nicole said.
oscar’s throat tightened.
“more than anything.”
for a moment, neither of them said anything.
then nicole sniffed softly.
“sorry,” she said. “you’re telling me you’re going to ask the girl you love to spend her life with you. i think i’m allowed to be emotional.”
oscar let out a small laugh.
“yeah.”
somewhere down the hallway, the bedroom shifted with the quiet sound of movement.
oscar looked up.
then immediately closed the ring box.
“i think she’s waking up.”
“go,” nicole said. “call me later.”
“mum—”
“i’m happy for you,” she said again, softer now. “really, really happy.”
oscar closed his eyes for half a second.
“thanks.”
“and oscar?”
“yeah?”
“don’t overthink it.”
his gaze flicked to the velvet box now hidden beneath his hand.
“right,” he said.
which, unfortunately, meant he absolutely would.
oscarpiastri ✓ 12m ✪
replies
⤷ lando
pls keep this to yourself
some of us are single and trying to have a peaceful morning
⤷ oscarpiastri
Sounds like a you problem
lilymhe liked your story
⤷ kikagomes
she’s actually mine but okay
⤷ oscarpiastri
I can fight 👊🏽
charles_leclerc liked your story
⤷ alexandramalenaleclerc
my girl😍😍😍
⤷ oscarpiastri
I’m sorry, what?
⤷ carlossainz55
This close friends is becoming a fan account for Elena
⤷ oscarpiastri
Good.
carmenmmundt liked your story
⤷ rebeccadonaldson
give her back to us
⤷ oscarpiastri
No.
elena’s father answered on the third ring.
oscar stood on the balcony with the door closed behind him and the sea bright beyond the buildings, trying to look like a normal man having a normal phone call.
“oscar,” her father greeted warmly. “everything okay?”
“yeah. yes. everything’s good.”
there was a pause.
“elena is okay?”
“she’s good,” oscar said quickly. “she’s inside. she doesn’t know i’m calling.”
another pause.
behind the glass, elena walked into the kitchen in one of his shirts, hair messy, phone in her hand. she opened the fridge, stared into it for five seconds, then closed it again without taking anything out.
oscar’s chest tightened.
“i know this is old-fashioned,” oscar continued, quieter now. “but you’re her father, and you loved her first, and i just… i wanted to do this properly. for her.”
he stopped for half a second, then kept going, because if he paused too long he was afraid he would lose the nerve.
“because it’s elena,” he said, like that explained everything. maybe it did. “and she’s not just part of my life anymore. she is my life. the good days, the difficult ones, the quiet ones in between. i don’t really know how to imagine any of it without her.”
his voice went softer.
“and i don’t want to.”
through the glass, elena was pouring herself coffee now, still half-asleep.
oscar let out a breath.
“i want to ask her to marry me,” he said finally. “and i wanted you to know before i did.”
for a second, there was only the distant sound of monaco below.
then her father exhaled, slow and shaky.
“oscar…”
his voice changed so much that oscar went still.
elena noticed him through the glass then.
she pointed at his untouched coffee on the counter and mouthed, cold.
he gave her a small thumbs up.
she narrowed her eyes.
“sorry,” her father said, voice tight now. “i am trying to be calm.”
oscar swallowed.
“that’s okay.”
her father let out a quiet laugh, but it sounded too close to breaking.
“i cannot believe my baby girl found someone so good for her,” he said. “i hoped she would. of course i hoped she would. but seeing it is different.”
oscar looked back at elena.
she was leaning against the counter now, watching him with curious eyes.
“and if there is someone i would trust to stand beside her for the rest of her life,” her father continued, “it is you.”
oscar looked away from the kitchen, toward the sea, before the sudden shine in his eyes could give him away.
“i love her,” he said, because it was the only thing that felt big enough.
“i know,” her father said softly. “and she loves you.”
oscar’s voice softened.
“yeah. i know.”
“then you have my blessing.”
oscar let out a breath he had not realised he was holding.
“thank you.”
“and oscar?”
“yes?”
her father was quiet for half a second.
“i want grandchildren.”
oscar froze.
then, despite himself, he laughed.
all the tension in his shoulders broke at once.
“right,” he said, still laughing softly. “i’ll keep that in mind.”
her father laughed too, warmer now.
“good.”
elena tapped on the glass.
oscar turned.
she mouthed, who is that?
he froze for half a second too long.
“she’s here,” oscar said quickly. “i have to go.”
her father laughed softly.
“good luck.”
oscar ended the call and slid his phone into his pocket.
then he opened the balcony door.
elena lifted an eyebrow.
“who were you talking to?”
oscar stepped inside.
“charles.”
she crossed her arms, trying not to smile.
“you are being weird.”
oscar walked past her and picked up his coffee.
“i’m always weird.”
“no,” she said. “you’re being extra weird.”
he took one sip of cold coffee and immediately regretted it.
elena laughed.
“see?”
oscar put the mug down.
“i’m fine.”
“that is exactly what you say when you are not fine.”
he stepped toward her then, close enough that she had to tilt her head back to keep looking at him.
“good morning,” he murmured, pressing a kiss just beneath her ear.
elena’s suspicion faltered immediately.
“don’t distract me.”
“is it working?”
he kissed her again, slower this time, at the side of her neck.
she tried to hold onto the look — the narrowed eyes, the crossed arms, the silent accusation that he was hiding something from her — but oscar felt the exact second she gave up.
her hand found the front of his shirt.
“a little,” she admitted.
by the second week of august, elena knew something was wrong.
not wrong wrong.
oscar was not sad. he was not distracted in the way he got when a race went badly, or silent in the way he became when he was carrying more pressure than he wanted to admit.
he was just strange.
he misplaced his phone twice in one morning.
he forgot where he had put his keys, then found them in the fridge and refused to explain how they had gotten there.
and then, one afternoon, elena walked into their bedroom and found him standing in front of his open drawer, staring down at it like it had personally betrayed him.
“what are you looking for?”
oscar jumped.
actually jumped.
elena stopped in the doorway.
oscar closed the drawer too quickly.
“nothing.”
she blinked.
“you were looking for nothing?”
“yes.”
“in your sock drawer?”
“yes.”
elena tilted her head.
oscar stared back at her with the calm expression of a man who was absolutely not calm.
“right,” she said slowly.
“what?”
“nothing.”
“why did you say it like that?”
“like what?”
“like you don’t believe me.”
elena looked at the drawer.
then at him.
“because i don’t.”
oscar nodded once, like this was reasonable, then walked past her out of the room.
by dinner, he had asked her twice if she had plans on the fourteenth, even though they had already agreed they were staying in.
elena ricci had spent most of her life reading the smallest changes in people. the shift of an opponent’s shoulders before a serve. the tiny hesitation in a journalist’s voice before an unpleasant question. the difference between oscar being quiet because he was calm and oscar being quiet because his brain was moving too fast.
this was the second one.
august fourteenth arrived warm.
too warm, almost.
monaco held onto summer in that golden, heavy way that made the whole apartment glow. the windows were open, the sea beyond the balcony turning darker as evening settled, and elena moved barefoot through the kitchen while oscar pretended he was not watching her every three seconds.
he had planned dinner.
which, considering the week he had given her, did absolutely nothing to make him less suspicious.
oscar could cook, technically. he could follow instructions. he understood timing, precision, heat. he simply did not usually choose to do those things when takeaway existed.
“you’re staring,” elena said, without turning around.
oscar looked down at the salad he had been arranging with far too much concentration.
“i’m not.”
“you are.”
“maybe you’re in the way.”
she turned then, wearing a white summer dress and a smile she was trying to hide.
“i’m in the way in my own kitchen?”
“our kitchen.”
the words came out before he thought about them.
elena’s expression softened.
oscar looked back at the salad like it had personally betrayed him.
“smooth,” she murmured.
“it is our kitchen.”
“i know.”
she came up beside him and leaned against the counter, close enough that her shoulder brushed his arm.
“you didn’t have to make dinner,” she said. “we could have gone out.”
“i wanted to.”
“why?”
oscar glanced at her.
“because i like you.”
elena laughed.
“you like me?”
“a lot.”
“how romantic.”
“i’m trying.”
she smiled, soft and teasing.
“i can tell.”
that made him nervous again.
she could tell too much.
she always could.
dinner was good, despite lando’s deep lack of faith in his ability to create atmosphere. there were candles. there was no fluorescent kitchen lighting. there was music low enough that it didn’t feel like he was trying too hard.
elena talked about training, about maybe adjusting her schedule after the us open, about a headline she had seen that morning calling oscar “ice cold under pressure,” which had made her laugh for ten minutes because she had watched him drop a spoon when she walked into the kitchen earlier.
oscar listened.
he had always liked listening to her.
halfway through dinner, he stopped trying to remember the speech.
he just watched her.
elena spoke with her hands when she got comfortable. she leaned into stories. she rolled her eyes when annoyed, tilted her head when amused, and softened without realizing it whenever she said his name.
and oscar thought, with terrifying calm, yes.
this.
her.
always.
elenaricci ✓ 8m
lando liked your story
charles_leclerc liked your story
alexandramalenaleclerc liked your story
kikagomes liked your story
carlossainz55 liked your story
carmenmmundt liked your story
lilymhe liked your story
pierregasly liked your story
rebeccadonaldson liked your story
alex_albon liked your story
georgerussell63 liked your story
kellypiquet liked your story
maxverstappen1 liked your story
after dinner, elena carried two glasses of wine out to the balcony.
the air was warm. the city lights had started to flicker on, one by one, curving around the harbour. somewhere below them, monaco made its usual summer noise — cars, voices, distant music, life moving on without knowing his whole world was about to change.
oscar followed her outside with the ring box in his pocket.
it felt enormous.
it felt impossible that she could not see it.
elena set the glasses down on the small table and leaned against the balcony railing, looking out at the view.
“this is nice,” she said.
oscar stood beside her.
“yeah.”
she turned to look at him then, softer now.
not teasing.
“oscar,” she said, “why are you so nervous?”
he could have denied it.
he almost did.
but this was elena.
and lying badly to her felt like a terrible way to start.
so he looked down, let out a breath, and said, “because i had a plan.”
her smile faded into something quieter.
“had?”
“yeah,” he said. “i think i forgot most of it.”
elena’s eyes flicked over his face, searching.
“oscar.”
he reached for her hand.
his thumb moved once over her knuckles.
“i was going to say something better,” he said, voice lower now. “something that made sense.”
her hand tightened around his.
“but every time i tried to write it down, it just kept coming back to the same thing.”
elena stopped breathing.
oscar swallowed.
“i love you,” he said. “and i don’t want a version of my life where i don’t get to come home to you.”
her eyes filled before he even moved.
“so,” he said, with a nervous little smile that almost broke her heart.
elena covered her mouth with one hand.
he lowered himself onto one knee.
the balcony lights caught the ring as he opened the box.
simple.
beautiful.
hers.
oscar looked up at her.
“marry me.”
two words.
elena started crying properly then, one hand still covering her mouth, the other gripping his so tightly it almost hurt.
he had driven through monaco barriers with less fear than he felt waiting for the answer he already knew.
then she nodded.
once.
twice.
“yes,” she said, voice breaking.
oscar’s breath caught.
“yeah?”
elena let out a wet, disbelieving laugh, tears spilling over properly now.
“yes, oscar,” she said, gripping his hand like she was afraid he might disappear. “of course yes. always.”
oscar’s face changed.
not into surprise.
not exactly.
more like relief had finally reached him.
he laughed, breathless and disbelieving, and stood too quickly, almost fumbling the box in the process.
elena laughed too, crying harder.
“careful,” she said, voice shaking.
“sorry. i’m nervous.”
“i noticed.”
his hands were not entirely steady when he slid the ring onto her finger.
for one second, they both just stared at it.
then elena looked at him.
“you asked my father.”
oscar froze.
“what?”
“the balcony phone call,” she said, crying and smiling at once. “that was him, wasn’t it?”
oscar blinked.
then sighed.
“yeah.”
her face crumpled again.
“oscar.”
“i wanted to do it properly,” he said, quieter now. “for you.”
she kissed him before he could say anything else.
oscar’s arms wrapped around her immediately, one hand pressing her waist against him, the other careful around her left hand like the ring had made her fragile.
she was not fragile.
she was elena.
but she was crying into his mouth, laughing between kisses, and oscar felt something in him settle so deeply he knew he would remember the exact weight of this moment forever.
when she pulled back, her forehead rested against his.
“i love you,” she whispered.
“i love you too.”
“you were so weird.”
he laughed.
“i had a lot going on.”
“lando knew, didn’t he?”
oscar closed his eyes.
elena gasped.
“lando knew?”
“unfortunately.”
she pulled back just enough to stare at him.
“how many people knew?”
oscar opened his eyes.
“do you want the list alphabetically?”
elena stared at him.
then she burst out laughing.
“i hate all of you.”
“you’re marrying me.”
“i know,” she said, smiling up at him like he had just handed her the world. “that’s the problem.”
elenaricci ✓ and oscarpiastri ✓
liked by lando, alexandramalenaleclerc, mclaren, f1 and 4,928,104 others
elenaricci fastest yes of my life
view all comments
oscarpiastri can’t wait to spend the rest of my life with you ❤️
⤷ elenaricci we already are ❤️
lando I HAVE BEEN HOLDING THIS IN FOR WEEKS
⤷ oscarpiastri genuinely surprised you made it
⤷ lando rude.
mclaren engaged papaya family 🧡
f1 congratulations to oscar and elena 🤍
nicolepiastri my heart is so full ❤️ love you both
ediepiastri he was so nervous it was actually painful to witness
⤷ oscarpiastri private family information, thanks.
wta future mrs piastri. we are crying.
rolandgarros SO emotional.
hattiepiastri FINALLY. welcome to the family officially elena 🥹
alexandramalenaleclerc FINALLY 😭😭😭 love you both so much
charles_leclerc congratulations ❤️ very happy for you both
kikagomes I CAN SPEAK NOW????? FINALLY?????
carmenmmundt crying all over again 🤍 so happy for you two
lilymhe the scream i just scrumpt
rebeccadonaldson my heart 😭 congratulations angels
carlossainz55 congrats guys 👏
georgerussell63 congratulations mate!
janniksinner 👏 congratulations to you both
maepiastri I HAVE A SISTER NOW 😭😭
⤷ hattiepiastri you already have sisters mate
⤷ maepiastri yes but this one chose us
user1 IM DEAD
user2 two grand slams in june. engagement in august. this universe is moving faster than my emotional stability
user3 “we already are” OKAY JUST RIP MY HEART OUT THEN
user4 fastest yes of my life 😭 she’s so down bad it’s embarrassing for all of us
user5 LANDO SAYING HE’S BEEN HOLDING THIS IN FOR WEEKS LMFAOOOO
user6 the fact that half the paddock clearly knew and somehow nobody leaked it. growth.
user7 oscar saying “rest of my life” like he hasn’t been married in his head for years
user8 someone check on the girls group chat because i know they’re screaming
user9 oscar piastri fiancé era. i repeat. FIANCÉ ERA.
user10 this couple is the reason my standards are in hell and heaven at the same time
summary: elena and oscar are both facing career-defining weekends in two different sports, with paris and monaco pulling them in opposite directions. what follows is a mix of pressure, love, chaos, and the kind of support that turns an already iconic weekend into something unforgettable.
contains: f1 x tennis trope, social media au, established relationship, fluff, tennis player oc, monaco gp weekend, roland-garros final, career grand slam, soft boyfriend oscar, sports power couple vibes.
a/n: this is my first time ever doing a smau-type story, so i hope you enjoy it! some visuals use maria sharapova as elena’s face claim, and a few edits were made with ai just to help with the smau/storytelling vibe. nothing is meant seriously or as any kind of impersonation — it’s all just for the fic!
the mclaren garage was loud around him, full of monaco qualifying tension — mechanics moving around the car, engineers watching data, tyres waiting in blankets, cameras hovering just outside the garage.
oscar knew all of it.
he knew qualifying in monaco was half the race. he knew he should have been putting on his gloves, lowering himself into the cockpit, clearing his head of everything that was not braking points and tyre temperature and the walls waiting inches from his front wing.
instead, he stood in the middle of the garage with his helmet hanging from one hand, eyes fixed on the television.
court philippe-chatrier filled the screen.
orange clay. white lines. a packed stadium holding its breath.
elena ricci stood at the baseline.
she bounced the ball once.
twice.
three times.
oscar barely blinked.
“oscar,” tom said again, firmer this time. “car. now.”
oscar nodded once, still watching the screen.
“yeah,” he said. “in a minute.”
from somewhere to his left, lando laughed.
“you’re actually insane.”
oscar ignored him.
on the screen, elena looked calm.
too calm.
oscar knew that look. he had seen it after losses she insisted did not hurt, after press conferences where journalists asked about clay again, after practice sessions where she stayed long after everyone else had packed up because roland garros was the one thing people still held against her.
two australian opens. two wimbledons. one us open.
five grand slams at twenty-three.
and still, paris had remained the missing piece.
now she was in the roland-garros final against mirra andreeva, and oscar was supposed to walk away.
he tightened his grip around the helmet.
elena tossed the ball.
the entire mclaren garage went quiet.
she served wide. mirra returned deep. elena slid into the next ball and sent it sharp across the court. the rally built quickly, each shot harder than the last, the sound of the ball cracking through the speakers and filling every corner of the garage.
oscar forgot, for a second, that he was wearing a race suit.
forgot there was a car waiting for him.
forgot monaco.
then elena changed direction.
mirra reached it late.
the ball sailed long.
the umpire called it.
elena had taken the first set, 7-6(5).
the garage erupted like she had just put mclaren on pole.
oscar exhaled so hard it almost hurt.
lando slapped his shoulder. “there we go.”
oscar tried not to smile.
failed.
on the screen, elena walked toward her chair, towel pressed to her face. she did not celebrate too much. she never did before the job was done. one set did not win a final. one set did not erase years of being asked if clay was the surface she would never conquer.
but it mattered.
god, it mattered.
the camera followed her as she sat down, reaching for her bottle with hands that looked steadier than oscar knew they probably were. her coach leaned forward in the player box, speaking quickly, his hands moving through instructions she might not even hear. her father sat beside him, pale and silent. her physio had both hands pressed together near her mouth, like she had forgotten how to breathe.
oscar knew every face in that box.
they knew his too.
four years did that.
four years had made elena part of mclaren in a way no one questioned anymore. she knew mechanics by name, remembered birthdays, brought coffee when she came early, sent lando insulting voice notes after bad golf rounds, and watched races from hotel rooms when tournaments kept her away.
the mclaren garage loved elena.
zak brown appeared beside tom.
that was when oscar knew the battle was over.
zak crossed his arms, looked from oscar to the tv and back again.
“great match,” he said. “car. now.”
oscar opened his mouth.
zak pointed toward the mclaren.
“oscar.”
lando looked delighted. “boss has spoken.”
oscar took one last look at the screen. elena was standing again, ready for the second set. her face was still calm, but oscar knew the storm beneath it.
he swallowed.
then he turned toward the car.
“tell me if anything happens,” he said.
tom’s mouth twitched. “that is very much not my job.”
“tom.”
“i’ll tell you.”
oscar nodded, climbed into the car, and lowered himself into the cockpit with the expression of a man being forced to leave his heart in another country.
oscar drove q1 like a man with unfinished business.
monaco gave nothing away for free. the walls sat close enough to punish hesitation, traffic appeared exactly where he did not need it to be, and every corner demanded more focus than he had available.
for a minute, he forgot about paris.
brake. turn. breathe. commit.
trust the car.
trust his hands.
but the second he crossed the line and knew the lap was enough, the world widened again.
elena.
“how’s the match?” he asked over the radio.
there was a pause.
then tom answered, “early in the second. on serve.”
“okay.”
“focus now.”
“i am focused.”
“you’re asking for tennis scores during monaco qualifying.”
“i can do both.”
tom did not answer, but oscar could hear the smile he was trying to hide.
q2 passed in flashes.
orange clay reflected faintly on his visor whenever the car came back into the garage. elena moving. mirra moving. a scoreboard too far away to read.
he lifted the visor.
“score?”
one of the mechanics turned immediately. “elena up 4-3. on serve.”
oscar nodded.
his chest felt tight.
another mechanic added, “she looks good.”
oscar looked at him. “yeah?”
“yeah.”
that helped more than it should have.
then q3 came, and monaco changed.
the air felt sharper. every camera angle seemed closer. every sector time carried more weight. every driver knew a pole lap here was not just a pole lap.
it was almost a promise.
oscar rolled out of the garage knowing elena was somewhere deep in the second set in paris.
he did not ask for the score that time.
he could not.
there was nowhere left in his head to put the answer.
so he drove.
the first lap was good.
the second was better.
he brushed close to the barriers, close enough for everyone watching to inhale at once, but not close enough to lose it. the car snapped beneath him and he caught it. the tyres came alive. sector one lit up. sector two held. sector three demanded faith.
when he crossed the line, there was a pause.
a fraction of a second.
then tom’s voice cracked through the radio.
“pole, oscar. that’s pole.”
the garage exploded.
the pit wall exploded.
the grandstands blurred into papaya and noise.
for one second, pure relief hit him.
pole in monaco.
then, almost immediately—
“elena?”
tom actually laughed over the radio.
“she’s serving at 5-4.”
oscar’s whole body went cold.
“for the match?”
“for the match.”
oscar barely remembered the in-lap afterward.
he remembered being told to bring the car in. he remembered trying not to speed. he remembered the absurdity of having just done one of the best laps of his life and wanting only to get out of the car.
by the time he stopped in parc fermé, people were already waiting for him.
cameras. officials. team members. the usual blur of congratulations.
oscar pulled off the steering wheel, climbed out, and jumped down.
someone clapped him on the back.
someone shouted his name.
someone tried to guide him toward the post-qualifying interview area.
oscar pointed toward the garage.
“i need the tv.”
the person blinked. “oscar, the interview—”
“i need the tv.”
he was already moving.
the cameras followed him because of course they did. the monaco pole-sitter walking away from celebration with his helmet tucked under one arm and his balaclava half-pulled off was not exactly subtle.
inside the mclaren garage, everyone had stopped pretending.
every face was turned toward the screen.
elena stood at the baseline.
5-4 in the second set.
40-30.
championship point.
oscar stopped dead a few steps inside the garage.
the noise behind him fell away.
his helmet hung from his hand.
he had just taken pole position in monaco and somehow looked like a man waiting for someone else’s result.
on the screen, elena bounced the ball.
once.
twice.
three times.
oscar did not move.
no one did.
elena served down the t.
mirra returned deep, forcing her back. elena adjusted quickly, sending the ball crosscourt. mirra met it early. the rally stretched, each shot dragging more sound from the paris crowd.
backhand.
forehand.
backhand.
then elena slid into the next ball and sent it sharp across the court.
mirra stepped forward and tried to redirect.
the ball hit the net cord.
for half a second, it hovered.
oscar stopped breathing.
then it dropped.
on mirra’s side.
the ball stayed in the net.
court philippe-chatrier erupted.
elena stared at the net like she did not understand what had happened.
then her racket fell from her hand.
her knees hit the clay.
and elena ricci collapsed onto the court as roland-garros champion.
oscar screamed.
“yes!” he shouted, voice breaking around the word. “that’s my girl!”
it came out of him raw and loud and completely unlike the careful, controlled version of himself the world was used to seeing. both hands flew to his head, his helmet nearly slipping from his grip, eyes locked on the television as elena pressed her face into the clay.
the mclaren garage detonated around him.
mechanics shouted. engineers clapped. lando sprinted in from wherever he had been and yelled so loudly oscar barely heard it. zak had both fists in the air. tom looked like he was trying very hard to remain professional and failing completely.
oscar stood there, laughing now, breathless, disbelieving.
“she did it,” he said, though no one could hear him over the noise. “she actually did it.”
on the screen, the italian flag appeared in the stands. her team was crying. her name filled the stadium.
elena ricci had won roland garros.
elena ricci had completed the career grand slam at twenty-three.
and only then, with elena still crying on the clay in paris, did oscar seem to remember what had happened minutes earlier in monaco.
lando grabbed him from the side, nearly knocking him over.
“you got pole, you idiot!”
oscar laughed, dazed and bright in a way he almost never allowed the cameras to catch.
“i know.”
“celebrate!”
oscar looked back at the tv one more time.
elena was standing now, clay streaked across her legs, laughing through tears.
his face softened.
then he turned back to the garage, lifted both arms, and finally let himself celebrate.
rolandgarros ✓
liked by oscarpiastri, alexandramalenaleclerc, f1 and 858,647 others
rolandgarros ELENA RICCI. ROLAND-GARROS CHAMPION. CAREER GRAND SLAM COMPLETE.
view all comments
oscarpiastri never doubted you. so proud of you ❤️
elenaricci crying again, thank you 🤍
lando the garage is still recovering btw
mclaren papaya family is so proud 🧡
f1 history in paris. history loading in monaco? 👀
hattiepiastri so proud of you sis ❤️
alexandramalenaleclerc ELENAAAAA 😭❤️ so proud of you
charles_leclerc congratulations elena 👏👏 incredible achievement
kikagomes MY GIRL WON ROLAND GARROS!!!!!
carmenmmundt chills. so deserved 🤍
lilymhe literal queen behavior
rebeccadonaldson so so proud of you ❤️
janniksinner grande elena 🇮🇹👏
paulabadosa career grand slam. unreal. congrats girl 🤍
sabrinacarpenter icon icon icon
zendaya wow. congratulations 🤍
user1 SHE DID IT. SHE ACTUALLY DID IT. ROLAND GARROS IS HERS.
user2 everyone who said elena ricci couldn’t win on clay, start apologising NOW.
user3 she collapsed on the clay and i collapsed in my living room.
user4 oscar getting pole in monaco and then running to watch elena’s match point instead of celebrating… cinema.
user5 he screamed “that’s my girl” and then remembered he was literally on pole in monaco 😭
user6 the way she just stared at the net before dropping to the ground… she couldn’t even believe it herself
user7 ITALY STAND UP THAT’S OUR GIRL
user8 he got pole in monaco and still looked happier for her win. goodbye.
f1 ✓
liked by elenaricci, mclaren, hattiepiastri and 1,572,829 others
f1 OSCAR PIASTRI TAKES POLE POSITION IN MONACO
view all comments
elenaricci my love! so proud 🧡
oscarpiastri had to make the day interesting
mclaren POLE IN MONACO. we are not okay.
lando got pole and still cared more about the tennis score
zakbrown big day for papaya 🧡
rolandgarros heard there was more history being made in monaco 👀
wta elena wins roland-garros. oscar takes monaco pole. what a saturday.
charles_leclerc great lap mate 👏
alexandramalenaleclerc what a day for both of you 😭
kikagomes screaming for elena and oscar today!!!!!
carmenmmundt power couple weekend already 🤍
lilymhe no because this is actually insane
georgerussell63 mega lap mate
user1 bro got pole in monaco and said hold on my girlfriend is serving for roland garros
user2 elena ricci wins roland garros. oscar piastri takes monaco pole. are they real people or a netflix script?
user3 HE GOT MONACO POLE AND RAN TO WATCH ELENA’S MATCH POINT. I’M GONNA BE SICK.
user4 oscar celebrating elena before celebrating himself. romance is alive.
user5 this is not even my sport but oscar piastri you are so real for running to that garage
user6 the mclaren garage has experienced five years of stress in one afternoon
user7 pole in monaco and a girlfriend who just won roland garros. aura levels illegal.
user8 someone check on tom stallard because his driver was fighting for his life against the live tennis score
during the ceremony, elena smiled until her cheeks hurt.
she listened to the anthem. she lifted the trophy. then she spoke, messy and emotional and nothing like the polished version of herself she usually gave to the cameras.
she thanked mirra.
she thanked her team.
she thanked her family.
then, she looked down for a second and smiled in a way that made the stadium soften.
“and oscar,” she said, her voice catching just slightly, “i know you’re busy in monaco, but i hope you know that i felt you with me every minute of this match. i love you, and i can’t wait to see you.”
a soft sound moved through the crowd before the cheering rose again.
elena laughed quietly, wiping under one eye as the noise wrapped around her.
the clip was everywhere before she had even left the court.
by the time she made it through photos, press, another dozen questions about finally winning on clay, and more hugs than she could count, paris had already started to blur around the edges.
the ache in her legs, the tightness in her chest, the weight of everything she had spent years chasing finally settling over her — all of it was real.
and still, as she got into the car toward the airport, exhausted and overwhelmed and barely holding herself together, there was only one person she wanted to fall apart with.
elenaricci ✓
liked by oscarpiastri, mclaren, lando, wta and 2,386,585 others.
elenaricci paris, you were worth the wait 🤍
view all comments
oscarpiastri my champion. always.
⤷ elenaricci coming home to you❤️
mclaren our favorite tennis player 🧡
wta career grand slam club. welcome.
rolandgarros you made paris yours.
alexandramalenaleclerc i’m still crying 😭😭😭 love you
kikagomes SHE DID ITTTTTTTT
carmenmmundt so proud, so happy, so deserved 🤍
nicolepiastri proud of you, honey!
⤷ elenaricci thank you, mamma piastri!
lilymhe goosebumps. actual goosebumps.
rebeccadonaldson you deserve all of this and more ❤️
charles_leclerc amazing moment. congratulations 👏
hattiepiastri love u so much!
janniksinner orgoglio italiano 🇮🇹👏
paulabadosa one of the most beautiful moments. congrats angel 🤍
sabrinacarpenter crying screaming cheering
zendaya beautiful. congratulations 🤍
user1 the way she’s gripping that trophy like paris tried to take it back 😭
user2 the fact that oscar is probably reading this from monaco with tears in his eyes
user3 elena ricci finally owning the tournament that tried to break her every year. poetic.
user4 she’s holding that trophy like “you are NOT escaping me again”
user5 not her saying she’s going home to oscar after winning roland garros. i’m unwell.
user6 the clay era is officially hers now. nobody speak to me.
user7 that kiss on the trophy. yeah she waited years for this.
user8 this picture alone tells you how much this one meant to her.
oscarpiastri ✓
liked by elenaricci, mclaren, f1, nicolepiastri and 2,104,882 others.
oscarpiastri pole in monaco. good saturday.
view all comments
elenaricci casual saturday btw
⤷ oscarpiastri very casual.
lando post the part where you ran away from parc fermé
⤷ mclaren we have footage.
f1 let’s go oscar!! 💪🏽
rolandgarros quite the saturday for your household.
zakbrown next time please get in the car when asked
alexandramalenaleclerc what a saturday for you two 😭
kikagomes good saturday is an understatement
lilymhe the most oscar caption ever
charles_leclerc mega lap 👏
user1 “good saturday” and the saturday in question is monaco pole + his girlfriend winning roland garros
user2 he got pole in monaco and wrote three words. this man is unserious.
user3 not him acting casual like he didn’t immediately run to watch elena’s match point
user4 oscar piastri said yes i got pole but have you seen my girlfriend?
user5 the way his first priority after getting pole was the tv 😭
user6 “good saturday” sir you just did the most romantic thing in the paddock
user7 mclaren saying “we have footage” RELEASE IT THEN
user8 he really said i’ll celebrate after i know if my girl won
sunday morning arrived too quickly.
elena woke to sunlight cutting across their bedroom floor and oscar already awake beside her, lying on his back, staring at the ceiling.
her body ached from the match. her shoulder was tight, her legs heavy, the noise of paris still sitting somewhere behind her eyes.
then oscar turned his head toward her.
“morning, roland garros champion.”
elena laughed softly, still half-asleep.
“you start on pole today,” she said.
“apparently.”
she reached for his hand under the sheet.
“you’re going to win.”
oscar’s thumb moved over her knuckles.
“you sound very confident.”
“i am.”
“because you won yesterday and now you think everything works like that?”
“no,” she said, smiling. “because i know what you can do.”
oscar looked away first, but not quickly enough to hide what it did to him.
by the time they arrived at the paddock, monaco had already turned hungry.
balconies packed with people. yachts lined along the harbour. cameras everywhere. the kind of race day that made even breathing feel public.
and still, when oscar and elena walked in together, the attention shifted.
elena felt it before she saw it. the cameras swinging. the murmurs rippling. phones lifting from behind barriers.
oscar walked beside her in mclaren kit, cap low, face calm in that particular way that meant he knew exactly how much attention they were getting and was choosing to ignore it.
his hand rested at the small of her back, steady and familiar, like it belonged there.
elena ricci, career grand slam champion less than twenty-four hours earlier, walked into the monaco paddock beside oscar piastri, the monaco pole-sitter.
the photographs looked unreal before they were even posted.
inside mclaren hospitality, the room cheered the second she stepped in.
elena laughed, caught off guard, one hand flying to her face.
“no, please don’t—”
lando appeared from nowhere, hands raised like he was presenting royalty.
“ladies and gentlemen,” he announced, “the only person in this building who achieved something impressive yesterday.”
oscar turned his head slowly.
elena bowed. “thank you, thank you.”
“oscar also did something, apparently,” lando added.
“apparently,” oscar said.
zak hugged her carefully. tom smiled at her from beside him.
“you caused a lot of operational stress yesterday,” tom said.
elena winced. “i heard.”
“worth it,” oscar said.
later, when the jokes faded and the garage became sharper, quieter, elena stood near the back with a headset over her ears and watched oscar listen to his engineers.
she had seen him like this before.
still. focused. almost detached.
but elena knew better.
he felt everything.
he just knew where to put it.
a few minutes before he had to leave for the grid, he found her near the side of the garage.
“you okay?” he asked.
elena laughed softly. “you’re asking me?”
“yes.”
“i’m okay.”
she studied him for a second, taking in the set of his shoulders, the way his jaw had gone quiet, the way his eyes kept flicking toward the car like he was already halfway inside it.
“are you?” she asked.
oscar blinked.
“am i what?”
“okay.”
his mouth twitched, but it did not quite become a smile.
“i’m fine.”
“oscar.”
he looked down for half a second.
“a normal amount of nervous,” he admitted.
elena stepped closer, reaching up to adjust the collar of his fireproofs even though there was nothing wrong with it.
“you are amazing,” she said quietly, “no matter what happens out there.”
his eyes lifted to hers.
the garage noise seemed to dim.
“i know,” he said.
“do you?”
“yes.”
she smiled.
“good.” she squeezed his hand once, then let go. “go win your race, piastri.”
he leaned in, kissed her quickly, and murmured against her mouth, “yes, ma’am.”
the start was everything.
elena stood in the mclaren garage with headphones over her ears, heart pounding so hard she could feel it in her throat.
she had played grand slam finals. she had served for championships. she knew pressure well enough to recognise its footsteps.
but watching oscar start from pole in monaco was different.
when she played, fear had somewhere to go.
here, she could only watch.
the lights went out.
oscar launched cleanly.
for the first corner, the whole garage seemed to inhale.
then he held the lead.
the exhale nearly knocked elena over.
lap one became lap five.
lap five became lap fifteen.
monaco unfolded in narrow streets and controlled breathing. oscar led with the same precision he had carried through qualifying, placing the car exactly where it needed to be, lap after lap.
elena watched his name at the top of the timing tower.
pia.
every time the camera cut to his onboard, she found herself studying his hands.
small corrections. calm inputs. the barrier too close. the car too fast.
he made it look clean, which elena knew meant it was anything but easy.
then the timing screen flashed purple beside his name.
fastest lap.
elena stared at it for a second before it settled.
pole. lead. fastest lap.
by lap seventy, she had stopped pretending she was calm.
oscar did not falter.
there were no dramatic lunges. no unnecessary risks. no wild radio messages. just oscar, monaco, and the kind of control that had to be chosen again and again.
the final lap arrived like a held breath.
elena stood without remembering when she had done it.
the mclaren crossed the line.
for one impossible second, there was silence.
then tom’s voice came through the broadcast delay and the garage at once.
“monaco grand prix winner, oscar piastri. that is a grand slam. pole, fastest lap, every lap led. fantastic drive.”
the mclaren garage erupted for the second time in twenty-four hours.
elena’s hands flew to her face.
she laughed and cried at the same time, overwhelmed by the noise, by the orange, by everyone shouting oscar’s name.
but she could only look at the screen.
oscar slowed after the line, one hand lifting briefly from the steering wheel.
his voice came over the radio, quieter than the garage deserved.
“thank you. really good car. thank you, everyone.”
then, after a pause—
“how’s elena?”
tom laughed.
“she’s crying.”
oscar’s reply came instantly.
“good crying?”
elena burst into a wet laugh.
tom looked across the garage directly at her, smiling.
“yes, mate. good crying.”
f1 ✓
liked by elenaricci, maxverstappen1, janniksinner and 3,729,385 others
f1 OSCAR PIASTRI WINS THE MONACO GRAND PRIX!!
pole. win. fastest lap. every lap led.
a grand slam in monte carlo.
view all comments
elenaricci my winner. so proud of you 🧡
⤷ oscarpiastri had to keep up with you
mclaren we are never recovering from this weekend.
lando unbearable. both of you.
atptour grand slam energy travels fast.
wta grand slam x grand slam. what a weekend.
rolandgarros paris 🤝 monaco
maxverstappen1 congrats mate
charles_leclerc well done mate 👏
alexandramalenaleclerc this weekend belongs to you two 😭
kikagomes ELENA YESTERDAY OSCAR TODAY I CAN’T DO THIS
carmenmmundt actual chills. congratulations 🤍
lilymhe this is insane. like actually insane.
nicolepiastri my boy🤍
rebeccadonaldson power couple weekend ❤️
janniksinner big weekend for italian tennis and papaya 😂👏
user1 elena career grand slam saturday. oscar monaco grand slam sunday. scriptwriters went crazy.
user2 he really said my girlfriend won roland garros so i guess i’ll win monaco.
user3 she won the grand slam she was missing and he won monaco the next day. this is not real life.
user4 oscar saw elena complete the career grand slam and said hold my steering wheel.
user5 monaco grand slam after roland garros career grand slam. the branding is branding.
user6 this is the most fanfic-coded sports weekend in history and i’m eating it up.
user7 mclaren garage had two emotional breakdowns in 24 hours.
user8 oscar and elena are never beating the it couple allegations after this.
parc fermé was chaos.
oscar pulled himself out of the car as the world roared around him. he stood on top of it, raised both fists, and let the noise hit him.
he had won monaco.
then he jumped down, barely hearing the congratulations thrown at him, and turned toward the mclaren barrier.
elena was there.
of course she was.
she stood behind the barrier with tears on her face, smiling so hard it looked like it hurt. around her, the team was still celebrating, but she was completely still, eyes only on him.
oscar moved toward her as if pulled.
someone tried to hand him a cap. someone else tried to direct him toward the weighing area.
he heard none of it properly.
“you did it,” elena said, voice breaking.
oscar laughed, breathless. “you did it first.”
then his hands were on her face and hers were around his neck, and the kiss landed in the middle of the noise like something the whole weekend had been building toward.
oscar was still sweaty, still shaking with adrenaline. elena was still crying, still exhausted from a final played the day before. the barrier pressed awkwardly between them, cameras catching every second.
neither of them cared.
when he pulled back, his forehead rested against hers for half a second.
“you got your grand slam,” she whispered.
he smiled.
“so did you.”
oscar kissed her once more, quick and soft, before someone finally managed to pull him toward the post-race formalities.
as he walked away, he looked back.
elena was still there, surrounded by papaya, wiping under her eyes while lando said something that made her shove him lightly in the shoulder.
oscar thought, with a clarity that felt almost absurd, that he had never loved anyone more.
elenaricci ✓ and oscarpiastri ✓
liked by carlitosalcarazz, carlossainz55, hattiepiastri, f1 and 5,602,118 others
oscarpiastri twenty-four hours. two dreams. same person beside me through all of it.
proud of us always 🧡
view all comments
elenaricci proud of us more🤍
⤷ oscarpiastri impossible
lando can you both stop winning things for one second
⤷ mclaren no.
f1 still not over this.
carlitosalcarazz big weekend 😂👏
nicolepiastri so happy with you, my babies!
carlossainz55 congrats to both of you 👏
alexandramalenaleclerc crying again actually
kikagomes THE couple of the weekend
lilymhe unfair amount of aura in one post
carmenmmundt proud of you both 🤍
user1 she’s his biggest fan and he’s hers. that’s the whole thing. that’s why it works.
user2 she completed the career grand slam and he got a monaco grand slam. nobody is touching them.
user3 lando asking them to stop winning things 😭
user4 this is the most it couple post i’ve ever seen
⤷ user5 this is not an it couple. this is THE it couple.
user5 the way they both had the biggest weekend of their careers and still made it about each other 😭
user6 no because they don’t even try to be iconic, they just ARE
user7 the way this weekend sounds fake but it happened
user8 oscar and elena are the reason i believe in love and also why my standards are unreasonable
summary: léa slowly realizes that oscar is still beside her, still loving her in familiar ways, but emotionally slipping somewhere she can’t reach as the pressure of racing and fear of failure begin to pull him away.
contains: 2025 season setting, established relationship, high school sweethearts, emotional distance, quiet angst, hurt/comfort undertones, relationship tension, anxiety/fear of failure, implied intimacy
a/n: i’m so excited to post this because it’s the first request i’ve ever gotten, so i want to dedicate it to @ravensofblack <3 thank you so much for reaching out, and i really hope you like this!! :)
léa used to know where oscar went when he got quiet.
not physically. physically, he was easy to find.
in the kitchen, standing barefoot in front of the coffee machine before sunrise. in the gym, already halfway through a session before most people had opened their eyes. on the sofa with his laptop balanced on one knee, replaying onboard footage with the sound turned low. beside her in bed, one arm around her waist, his breathing steady against the back of her neck.
he was always there.
that was the cruelest part.
after baku, something in him had shifted by half an inch. not enough for anyone else to notice, maybe. not enough for his mother to hear it through the phone, or for his engineers to name it, or for the cameras to catch anything other than the same calm, careful oscar piastri who answered questions like nothing could touch him.
but léa had loved him since they were sixteen.
she knew the difference between quiet and gone.
“i’ll be back after training,” he murmured, leaning down to kiss her before he left.
his lips touched her temple. soft. automatic. familiar enough to hurt.
léa looked up from the mug warming her hands. “don’t overdo it.”
“won’t.”
he said it too quickly.
then he was grabbing his keys, checking his phone, disappearing through the front door with the kind of focus that made her feel like she had become furniture in a room he knew too well.
she hated herself for thinking that.
oscar still asked about her day. he still thanked her when she cooked. he still sent a text when his plane landed, still brought home the dark chocolate she liked from airport lounges, still reached for her hand in cars and elevators and hotel corridors.
he hadn’t become cruel.
he had become careful.
careful with his words. careful with his time. careful with the parts of himself he allowed outside the car.
and léa, who had been there before the papaya, before the contracts, before the world learned how to say his name like it belonged to them, didn’t know how to tell him that careful could feel a lot like distance.
by the time mexico ended, the apartment seemed to breathe around him.
he came home late, shoulders tense beneath his hoodie, hair still damp from the shower at the factory. léa had left dinner covered on the counter. pasta, because it was easy. because he used to eat it straight from the pan while telling her some ridiculous story from school, when his biggest problem had been an exam he hadn’t studied for because he’d spent the weekend racing.
now he stood in the kitchen, fork in hand, watching a race analysis video on mute.
léa sat at the island across from him.
“is it cold?” she asked.
he blinked, like her voice had reached him from another room. “what?”
“the pasta.”
“no, it’s good.” he looked down at the plate. “thank you, love.”
love.
the word should have softened something in her.
instead, it landed gently and left no mark.
she nodded. “you’re welcome.”
his eyes flicked to her face then, sharper for a second. “are you okay?”
there it was. the opening. small, but real.
léa could have said it. she could have told him that she missed him while he was sitting three feet away. that she felt selfish for needing anything from him when the championship was slipping through his fingers. that she was terrified the version of him who loved her fully had been another thing the season had taken.
but he looked so tired.
so she smiled.
“yeah. just sleepy.”
oscar nodded slowly, as if he didn’t quite believe her but didn’t have the energy to ask twice.
that night, he came to bed after midnight.
léa was awake, though she kept her eyes closed when the mattress dipped behind her. he moved carefully, trying not to disturb her, then slid an arm around her waist and pressed his face against her shoulder.
“missed you today,” he whispered.
her throat tightened.
she wanted to ask which part of him had missed her.
instead, she covered his hand with hers.
for a while, he held her like he meant it. like he was trying to remember the shape of something he was scared of losing. his thumb brushed slow circles over her stomach, his mouth warm against the side of her neck.
léa turned in his arms.
in the dark, oscar looked younger. less untouchable. the shadows softened the exhaustion beneath his eyes, but not enough.
“hi,” she said quietly.
his mouth curved, barely. “hi.”
then he kissed her.
it wasn’t desperate. that might have been easier. desperation had direction. this was gentler, almost painfully so, his hand at her cheek, his body moving closer with the care of someone handling glass.
léa kissed him back because she loved him. because she missed him. because for one foolish second, she thought maybe this was him coming home to her.
oscar touched her like he knew every place she wanted him.
and he did.
that was the problem.
he knew how to make her sigh. how to make her forget the questions sitting behind her teeth. how to make the room feel warm again.
but there was a moment, brief enough that she could have pretended it didn’t happen, where his eyes drifted past her face.
not closed.
not lost in her.
past her.
somewhere else.
inside oscar’s head, the thought came so quietly it felt like it had always been waiting there.
just keep her happy and she’ll stay.
the ugliness of it nearly made him stop.
he hated himself instantly. hated the calculation hidden inside something that was supposed to be love. hated that his mind, trained to solve, to measure, to prevent loss before it happened, had dragged her into that same cold place.
léa was not a strategy.
she was the girl who had sat beside him in borrowed hoodies while he studied race starts on an old laptop. the girl who had known him when winning still felt like a dream instead of an expectation. the girl his sisters asked for before they asked for him. the girl his mother hugged like family.
he loved her.
he loved her so much it terrified him, because lately love felt like another thing he could fail at.
so he kissed her harder, not with hunger, but with apology.
léa let him.
afterward, they lay close but not settled.
his hand rested on her hip. hers traced absent lines over his wrist. the room was quiet except for the air conditioning and the distant sound of traffic below.
oscar wanted to say something.
i’m sorry.
i’m scared.
i don’t know how to be yours and chase this without losing pieces of both.
but the words felt too large, and he was so tired of losing.
so he pressed a kiss to her shoulder and whispered, “i love you.”
léa stared at the ceiling.
“i love you too.”
she felt him relax at that, and the ache in her chest spread.
because he believed her.
because it was true.
because it hadn’t fixed anything.
in the morning, oscar woke before her.
or maybe léa only pretended to wake after him.
she heard him moving quietly through the room, gathering clothes, plugging in his phone, opening and closing drawers with the soft precision of someone trying not to disturb the life beside him.
when he leaned over the bed, she opened her eyes.
“morning,” he said.
his hair was messy. his voice was rough. for a second, he looked like the boy she’d fallen in love with.
“morning.”
he studied her face. “you okay?”
there it was again.
the little door.
léa could have walked through it.
instead, she reached up and fixed the collar of his shirt. “yeah. go train.”
his eyes searched hers for one second too long.
then he nodded.
“i’ll be back for lunch.”
“okay.”
he kissed her.
soft. familiar. almost enough.
when the front door closed, léa stayed still beneath the blankets, staring at the place he had been.
she wasn’t angry.
that would have been easier too.
anger gave you something to hold. something sharp. something honest.
this was worse.
this was loving someone who still came home, still kissed you, still remembered your coffee order, while some essential part of him stood just out of reach.
and maybe oscar was falling out of love.
or maybe he was drowning and didn’t know he had taken her under with him.
léa turned onto her side and pulled his pillow closer.
summary: maeve has built her life around the kind of choice that feels safe, certain, and easy to explain. on the day she is meant to promise herself to colin, she tries to hold onto the comfort of being loved clearly. but as the ceremony draws nearer, she begins to wonder whether peace can ever be enough when her heart still remembers the person it never stopped choosing.
contains: angst, friends to lovers, mutual pining, right person wrong time, emotional tension, almosts, unresolved feelings, hurt/comfort, bittersweet guilt
not a dramatic one, necessarily. not lightning splitting the sky or a song swelling at exactly the right second. just a moment. small, certain, private. the kind that settled inside a person quietly and said, there. that is him. that is the rest of your life.
she had waited for it with oscar for years.
she had waited through late-night calls that stretched too long to be casual. through hands brushing in crowded rooms and both of them pretending neither had noticed. through hotel corridors, airport lounges, dinners where he always sat close enough for her to feel the warmth of him but never close enough to call it something.
she had waited every time he looked at her like he was about to say something and swallowed it down.
eventually, waiting began to feel foolish.
hope became embarrassing.
and then colin arrived.
and he was easy to love.
that was what everyone had said, and it was true. he was kind in a way that never asked to be praised for it. he remembered things. he brought her coffee without being asked. he knew her mother’s favorite flowers and her father’s favorite bottle of wine. he held doors open, kissed her forehead in public, never made her guess what he felt.
he was stable.
he was safe.
handsome in that clean, golden sort of way, with a smile people trusted instantly. he had a good job, a good family, a good heart. when maeve had written silly lists as a teenager about the kind of man she might one day marry, colin would have ticked every box.
he loved her.
and she liked him. of course she did.
she liked the way he made life feel organized. she liked that there was no ache in it, no uncertainty, no endless analyzing of every glance and pause and almost. she liked that when he told her he loved her, he said it plainly, as if love was something people were meant to give instead of hide.
when he proposed, everyone said she was lucky.
maeve had smiled.
she had said yes.
and now she was standing in a quiet room at the back of a church, wearing white, holding flowers, trying not to feel like she had mistaken peace for happiness.
“you look beautiful,” her mother said, voice watery.
maeve looked at herself in the mirror.
beautiful. yes.
bridal. yes.
happy.
she looked harder, as if happiness might appear if she stared long enough.
behind her, two bridesmaids moved around the room in whispers and soft footsteps. someone adjusted the flowers. someone fixed the veil. someone laughed too brightly about the weather, about how lucky they were that the rain had held off, about how perfect everything was.
perfect.
that word had followed her all morning.
perfect dress. perfect flowers. perfect groom.
and yet her hands were cold.
not trembling. not visibly. maeve had spent years becoming good at hiding the things that mattered most. she knew how to smile when her chest was collapsing. she knew how to nod when someone said oscar’s name and pretend it did not pull something loose inside her. she knew how to sit across from him on double dates with colin’s hand resting over hers and laugh when lily said something clever, all while wondering whether oscar’s smile had always looked slightly forced or if she was imagining it because she needed to believe he felt something too.
lily had looked perfect beside him.
that had hurt most of all.
she was lovely. graceful in every room she entered, soft-spoken until she needed not to be. beside oscar, she made sense in a way maeve hated noticing. calm beside calm. steady beside steady. two people who looked like they had chosen each other with clear heads, while maeve had spent years hoping for something neither of them had been brave enough to name.
maeve had hated herself for noticing the way oscar looked at lily, trying to measure it against the way he looked at her.
she had hated herself even more for feeling relieved when she could not find the same thing.
“maeve?”
she blinked.
her mother was watching her in the mirror.
“are you ready?”
the answer should have been yes.
the answer sat in her throat like a stone.
maeve looked down at her bouquet.
colin was waiting.
colin, who had never made her feel stupid for wanting to be loved properly. colin, who had asked, clearly and bravely. colin, who had chosen her in front of everyone and never once made her wonder if she was too much.
she could build a good life with him.
maybe that was enough.
maybe fireworks were overrated. maybe the stomach-turning, heart-racing kind of love only looked beautiful from a distance. maybe being chosen, clearly and gently, was the thing she was supposed to want.
maybe oscar had only ever been a lesson in how long a person could want something that was never meant for them.
she forced herself to smile.
“yes,” she said. “i’m ready.”
across the city, oscar sat outside lily’s building with both hands on the steering wheel and the engine running.
he was early.
he was always early.
usually, being early made him feel in control. it gave him time to breathe, to think, to sort the world into something manageable before he stepped into it.
today, it made everything worse.
the invitation sat on the passenger seat.
maeve and colin.
he had read the names a hundred times since the envelope had arrived, as if the letters might rearrange themselves if he looked long enough. as if the universe might correct itself quietly before anyone got hurt.
it had not.
the church address was printed beneath their names in elegant black ink. beneath that, the time.
he checked the clock.
lily would come down any second.
oscar looked at the entrance of her building, then back at the invitation, then at his hands.
he had driven cars at over three hundred kilometers an hour. he had sat in cockpits with his pulse calm while the world blurred around him. he knew pressure. he knew how to make decisions when there was no time to think. he knew how to keep his hands steady when everything depended on it.
but the thought of watching maeve marry someone else made him feel like he had forgotten how to breathe.
the building door opened.
lily stepped out.
she looked beautiful.
that was the first terrible thing.
the second was that he felt nothing except guilt.
she walked toward the car with a small smile, one hand holding the skirt of her dress slightly above the pavement. when she opened the door and got in, the air filled with her perfume, light and familiar.
“hi,” she said.
“hi.”
she paused before reaching for her seatbelt.
oscar knew she noticed. lily noticed everything.
“you look pale,” she said gently.
“do i?”
“yes.”
he tried to laugh. it came out wrong.
lily’s smile faded.
“oscar.”
he closed his eyes.
there it was. his name in her voice, soft with understanding he did not deserve.
“i’m sorry,” he said.
lily did not move.
the words had arrived before he could arrange them properly, before he could make them kinder. he opened his eyes and looked at her, and whatever she saw on his face made her inhale slowly.
“it’s her,” she said.
oscar’s throat tightened.
he could have lied. a coward would have. some smaller, weaker version of him might have said no, might have driven to the church, might have sat beside lily while maeve walked down the aisle, might have clapped when she kissed colin, might have gone home and let the rest of his life become a punishment he had chosen for himself.
but he was so tired of silence.
“yes,” he said.
lily looked out the windshield.
for a moment, neither of them spoke.
the city moved around them. cars passed. somewhere nearby, someone laughed. the whole world continued as if nothing had ended inside the car.
“how long?” she asked.
oscar swallowed.
“too long.”
lily nodded once.
he hated that she did not look surprised.
“did you ever love me?”
the question broke something in him.
“i cared about you,” he said, voice rough. “i do care about you. you’re incredible, lily. and you deserved so much better than—”
“than only ever getting half of you?”
he flinched.
she did not say it cruelly. that made it worse.
“i didn’t want it to be like that,” he said. “i thought if i tried hard enough, if i did everything right, maybe it would become real in the way it should have been.”
lily turned back to him then, eyes shining.
“and did it?”
he shook his head. “no.”
the honesty sat between them, ugly and necessary.
lily looked down at her hands.
“i knew,” she whispered.
oscar stared at her.
“not at first,” she said. “but then we went to dinner with them, and i watched you watching her when she laughed at something colin said. it was like...” she pressed her lips together, searching. “it was like you were happy she was happy and dying from it at the same time.”
oscar looked away.
his vision blurred.
“i’m sorry.”
“i know.”
“you should hate me.”
“i’m angry,” lily said. “i’ll probably hate you tomorrow.”
that almost made him smile, but not quite.
she exhaled shakily.
“but today isn’t about me hating you.”
oscar turned back to her.
lily looked toward the church invitation on the seat between them.
“you don’t get to make me your almost,” she said quietly. “and you don’t get to make her one either.”
his heart stopped.
“lily—”
“do you love her?”
he nodded.
“say it.”
“i love her.”
the words left him and changed the air.
so simple.
so late.
lily closed her eyes for one second, then opened them again.
“then don’t sit in that church and let her marry someone else because you were too afraid to be honest.”
“she might not feel the same.”
“maybe not.”
“she might hate me.”
“probably.”
“colin—”
“colin deserves the truth too.”
that hit harder than anything.
oscar covered his face with one hand.
“what am i supposed to do? walk in there and ruin her wedding?”
lily gave a sad, humorless laugh.
“you already ruined this car ride, so you might as well commit.”
he looked at her, and for the first time that morning, something like breath came back into his lungs.
lily unbuckled her seatbelt.
she opened the door, then paused.
“oscar?”
“yeah?”
she looked at him one last time.
“be brave enough to give her the choice. not just the confession. the choice.”
then she stepped out and closed the door.
oscar sat frozen for two seconds.
three.
then he grabbed the invitation, checked the time again, and swore under his breath.
for once, he was late.
the church was full by the time maeve reached the aisle.
everyone stood.
she saw faces turn toward her, smiles blooming, phones lifting discreetly before being lowered again. flowers lined the pews. sunlight fell through stained glass in soft colors, painting the floor in pieces of blue and gold. somewhere near the front, someone sniffled.
then she saw colin.
he was smiling.
nervous, sweet, open. everything about him was exactly as it should have been. he looked at her like she was his answer.
maeve’s chest tightened.
she walked toward him because that was what brides did.
step by step, closer to the life she had chosen.
or the life she had accepted.
she tried not to look for oscar.
she failed before she reached the second row.
he was not there.
for one devastating second, disappointment moved through her so sharply she almost missed a step.
she reached colin.
he took her hand.
his palm was warm.
“hi,” he whispered.
maeve smiled because he deserved that.
“hi.”
“you look...” he blinked quickly. “wow.”
a real laugh escaped her, small and watery.
for a second, she thought maybe she could do this.
colin was real. colin was here. colin loved her loudly enough that she never had to wonder. maybe love did not have to feel like falling. maybe it could feel like being caught.
the ceremony began.
the officiant spoke about devotion. about partnership. about the kind of love that did not survive on feeling alone, but on the decision to return to someone every day, even when life made it difficult.
maeve listened with her hand in colin’s, feeling his thumb brush gently over her knuckles.
it should have comforted her.
instead, every word seemed to press against the hollow place beneath her ribs.
colin was steady beside her. warm. certain. his hand held hers like there was no question left in the world.
and maybe, for him, there wasn’t.
maeve tried to keep her eyes forward.
she really did.
but before she could stop herself, her gaze drifted toward the doors at the back of the church.
still closed.
of course they were.
shame moved through her so quickly she almost flinched.
she turned back to colin before anyone could notice, but the damage had already been done. because she had looked. because some quiet, foolish part of her had still expected the impossible.
the officiant smiled.
“before we come to the vows, i’d like to say that marriage is not only a promise, but an act of honesty. it is two people standing before the world with nothing hidden. only the full and willing choice to belong to each other.”
maeve felt her throat close.
colin squeezed her hand.
she looked at him.
he looked happy.
he looked certain.
and suddenly, terribly, she understood that certainty was a kind of mercy she had never been able to give him.
the officiant continued, “colin, maeve, today you come before your family and friends to join your lives together. if anyone here has reason why these two should not be married—”
a strange sound echoed from outside the chapel.
just enough for a few heads to turn.
the officiant paused, then smiled politely and continued.
“—they should speak now, or forever hold their peace.”
the words hung in the air.
a beat passed.
nothing happened.
of course nothing happened.
the officiant turned the page.
“then we will continue with the vows.”
colin faced her fully, both of his hands holding hers now.
“maeve,” he began, voice trembling just enough to make people smile. “from the moment i met you, i knew—”
the doors burst open.
“stop!”
the word ripped through the church.
everyone turned.
maeve’s heart slammed so hard it hurt.
“stop! stop!!”
oscar stood at the back of the aisle.
he was breathing hard, one hand braced against the open door like he had run the last stretch. his tie was loose. his hair was a mess. his suit jacket hung open, and his eyes found maeve with the kind of panic she had never seen on him before.
oscar piastri, who was always calm, who never made scenes, who had spent years making silence look like self-control.
standing in the back of her wedding, yelling for it to stop.
the church went completely still.
maeve forgot how to breathe.
colin’s hands tightened around hers.
“oscar?” someone whispered.
oscar stepped into the aisle.
“i’m sorry,” he said, voice rough and too loud in the
silence. “i’m sorry. i know this is—i know this is awful. i know.”
the officiant looked stunned.
colin stared at him, color draining from his face.
maeve could not move.
oscar took another step, then stopped, as if coming closer without permission would be another kind of cruelty.
his eyes stayed on her.
“i know i have no right to be here,” he said. “i should have
said this yesterday. last month. last year. any day before this.”
his eyes flickered to colin, then back to her.
“any day before you were standing here with someone who was brave enough to choose you properly.”
colin swallowed.
oscar looked at him then.
“and you are good,” he said, voice breaking slightly.
“that’s the worst part. you’re good to her. you love her. and i am so sorry for doing this to you.”
the silence trembled.
maeve’s eyes filled.
oscar looked back at her, and every careful wall between
them seemed to collapse at once.
“but i can’t let you marry him thinking my silence meant i
didn’t love you.”
maeve’s bouquet slipped lower in her hands.
a soft gasp moved through the church.
oscar inhaled, shaky and visible.
“i did,” he said. “i do.”
maeve’s lips parted.
he laughed once, but there was no humor in it. only disbelief at himself, at the years wasted, at the disaster of finally telling the truth in front of a hundred people and god.
“i love you, maeve.”
a tear slipped down her cheek.
colin’s fingers went still around hers.
“i have loved you for so long that i don’t remember what it felt like before,” oscar said. “when we were just friends. when you fell asleep on my shoulder on that flight from melbourne and i sat there for three hours afraid to move because i didn’t want it to end.”
a faint, broken sound left maeve.
oscar’s face crumpled for half a second before he pulled
himself together.
“i loved you every time you laughed across a room and i
looked for you before i remembered i wasn’t supposed to. every time your hand brushed mine and i spent the rest of the night thinking about it like an idiot.”
he swallowed hard.
“i thought silence was safer. i thought if you wanted me,
you would say something. and when you didn’t, i told myself that meant you couldn’t.”
maeve shook her head once, barely.
oscar saw it.
his eyes sharpened, bright with pain.
“and then colin came along,” he continued. “and he did what i should have done. he chose you. openly. properly. he didn’t make you guess. he didn’t make you wait. and i tried to be happy for you because you deserved that. you deserved someone who wasn’t afraid.”
colin looked down.
maeve could feel him beginning to understand. maybe he had understood before oscar even spoke. maybe love made people aware of the spaces they could not reach.
“i tried to move on too,” oscar said. “with lily. and she
was wonderful. she is wonderful. she deserved someone who could love her completely, and i couldn’t. because every time i imagined my future, no matter how hard i tried to be decent, you were there. somewhere. always.”
oscar stood in the aisle, completely undone.
“i am not here to take you from him,” he said. “i’m not here because i think i deserve you. i probably don’t. i know this is selfish and messy, and if you tell me to leave, i will. i swear i will walk out of here and never ask you again.”
his voice cracked.
“but i had to give you the truth before you gave your forever to someone else.”
maeve could not stop crying now.
oscar’s eyes searched her face.
“if you love him,” he said, “marry him. if this is the life
you want, i’ll go. i won’t make this harder than i already have.”
his voice broke.
“but i couldn’t let you choose without knowing.”
that broke something open.
for a moment, maeve could only stand there.
she looked at her mother first, already crying with one hand pressed to her mouth. then her father, pale and still beside her. then the rows of familiar faces staring back at her with wide eyes and parted lips. her friends. oscar’s family. his mother. his sisters. everyone who had come expecting to witness a promise and had instead watched the truth arrive too late.
then she looked at colin.
and the guilt nearly took her apart.
he was crying too.
quietly.
not dramatically. not angrily. just with the horrible dignity of someone realizing the life he had been reaching for had never fully belonged to him.
“colin,” she whispered.
he looked at her.
for a second, she saw everything he had been to her. his kindness. his patience. his steady hand. every dinner, every walk, every ordinary morning he had offered her like a promise.
he deserved better than half of her heart.
he deserved someone who heard his vows and did not think of another man’s silence.
colin’s mouth trembled.
“were you ever going to tell me?” he asked.
maeve opened her mouth, but nothing came out.
colin’s face changed then. not with surprise. with understanding.
“it’s him,” he said.
it was not a question.
maeve cried harder.
“i’m sorry.”
the words were almost too small to hear.
colin closed his eyes. for a second, his hands tightened around hers, as if some part of him still wanted to hold on even after the rest of him had understood.
then, slowly, he let go.
maeve felt the absence immediately.
“i think part of me knew,” he said. his voice broke around it. “i just kept hoping i was wrong.”
she looked at him, broken with gratitude and guilt and grief.
colin looked over her shoulder at oscar.
for a moment, the two men simply stared at each other.
then colin said, voice rough, “don’t make her regret this.”
oscar’s face shifted.
“i won’t.”
colin gave a small, devastated nod.
maeve turned back toward the aisle.
oscar had not moved.
he was waiting.
even now, after everything, he was letting her choose.
the room seemed to hold its breath.
maeve looked at him through tears, and for one suspended second, all the years between them folded in on themselves. every almost. every silence. every night she had gone home and told herself to stop imagining things. every time he had looked away first because wanting her felt like standing too close to an edge.
she took one step.
then another.
a murmur moved through the guests.
someone said her name.
someone gasped.
maeve barely heard any of it.
oscar’s eyes widened, like he still could not believe she was coming toward him.
she stopped just short of him, close enough to see the panic still caught in his face. for one second, neither of them moved.
then maeve stepped into him, and oscar caught her like he had been afraid she might disappear before he got the chance.
for a second, neither spoke.
his arms closed around her carefully, almost disbelievingly.
maeve pressed her face against his chest and sobbed.
“you idiot,” she whispered.
a broken laugh escaped him.
“yeah.”
she pulled back enough to look at him, tears streaking her face.
and then she laughed.
it came out tangled with a sob, half-hysterical and entirely real. oscar looked at her like that sound alone had saved him.
behind them, the church was still full of people, still full of shock, still full of the life maeve had almost chosen because the one she wanted had seemed impossible.
then oscar took her hand.
not pulling. not demanding.
offering.
maeve looked down at their joined hands.
how many times had she imagined this?
how many times had she convinced herself she was ridiculous for wanting something as small as his hand in hers?
oscar’s thumb brushed over her knuckles.
“come with me?” he asked, barely audible. then, quickly, like he needed her to understand, “only if you want to.”
maeve looked back once.
colin stood at the altar, alone. the sight tore through her, and she knew she would carry that guilt. love did not erase the damage done in reaching for it.
but colin met her eyes.
and somehow, impossibly, he nodded.
go.
so she did.
with oscar’s hand in hers and the whole church holding its breath behind them, maeve walked back down the aisle.
not untouched by what she was leaving behind.
not free from the hurt of it.
but certain.
this time, she was not choosing the safest shot.
she was choosing the one her heart had never stopped reaching for.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
summary: on his birthday morning, oscar wakes up to a sweet surprise from blake and their two boys, who have turned their home into a warm, handmade celebration full of love. what starts as a tender family moment quickly becomes something even more meaningful.
oscar wakes up slowly, warm and heavy with sleep, one arm reaching across the bed before he’s even fully conscious.
empty.
his eyes blink open to soft morning light spilling through the curtains, the other side of the bed cool enough to tell him blake’s been up for a while. for a second he just lies there, listening. the house is quiet, but not fully. there’s something underneath the silence—small whispers, a muffled laugh, the faint clatter of dishes from downstairs.
a smile pulls at his mouth before he’s even sat up.
he runs a hand over his face, pushes himself out of bed, and pulls on a t-shirt before padding barefoot into the hallway. the house feels different somehow. warmer. alive.
and then he gets to the stairs.
there are little paper stars taped along the banister, clearly done by tiny hands with very little patience and far too much tape. one of them is hanging half-off, tilted sideways. oscar shakes his head, smiling to himself as he makes his way down, already feeling something soft settle in his chest.
the second he rounds the corner into the kitchen and living room, he just stops.
the whole room is decorated.
nothing fancy, nothing over the top—just perfect.
there are streamers hanging unevenly across the ceiling, blue and white balloons tied to chairs, and a handmade banner stretched over the wall with happy birthday daddy written across it in colorful letters. there are drawings hanging everywhere, clipped to string and taped to walls. some are just scribbles of color, some have what are very obviously meant to be him—stick legs, giant smile. one of them has an f1 race car beside him with crooked wheels and impossible proportions, and for some reason that nearly undoes him more than anything else. another has four lopsided figures holding hands.
his throat goes tight immediately.
on the kitchen island there’s breakfast already set out, pancakes and fruit and coffee, and beside it—
a cake.
homemade, slightly crooked, covered in way too much frosting and sprinkles dumped in one spot like someone got excited and forgot to stop.
it’s the most beautiful thing he’s ever seen.
and before he can even say anything—
“daddy!”
the sound comes in two different voices, one louder and clearer, the other still baby-soft and a little garbled, and then cody and milo come flying at him from the living room like tiny missiles.
“whoa—” oscar barely gets the word out before cody crashes into his waist and milo follows a second later, both boys laughing so hard it turns into squealing.
he stumbles back a step, grinning now, and drops into a crouch automatically so he can catch them properly.
“happy birthday, daddy!” cody says again, gripping his shoulders with all the seriousness a four-year-old can manage. “we made you stuff.”
“stuff,” milo echoes proudly, though it comes out more like tuff.
“i can see that,” oscar says, voice already rough. he pulls them both close, one arm around each of them, pressing kisses into their hair. “this is amazing. did you boys do all this?”
“i helped make cake,” cody says.
“i sprinkled,” milo adds.
“did you?”
milo nods like he personally handled the entire operation.
oscar huffs out a quiet breath and looks up then, and that’s when he sees her.
blake is standing a few feet away by the counter, watching them with that soft, impossible smile that still gets him every single time. she’s wearing one of his old shirts, hair a little messy like she didn’t have time to fix it, and she looks so beautiful it nearly knocks the breath out of him.
she’s been up doing all this while he slept.
making breakfast, hanging decorations, helping the boys with their drawings, baking that cake.
for him.
cody and milo finally squirm loose enough for him to stand, though both of them stay attached to his legs as he walks toward her. blake’s smile turns shy when he gets close, like she’s suddenly unsure whether he likes it, which is insane because he thinks his heart might actually burst.
“hi,” she says softly.
he just looks at her for a second. “you did all this?”
“with some very professional assistance,” she says, glancing down at the boys.
“very professional,” cody repeats.
oscar’s expression breaks into something helpless and full, and then he reaches for her, hands settling at her waist and pulling her in. she goes easily, arms sliding around his neck, and when he bends his head to kiss her it’s slow and full and grateful in a way he can’t put into words.
she smiles against his mouth.
“happy birthday, my love,” she murmurs, the words warm and quiet, breathed right against his lips.
something in him just completely gives.
he kisses her again, gentler this time, forehead resting against hers afterward while the boys weave around their legs and keep talking over each other about pancakes and candles and how daddy has to see all the pictures because one of them has a dinosaur in it too.
oscar closes his eyes for a second and lets himself feel it.
the warmth of her.
the noise of their boys.
the smell of coffee and sugar.
the sight of their little home covered in love from floor to ceiling.
he genuinely doesn’t think he could be happier than this.
“c’mere,” blake says after a moment, slipping from his arms just enough to take his hand. there’s something in her voice that makes him look at her properly.
she looks nervous. not unhappy, not scared—just emotional, like she’s trying to hold something delicate without breaking it.
oscar’s smile softens. “what?”
“i have one more surprise.”
cody gasps dramatically, because of course he does. “another one?”
blake glances at him with a small smile, but her eyes stay fixed on oscar. “yeah. another one.”
she reaches behind her and picks up something small from the counter.
“open it.”
he frowns a little, taking it from her. the boys crowd instantly against his knees, trying to see. oscar flips it over in his hand, then looks back at blake once before opening it.
inside is a pregnancy test.
for a second, his brain doesn’t catch up.
he just stares at it.
then he sees the result.
positive.
he goes completely still.
the room, the noise, everything around him blurs out at the edges. he lifts his eyes to hers so fast it almost hurts.
blake is already crying a little, lips trembling into a smile.
“surprise,” she whispers.
oscar just looks at her.
then at the test.
then back at her.
“blake…”
his voice breaks on her name.
she lets out a watery breath. “i found out a few days ago. i wanted to wait until today.”
he blinks hard, and suddenly his own vision goes blurry. “you’re serious?”
she nods, crying and smiling all at once. “yeah. i’m serious.”
he makes this strangled sound that’s halfway between a laugh and a sob, then reaches for her so fast she barely has time to react before he’s pulling her into him. one hand cups the back of her head, the other closes tight around the test as he buries his face in her shoulder.
“oh my god,” he says, voice muffled. “oh my god.”
the boys are both staring up at them now, confused but deeply interested by the tears.
“mama?” cody asks carefully. “why are you crying?”
blake pulls back just enough to look at them, wiping under her eyes with the heel of her hand. oscar still has one arm around her, like letting go might make any of this less real.
she crouches down so she’s eye level with them and smiles in that shaky, glowing way.
“because,” she says, glancing once at oscar before looking back at their sons, “you’re going to be big brothers.”
there’s a beat of silence.
cody’s eyes go huge. “a real baby?”
“a real baby,” oscar says, and he can’t stop smiling now, even though tears are slipping down his face and he’s not even trying to hide it.
milo just blinks. “baby?”
blake nods. “baby.”
milo grins instantly because he clearly doesn’t fully understand but knows this is good news. “baby!” he yells, clapping for himself.
cody, on the other hand, processes it for exactly two seconds before jumping up and down. “there’s a baby in mama’s tummy? right now? can i tell everyone? can i show the baby my cars? what if it’s a girl? what if it’s another milo?”
oscar bends a little, one hand over his mouth, overcome all over again. blake is smiling through tears beside him.
“one question at a time, mate,” he says.
cody ignores that completely and launches himself at oscar again, and milo follows because that’s what he does, and suddenly they’re all tangled together in the middle of the kitchen, talking over each other and holding on too tightly.
oscar somehow ends up with one son on each side and blake in front of him, his arm wrapped around her waist, his hand spread gently over her stomach almost without thinking.
she looks up at him.
he looks back at her, stunned all over again.
his forehead drops to hers, a disbelieving smile on his face.
“best birthday ever,” he says.
because this morning had already felt like more than he deserved. waking up in a home filled with love, with two little boys who adore him, with a wife who knows exactly how to make ordinary things feel sacred. he had thought the drawings and the cake and their tiny voices yelling happy birthday daddy were enough to carry in his chest for the rest of his life.
and now this.
another baby.
another little piece of them.
another future he gets to have with her.
he rests his hand over hers on her stomach and just looks at her for a moment, like he still can’t quite believe she’s real.
the room is messy with streamers and frosting and breakfast plates.
the boys are still loud.
the coffee’s probably gone cold.
and none of it has ever looked more perfect to him.
oscar smiles, swiping quickly at his face. “before breakfast?”
“it’s your birthday,” blake says, like that answers everything.
and honestly, it does.
so he picks milo up, takes cody’s hand, and leans over to kiss blake one more time, unable to stop smiling against her mouth.
surrounded by balloons and badly taped stars and little drawings made with chubby hands, with his family wrapped around him and a new secret growing quietly into their lives, oscar realizes that happiness doesn’t always arrive in huge, dramatic moments.
sometimes it looks like this.
a homemade cake.
sticky little hands.
his wife’s mouth against his.
then he looks at blake, at their boys, at the life they’ve made together, and thinks, with complete certainty—
he has never been more loved than he is right now.
summary: jade has spent too long wanting oscar in all the ways she shouldn’t, caught in something secret, consuming, and impossible to end cleanly. around them, everything keeps moving as it should — parties, late nights, familiar faces, lives that still make sense from the outside — while beneath it all, what exists between them keeps slipping past the point of desire and into something far more dangerous.
or maybe she does. maybe the problem is that there were too many beginnings, too many nights she could point to and call the first real mistake.
the first time, she cried in the shower after.
the second time, she stood in his doorway with her coat still on and told him this couldn’t happen again while he looked at her with that still, unreadable face, like he already knew she was lying.
the third time, she stopped pretending she didn’t want it.
after that, it got harder to separate the guilt from the wanting, harder to tell where the shame ended and the need began. every time it happened, jade would swear it was done. every time she would mean it for at least an hour. sometimes even a day.
then oscar would look at her too long in some crowded room, or brush past her in a hallway, or send a text that said nothing and everything at once, and she would feel the whole doomed thing rise up in her chest again.
what made it worse was never just the wanting.
it was everything smaller than that.
he remembered things she said when everyone else had already moved on. he asked questions and actually waited for the answer. he looked at her like he was always listening, even when she wasn’t speaking.
and then sometimes he would touch her — secret and brief. the pressure of his hand at the small of her back as he passed behind her. fingers grazing her wrist under the table. his knee pressing once against hers in the dark corner of a booth while lily laughed at something across the room.
those were the moments jade hated most.
not because they were the worst of it, but because they were almost tender.
jade knew lily only through proximity, through parties and race weekends and dinners that became familiar by accident, the kind of invitations jade ended up at because alex was there, and over time rebecca and kika had folded into that same part of her life so naturally it stopped feeling separate. they’d become real too, part of the same blur of plans and flights and summer dinners, women who may or may not have known more than they let on. lily would appear beside oscar like she belonged there because she did, and jade would feel something ugly curdle under her ribs before smoothing her face into something easy and unbothered. the girls noticed. of course they did.
that night, the party was at a house high enough over the city that the windows looked black instead of clear. music throbbed through the walls, low and expensive, the kind of bass that sat under your skin and made you feel warmer than you were. there were too many candles, too many people, too much gold light catching on glasses and jewelry and the gleam of polished floors.
jade was in the kitchen with alex and rebecca, half listening as alex complained about something charles had said earlier and rebecca tried to defend carlos by bringing up a disaster of a vacation they’d all laughed about for months. jade had a drink in her hand she barely wanted. she felt him before she saw him.
it was ridiculous, how her body always knew.
she looked up without meaning to and found oscar across the room.
he was standing beside lily, one hand wrapped around a drink, his shoulders loose, expression calm in the way it always was in public. lily was saying something to him, smiling, her fingers curled around his forearm like she’d done it a hundred times before. he lowered his head to hear her better, and something in jade turned dark and bitter and tired all at once.
he looked like he belonged to her.
that was the lie, or part of it.
because jade knew he wanted her. she knew that too well. the lie was thinking any of this could go on forever — that oscar could keep reaching for jade in the dark and still go home to lily in the light without losing something.
“you’re quiet tonight,” alex said.
jade reached for her glass. “just tired.”
alex looked at her for a second too long, like she knew better, but didn’t push. rebecca only tipped her head toward the living room, where half the room had started drifting back toward the music.
“come on,” she said. “if we stay in this kitchen any longer, i’m letting carlos drag me into whatever terrible conversation he’s having out there.”
jade let out something close to a laugh and followed them.
she looked back up, and oscar was already watching her.
there it was. that awful stillness in his face. no smile, no obvious recognition, nothing anyone else could read into. just his eyes on her for one second too long.
then lily touched his shoulder and he looked away.
jade finished her drink too quickly.
the problem with secrets, she had learned, was that eventually they stopped feeling sharp. they stopped feeling like a line you were crossing and started feeling like a room you lived in. she had been in this one for so long now that she knew exactly where to stand, how long to look, how close she could get without anyone else noticing the charge that kept tightening between them.
later, she passed him in the hallway.
it happened so fast it would have looked accidental to anyone else. the crowd pressed too close, the corridor narrow, people moving around them without paying attention. oscar shifted to let someone by and jade found herself brushing past him, her bare arm against the sleeve of his jacket.
he didn’t stop walking.
didn’t touch her.
just said, low enough that only she could hear, “what are you doing later?”
jade kept her eyes forward. “why?”
“because i need to know.”
her pulse skipped, vicious and immediate. “you never need to know anything.”
“jade.”
the sound of her name in his mouth did something terrible to her.
she turned then, just slightly, enough to catch the cut of his jaw, the calm expression that would have fooled anyone who didn’t know him.
“go back to your girlfriend,” she said.
his eyes darkened. “that’s not an answer.”
jade forced herself to keep walking.
for the next hour she stayed close to alex and rebecca on purpose, let them pull her into conversations, let herself get trapped on a sofa between people she barely knew, let time drag itself forward while the heat under her skin grew meaner and more restless.
when she saw lily again, it was near midnight.
she looked tired in that soft, expensive way some women did, her makeup still perfect, her smile a little slower now. she had one hand looped around oscar’s wrist and was saying something to him with her head tilted, and jade knew before it happened what was coming next.
a few minutes later, lily said, “will you take me home?”
oscar leaned down to catch the words, a tiny shift in his face before he nodded.
of course he did.
of course he took her home.
the ugliness of it sat heavy and alive inside jade’s chest.
alex wanted to stay longer. rebecca wanted food. jade said she had a headache and kissed them both goodbye in the foyer. outside, the night air felt cooler than it should have. she stood on the pavement waiting for her car, heels in one hand, the city glittering around her like it had nothing to do with any of this.
she should have gone home and turned off her phone.
instead she kept checking it the whole ride back.
nothing.
of course not.
oscar would do the right thing first. that was always how it went. he would take lily home, finish the respectable part of the night, and only then decide what to do with the rest of himself.
jade hated that she knew it.
she hated even more that she still waited for it.
at home, she dropped her bag by the door and went straight to the kitchen for water. the apartment was dark except for the under-cabinet lights she’d left on that morning. everything looked too clean, too untouched, like it belonged to someone who slept better than she did.
her phone buzzed against the counter.
where are you?
jade stared at the screen so long it dimmed in her hand.
home, she typed back. why?
the reply came immediately.
omw
she read it once.
then again.
something hot and hopeless unfurled in the pit of her stomach.
don’t come, she typed.
she deleted it.
instead she set the phone face down on the counter and stood there in the quiet with both hands gripping the stone edge until her knuckles hurt.
when the knock finally came, she closed her eyes before going to open the door.
oscar stood in the hallway with his jacket unbuttoned, hair slightly disordered, his expression flattened into something stripped-down and dangerous. not angry. not soft either.
for a moment neither of them spoke.
then jade said, “you shouldn’t be here.”
he looked at her like the words changed nothing. “move.”
it should have offended her. it should have made her slam the door in his face.
instead that same old heat moved through her, fast and hopeless.
“oscar—”
“move, jade.”
his voice was low, roughened at the edges in a way that made her stomach tighten.
she stepped aside.
the door shut behind him with a quiet click that sounded final in a way it wasn’t.
for a few seconds, neither of them moved.
he took a step toward her. she should have backed away. she didn’t.
they stood there in the half-dark, too close already, all the space between them poisoned with memory. jade could smell his cologne, faint now under clean night air and something warmer, something unmistakably him. he looked tired. wound tight. like the whole drive over had been one long argument with himself he had lost on purpose.
“did she ask where you were going?” jade asked.
his jaw shifted.
that was answer enough.
her chest twisted with something cruel and stupidly fragile. “god, oscar.”
he reached for her then, one hand closing around her waist, not gentle, not careful, just certain. jade’s breath caught. the other hand came up to her jaw, thumb pressing under her chin until she was forced to look at him properly.
“tell me to leave,” he said.
she stared at him.
his voice dropped lower. “and mean it.”
that was the problem. he knew she couldn’t.
jade’s hands found his shirt without permission, fists curling in the fabric. “you always do this.”
“do what?”
“make me feel like i’m the one choosing.”
his mouth was very close now. “you are.”
then he kissed her, and every thought she’d had about dignity or endings or how sick this all was went dark and distant in an instant.
he kissed like a man who had been holding himself together for too many hours and had finally run out of patience for it. his hand tightened at her waist, pulling her closer until her body answered his without thought, until she was pressed against him and already losing. jade made a small, helpless sound against his mouth and hated herself for it, hated how quickly she went soft and feverish for him, how easy it was to stop being anything but want.
they stumbled down the hallway and into her bedroom still clutching at each other, kissing with all the frustration they were never brave enough to speak in daylight. it was never sweet when they were like this. never slow at first. it was anger and relief and the ugly comfort of finally not having to pretend.
but sometimes it changed. sometimes the frenzy burned off and left something slower behind, painfully clear. the desperation softened into something quieter, something worse. he would touch her like he was trying to memorize instead of take, and jade would feel the whole thing shift into something almost unbearable — not just hunger, not just release, but need in its most dangerous form. that was what undid her every time. not that he wanted her, but that sometimes, in the dark, he held her like he loved her.
later, the room smelled like sweat and heat and the faint trace of his cologne sinking into her sheets.
jade lay tangled in the wreckage of the bed, her pulse still uneven, one arm thrown over her eyes because she couldn’t bear the ceiling, couldn’t bear him, couldn’t bear herself. oscar was beside her, breathing slower now, one hand resting heavy and careless over her thigh like it had every right to be there.
that was always the second trap.
the first was the wanting.
the second was the quiet afterward.
because after, oscar became harder to hate. too easy to imagine loving in ways that had nothing to do with bodies in dark rooms. he would lie there beside her and ask things in that low, unguarded voice he never used anywhere else — about her childhood, about what she wanted, about the scar near her hip. after, he made it feel like they were the only two honest people in the world.
which was almost funny.
jade moved her arm and looked at him. his hair was a mess now, his mouth redder than before, one shoulder bare above the sheet. beautiful in a way that made anger hard to hold onto.
she hated him a little for that too.
“say something,” he murmured.
“why?”
“because you go quiet when you’re thinking things i won’t like.”
jade turned onto her side. “maybe that should worry you more.”
he looked at her for a long second. “it does.”
the tenderness of that nearly made her cruel.
instead she said, “i can’t do this anymore.”
he didn’t react at first. maybe because he had heard versions of it before. maybe because she had whispered those same words into his mouth, against his throat, with his name still on her lips and no intention of keeping them.
jade saw the moment he understood she meant it.
his hand left her thigh.
“jade—”
“don’t.” her voice came out quieter than she wanted. “please don’t ruin this part too.”
his expression hardened slightly. “ruin what?”
“the only honest moment we ever get.”
his eyes snapped to hers.
the room had changed. all the heat still there, but turned sour somehow.
jade swallowed past the ache in her throat. “i love you.”
silence.
she saw it land.
saw the way it hollowed him out for one terrible, perfect second.
“and i’m done letting that make me stupid,” she said.
“jade—”
“no.” her voice sharpened. “you don’t get to talk yet. i have let you have every silent, selfish version of this. every look across a room, every text after midnight, every stolen hour after you’ve already done the decent thing and taken her home like the man everyone expects you to be. you don’t get this too.”
he stared at her, still and stricken, and some vicious part of jade was glad.
“there’s a reason you never left her,” she said, forcing each word out carefully so she wouldn’t cry through them. “maybe it’s because you love her. maybe it’s because she fits the life you were supposed to want. maybe it’s because with her you get to stay good, or close enough to it.” jade shook her head. “i don’t know. i don’t even care anymore. what matters is that whatever the reason is, it has always been bigger than me.”
“that’s not true.”
“isn’t it?”
he opened his mouth.
nothing came out.
jade looked at him and felt something in her finally give way for good.
“exactly,” she whispered.
she got out of bed and started pulling on her clothes with shaking hands. her body still ached from him, which only made the whole thing feel uglier. there was a bruise blooming dark on her hip, one she knew she would touch in the shower tomorrow like pressing on it could explain why it hurt.
behind her, oscar said, “you think i don’t know what this is?”
jade dragged her dress over her head and turned.
“i think you know,” she said. “i just think knowing was never enough to make you choose.”
his face changed.
there it was — the truth landing hard enough to show.
she nearly lost her nerve then, seeing it. because she did love him. god, she loved him. loved him in the worst way, the humiliating way, the way that made her want to go to him even now and put her hands on his face and tell him she didn’t mean any of it.
but she did.
that was the tragedy.
“i can’t be the person you come to in secret and never choose in daylight,” jade said. her mouth trembled. “i can’t keep sleeping with a man who goes home to someone else and comes here like i’m supposed to be enough.”
for once, oscar had no quick answer. no steadying line. no half-truth polished enough to get them through another week.
he just looked at her like he was seeing the edges of the room for the first time.
jade grabbed the sheet from the bed and wrapped it around herself like armor. “go home.”
“jade.”
“go home.”
he stood slowly and reached for his clothes. the room was so quiet jade could hear every shift of fabric, every step against the floorboards, the uneven sound of her own breathing. when he was dressed, he looked at her again.
“i’m not gonna say anything now,” he said, “because you’ll think it’s only because you backed me into it.”
jade held his gaze. “didn’t i?”
he was quiet for a moment.
when he finally spoke, his voice was lower. rougher.
“maybe you should’ve done it sooner.”
for a second, she almost gave in. almost crossed the room, took it back, chose the version of this that hurt in all the ways she already knew.
instead, she went to the bedroom door and pulled it open.
oscar looked at her for a moment, then walked past without touching her.
he stopped at the front door.
“i know what i want,” he said.
jade tightened her hand around the frame.
he kept his back to her. “i always did.”
something in her chest pulled tight.
“then maybe,” she said, “you should’ve acted like it.”
and then he left.
this time, he didn’t come back.
not the next night. not the next week. not at two in the morning with rain on his jacket and need in his voice. not even after jade heard, through the sideways cruelty of mutual circles, that he and lily were done.
they broke up quietly, which somehow felt worse than if it had exploded. there was no scene for jade to hate, no final dramatic proof that everything had burned the way it should have. just an ending. long delayed. real nonetheless.
and still oscar stayed gone.
at first jade told herself it was simple. that he had finally decided. that lily had been the real thing and jade had only been what men reached for when they wanted to ruin something beautiful without having to admit it in daylight.
then weeks passed. then months.
and the silence became something else.
it stopped feeling like abandonment and started feeling almost like restraint.
like he had understood, at last, that wanting her did not give him the right to appear at her door just because the rest of his life had fallen apart.
that thought was not comforting.
it was worse.
because it meant he might actually be changing, and jade didn’t know what to do with the hope that lit under her skin at that possibility. hope was more dangerous than lust had ever been. lust was simple. hope made room for futures.
she saw him again in november.
it was late afternoon, cold enough that everyone on the street kept one hand tucked into a coat pocket. jade had gone into a café she liked only because the one she meant to go to was full. she stood at the counter waiting for her coffee, half-reading a text from alex, when she turned and found him at a table by the window.
for one suspended second, neither of them moved.
oscar looked thinner somehow. not physically, maybe, but around the face. less polished. as if being alone had worn him down to whatever in him wasn’t performance.
he didn’t stand up.
didn’t smile like he had any right to.
he just looked at her.
jade took her coffee when her name was called. she could have walked out. she wanted to, for exactly three seconds.
then she crossed the room and stopped beside his table.
“hi,” she said.
his eyes lifted properly to hers.
“hi.”
the word sat between them, fragile and almost ridiculous after everything.
jade glanced at the chair opposite him. “is anyone sitting there?”
“no.”
“good.”
she sat before she could change her mind.
oscar looked stunned by that for half a second, then careful again. always careful now, apparently. it was so unlike him that it set her on edge more than arrogance would have.
neither of them spoke at first.
then jade said, “i heard about you and lily.”
he nodded once. “yeah.”
“you didn’t call.”
“no.”
the answer was so direct it irritated her.
“why?”
he held her gaze. “because if i’d called then, it would’ve been about me feeling alone. not about what was fair to you.”
jade frowned. “so that was it? you just disappeared?”
his jaw shifted slightly. “no.”
she waited.
“i came here.”
her expression changed. “what?”
oscar glanced down at his coffee, then back at her. “not every day,” he said. “i’m not insane. just... often enough.”
jade stared at him.
“you used to come here a lot,” he said. “i remembered that.”
something tight pulled through her chest. “you were waiting for me?”
“i was leaving it up to you,” he said quietly. “if you saw me and kept walking, that was my answer.” he paused. “i didn’t want the first move to be me showing up because i needed something.”
jade went still.
the café hummed softly around them, milk steaming behind the counter, cups clinking, somebody laughing too loudly two tables away. ordinary life, carrying on around a moment that felt like a held breath.
oscar folded his hands once on the table, like he needed something to do with them. “you were right that night.”
jade looked down at her coffee. “about what?”
“about how i kept taking the part of you that was easiest for me to have. about how i acted like wanting you was enough. about how i kept you in the dark because i was too afraid of what choosing you would cost me in the light.”
her throat tightened.
he went on before she could stop him.
“when lily and i ended, i wanted to call you. obviously i wanted to call you.” the corner of his mouth twitched, humorless and tired. “but i knew what that would really be. me feeling alone. me feeling guilty. me wanting comfort from the person i’d already hurt most.” his eyes stayed on hers. “you didn’t deserve to be the soft place i landed just because i finally broke the life i’d been hiding behind.”
jade’s fingers tightened around the cup.
for months she had imagined him showing up with easy regret, the kind that sounds sincere until you realize it asks nothing of the person saying it. this was not that. this was slower. uglier. more expensive.
“so what,” she said, because she needed something sharp to hold onto, “you disappeared for months and now i’m supposed to be impressed?”
“no.” he didn’t flinch. “you’re supposed to do whatever you want. i’m not asking for anything you don’t want to give.”
that made her angrier than defensiveness would have.
“you’re very calm.”
“i’m trying.”
“why?”
his expression shifted, something almost pained in it now. “because the last version of me only ever came to you wanting something. i didn’t want to do that to you again.”
that landed too deep.
jade looked at him for a long moment. “and where do you want it to start?”
oscar was quiet for a beat.
“with me telling you the truth before i ask you for anything.”
her heart beat once, hard.
“then tell it.”
he took a breath.
“when i was with lily, i kept thinking i could split myself into pieces and nobody would bleed for it. the life with her looked right. it made sense. people understood it. it fit.” his gaze didn’t leave hers. “you didn’t fit. you ruined every easy answer i had. being with you meant i had to actually choose something, actually admit something about myself i couldn’t dress up as decency. and i was too much of a coward to do that when it mattered.”
jade swallowed.
“so yes,” he said quietly. “there was a reason i never left. but it wasn’t because she was more. it was because leaving meant i had to become someone braver than i was then.” a pause. “you weren’t less. you were just the choice i was too weak to make.”
that should not have been beautiful.
it was.
jade hated that.
she looked back at him.
for the first time since sitting down, a ghost of something warmer moved across his face. not charm. not confidence. just recognition. history, softened by regret.
that made him harder to resist than ever.
“what do you want from me, oscar?”
his eyes held hers.
“i want the chance to do this in a way that doesn’t ask you to disappear for me.”
the room went quiet around her, or maybe that was just her body shutting out everything else.
he didn’t rush the silence.
didn’t reach across the table.
didn’t take more than she had already given by staying.
“i’m not asking you to trust me because i’m sorry,” he said. “and i’m not asking you to pick up where we left off. i don’t want that version of us either.” his voice lowered. “i want to take you to dinner. one dinner. somewhere public. somewhere boring, if you want. and i want to sit across from you and let everyone see me choosing to be there.”
jade stared at him.
there it was.
not a midnight text. not a hand at her waist in the dark. not come over, not are you alone, not omw.
something clean.
something terrifying.
“and if i say no?”
his jaw shifted, but his expression stayed steady. “then i leave you alone.”
she believed him.
that was what undid her most.
because once, oscar had taken every weakness in her as permission. now he was sitting in front of her making no move at all, offering her the dignity of refusal and meaning it.
jade set her cup down very carefully.
“you hurt me,” she said.
“i know.”
“you made me feel…” she stopped, furious with herself for how shaky her voice sounded. “small. hidden.”
pain moved quickly across his face, unguarded. he didn’t argue.
“and i loved you enough to let you.”
something in his gaze broke open at that.
“i know that too.”
she exhaled slowly. looked at the table, at his hands, at the rain outside, anywhere but his eyes.
“i’m not going to make this easy for you.”
a pause.
“fair.”
she looked up. “that’s all you have to say?”
a faint, sad almost-smile. “no. but it’s the only answer that isn’t selfish.”
jade hated how much she loved that.
she stood.
so did he, but only because she had, not because he meant to stop her.
for one suspended second they just looked at each other. all that history still there, all that heat buried alive under months of silence and one fragile attempt at honesty.
“bye, oscar,” she said.
he nodded once.
“bye, jade.”
this time, when she walked away, it did not feel like being left.
it felt like the first thing they had ever done right.
summary: oscar and claire have built a quiet, steady life together in monaco, but summer break takes them to the english countryside to visit her family — a world that feels louder, warmer, and far more intimate than the one they share at home. as oscar tries to settle in and navigate the unreadable attention of claire’s father, one small moment at the family table makes the visit far more memorable than he expected.
contains: established relationship, mild sexual innuendo, awkward family tension, secondhand embarrassment, parental scrutiny, brief swearing
the first thing oscar noticed about claire’s family home was that it was loud.
not in a bad way. not chaotic. just full. full of footsteps on old wooden floors, full of her mother calling up the stairs that lunch would be ready in ten, full of her brother arguing with someone on speakerphone about football, full of her sister singing along badly to something from another room, full of doors opening and closing and the kettle going every hour, like it was part of the house’s foundation.
it was nothing like monaco.
their apartment there was all glass and pale stone and quiet. the kind of quiet that came with expensive buildings and neighbors who minded their own business. even when the windows were open and the harbor noise drifted in, it still felt contained. sleek. orderly.
this house, a few miles outside bath, felt lived in. warm in a way that had nothing to do with temperature.
claire fit into it so easily it made something in oscar’s chest ache.
she’d changed the second they pulled into the gravel drive the night before, brightening in this unconscious way, like some part of her had uncoiled the moment she saw the ivy climbing the front of the house. she’d all but launched herself at her mother. hugged james hard enough to make him complain, kissed her dad on the cheek, and then immediately started bickering with sophie over a jumper that had apparently been stolen sometime in june.
oscar had stood there with their bags at his feet, smiling like an idiot while her entire family absorbed her back into themselves.
he’d been here before, once, for barely a weekend around christmas, but that had felt different. shorter. more formal. this was five full days in august, the middle of summer, the garden overgrown in a pretty way, every meal stretching longer than it needed to.
it meant time.
too much time, maybe, for a man who was generally better with race starts than with british fathers who had a habit of looking at him for one beat too long before speaking.
not that richard hartley was unkind. he wasn’t. he was perfectly polite. welcoming, even. but he had the sort of face that made neutral expressions feel like cross-examination.
and unfortunately for oscar, claire looked exactly like him around the eyes.
“you’re thinking too hard again.”
oscar looked up from where he was standing at the kitchen counter, holding a bottle of sparkling water he’d been asked to bring to the table.
claire was across from him, stealing bits of roasted potato straight from the tray while helen’s back was turned.
“am i?” he asked.
“yes.” she reached over and smoothed the crease between his brows with her thumb. “you get this tiny line right there.”
“that’s unfortunate.”
“i think it’s cute.”
“your dad probably doesn’t.”
she laughed, quiet and immediate. “my dad likes you.”
oscar gave her a look.
“okay,” she amended. “my dad tolerates you with increasing warmth.”
“that’s better.”
she grinned. “he likes that you carry things.”
“carry things?”
“bags. boxes. chairs. groceries. mum mentioned it twice.”
“great. nice to know i’m being valued for my upper body strength.”
claire bit back a smile, leaning in just enough for her shoulder to brush his. “you’re also very polite.”
“wow.”
“and,” she added, lowering her voice, “james said you looked too nice to be properly irritating, which is basically a compliment.”
“high praise.”
“from him? absolutely.”
they’d been together a year and a half. long enough to know each other’s coffee orders, grocery habits, moods. long enough that monaco had stopped feeling like oscar’s place with claire in it and had started feeling like theirs. there were traces of her everywhere now: a hair clip on the bathroom counter, books in uneven piles beside the sofa, expensive skincare crowding his side of the sink. she left music playing while she got ready. she climbed into his lap without asking, stole half his dessert, slept with cold feet pressed against his calves.
“table,” helen called.
everyone shifted at once.
richard carried in the roast chicken. helen brought green beans and carrots. james appeared with a basket of bread he’d definitely been told to fetch three times. sophie brought the cutlery she’d forgotten the first time and complained that nobody appreciated her. claire took the gravy. oscar got handed the potatoes and told exactly where to put them.
the dining room overlooked the back garden, all late-afternoon sun and climbing roses and bees bumping lazily into the lavender outside the open windows. it should have been relaxing. probably was, for everyone who hadn’t spent the last twenty-four hours trying not to overthink every interaction with his girlfriend’s father.
lunch started well enough.
helen asked about monaco, though mostly in a tone that suggested she still couldn’t quite believe people genuinely lived there. sophie asked if he ever got tired of airports. james asked whether the simulator felt anything like real driving. richard asked measured questions about the rest of the season, about travel, about whether the break actually felt like a break when so much of it got swallowed by appearances and sponsor obligations.
oscar answered carefully, then more easily, and then he’d started to settle. claire’s foot nudged his under the table every now and then. she passed him the water without him asking. once, when james made some joke about formula one drivers all looking about twelve, claire looked across at oscar, laughing helplessly, and stayed there a second longer than necessary.
it was fine.
good, even.
and then it happened.
it wasn’t dramatic. that was the worst part. there was no big lead-up, no warning. just a perfectly ordinary lull in the conversation, james reaching for more bread, sophie trying to steal the crispiest potatoes off claire’s plate, helen asking if anyone wanted another spoonful of peas.
claire took a bite, chewed, swallowed, and without even looking up said, “daddy, can you pass the salt?”
oscar reached for it instantly.
so did her father.
the table went silent.
claire froze.
richard’s hand stopped halfway. oscar’s fingers, already around the salt, locked in place. for one awful second, nobody moved.
then james snorted.
it was sharp and sudden, like he’d tried to stop it and failed.
sophie made a strangled noise across from him, immediately ducking her head behind her glass, shoulders shaking.
claire went scarlet. actually scarlet. from chest to hairline in under a second.
oscar, suddenly aware of his own hand still gripping the salt like incriminating evidence, set it down very carefully in the middle of the table.
“right,” he said, because apparently his brain had chosen that moment to die. “well.”
that did it.
james bent forward with another snort that broke into laughter. sophie pressed her lips together so hard it clearly hurt, then lost that fight too, turning away with a hand over her mouth.
“oh my god,” claire said, covering her face.
sophie muttered, “someone’s got a kink.”
“sophie,” helen hissed, horrified but very obviously fighting a smile.
“what?” sophie said, still half-laughing. “he literally reached on instinct.”
“stop talking,” claire said into her hands.
richard was still looking at oscar.
oscar considered, very briefly, faking his own death.
instead, he cleared his throat and stared at his plate, aiming for dignity.
“in my defense,” he said to the chicken, “that could have been for anyone.”
“it absolutely could not,” sophie said.
claire made a sound of pure suffering.
“sophie,” richard said mildly.
“sorry,” she said, not sounding sorry at all.
which, somehow, was worse.
the way richard said her name — mild, even, almost conversational — like they were discussing the weather instead of the fact that claire looked ready to die.
james made a choking sound and dropped his forehead briefly against his hand. across from him, sophie bit down so hard on her smile her whole face had gone red.
claire looked ready to launch herself out the open window.
helen took a very deliberate sip of water. “more potatoes, anyone?”
nobody answered.
the silence stretched. hot, unbearable, ridiculous.
then richard leaned back in his chair, picked up his napkin, and said, “well. i assume i don’t need to ask what exactly goes on in monaco.”
claire let out a sound that was half groan, half plea. “dad.”
james actually slapped the table.
oscar forced himself to lift his head, against all instinct.
richard was watching him with one eyebrow slightly raised.
it should have been terrifying.
somehow it wasn’t.
because under the dry delivery there was something else there, something dangerously close to amusement. not approval, exactly. certainly not comfort. but not fury, either.
which, under the circumstances, felt like a win.
“i’d prefer,” oscar said carefully, “for the record, not to discuss anything that goes on in monaco.”
“good choice,” claire muttered into her hands.
helen finally gave up and laughed. soft at first, then helplessly. “oh, darling,” she said to claire. “you did rather set that up.”
“i know,” claire said, still hiding her face. “i know. i know, i know.”
james wiped at his eyes. “that is the best thing that has ever happened in this house.”
“i hate all of you,” claire said.
“no, you don’t,” sophie said cheerfully, finally resurfacing.
richard reached for the salt at last. held it out to claire without looking away from oscar.
“here you are,” he said.
claire took it like she wanted it to become a weapon.
“thank you,” she said through clenched teeth.
lunch resumed, sort of — like people trying to recover from a minor natural disaster.
the conversation came back in stuttering pieces. helen asked about dessert. james kept making little choking noises into his glass every time he looked at oscar. sophie was no better, biting the inside of her cheek so hard it had to hurt every time her eyes flicked toward the middle of the table. claire refused to meet anyone’s eyes for at least ten full minutes.
oscar mostly focused on not combusting.
under the table, claire’s foot knocked hard into his ankle, which, given the circumstances, felt about as affectionate as she could manage.
a few minutes later, richard asked him whether he played golf.
it was such a normal question that oscar almost laughed.
“badly,” he said.
“good,” richard replied. “i dislike people who are smug about golf.”
and just like that, the air shifted.
not back to normal. never back to normal. that ship had sailed the second oscar lunged for the salt like a man responding to instinct. but easier, maybe. less brittle.
by the time dessert came out — a berry crumble with too much cream, according to james, who still ate most of it — claire had at least stopped looking like she might vanish on the spot. by the time coffee was served in the garden, sophie had moved on to telling an old story about claire falling into a pond when she was twelve while james kept interrupting to add increasingly unhelpful details.
and when everyone started carrying plates back inside, richard found oscar alone for a moment at the sink.
oscar was rinsing glasses, sleeves pushed up, trying to pretend he was definitely not bracing for a conversation.
richard set down a serving bowl beside him.
“you love her?” he asked.
oscar looked up.
there was no mockery in it now. none at all. just directness. the kind fathers probably specialized in.
oscar dried his hands on a tea towel he’d already used too much. “yes.”
richard nodded once, as if that was the answer he’d expected.
“all right.”
that was it.
oscar blinked. “all right?”
“i’m still never letting you forget the salt thing.”
“that seems fair.”
“but,” richard said, picking the bowl back up, “you make her happy.”
something in oscar’s chest loosened so quickly it almost hurt.
he smiled before he could stop himself. “she makes me happy too.”
richard gave him a long look, then a small one-sided smile that claire wore too when she was trying not to.
“yes,” he said dryly. “i gathered.”
oscar laughed then, helpless and embarrassed and relieved.
later, when they were upstairs in claire’s old bedroom with the door shut, she buried her face in his shoulder and groaned for what felt like the hundredth time.
“i’m never coming back here.”
“you live in monaco,” oscar said, one hand warm at her waist. “easy enough to avoid.”
she pulled back just enough to glare at him. “this is your fault too.”
“mine?”
“you reached.”
“you said it.”
“i said it to my father.”
“i reacted in the moment.”
she stared at him. then, despite herself, smiled. “you were so scared.”
“i was calm.”
“oscar.”
“internally calm.”
she laughed, finally, properly, and let her forehead drop to his chest again.
outside, somewhere down in the garden, james shouted something incomprehensible. sophie shouted back over him. helen told both of them to stop. a door banged. a dog barked next door.
the house was loud.
oscar wrapped both arms around her and held on.
“for what it’s worth,” he said into her hair, “i think your dad likes me.”
claire tipped her head back, eyes bright with disbelief. “after that?”
“especially after that. builds character.”
she laughed so hard she had to grab his shirt.
oscar smiled, brushing a strand of hair back from her face. “next time i’m sitting as far from the salt as possible.”
summary: in the quiet space between co-parenting, lingering love, and all the things neither of them knows how to say out loud, becca and oscar are forced to confront what separation really looks like through the eyes of their little boy. tender, aching, and intimate, it traces the shape love takes after it breaks — and the fragile hope that maybe not everything is as finished as it seems.
the first time theo asked, becca was cutting strawberries at the kitchen counter.
not carefully, not in neat slices the way she used to when she had more patience and fewer things running through her head. just quick, uneven halves dropped into the little blue bowl he liked because it had dinosaurs around the rim.
“mommy?”
she glanced over. “yeah, baby?”
theo was sitting at the table in socks, one knee tucked under him, coloring hard enough to snap the tip of the crayon every few minutes. he didn’t seem upset. just curious.
“why doesn’t daddy live with us?”
the knife stopped against the board.
there were some questions you spent months preparing for, and when they finally came, they still knocked the breath out of you.
becca turned off the tap. “daddy has his own house, remember? and you have your room there too.”
theo frowned down at his drawing. “but why?”
because they had stopped knowing how to love each other without hurting each other. because his father had kept giving them everything except the part of himself she needed. because none of that was something you could say to a four-year-old with red marker on his fingers.
she dried her hands on a dish towel. “sometimes grown-ups decide they live in different homes.”
he looked up at her. “did you want that?”
she opened her mouth and closed it again.
the front buzzer sounded downstairs before she had to answer.
theo slid off the chair instantly. “daddy!”
the relief that went through her was so sharp it felt embarrassing.
oscar never came late. not once. it didn’t matter if a meeting ran over, if traffic backed up half the city, if three missed calls lit up his phone. if he told theo he’d be there at five-thirty, he was there at five-twenty-eight, coat half-buttoned, already looking apologetic for nothing at all.
becca let him in without looking through the peephole.
oscar stepped inside carrying theo’s little backpack from last time, washed and zipped and somehow more neatly packed than the one becca had by the door.
“there’s my boy,” he said, crouching down.
theo launched himself at him so hard oscar had to catch his balance with one hand on the wall. he laughed, muffled into theo’s hair.
and there it was again — that old, familiar ache. oscar had always been good at this part. sometimes that made the rest harder to understand.
“you ready?” he asked.
theo pulled back. “i asked mommy why you don’t live here.”
becca’s eyes shut for half a second.
oscar looked up at her then, still crouched, theo’s arms looped around his neck. there was no accusation in his face. just the same helplessness she felt herself.
“oh,” he said softly.
theo nodded like this was a normal continuation of his day. “she said grown-ups do that sometimes.”
oscar stood, slower now. he set theo back on his feet and took off his coat.
“i think,” he said carefully, “that’s true.”
theo waited.
oscar looked at becca once, then turned back to him. “but i still love you very much. and mommy loves you very much. that part never changes.”
“that’s not what i asked,” theo said.
becca almost laughed, and the sound caught somewhere painful in her chest.
oscar smiled faintly. “no, buddy. it’s not.”
theo held up his drawing. “at school noah’s dad lives with him.”
children were honest in places adults weren’t.
oscar sat on the edge of the couch and patted the space beside him. theo climbed up immediately.
“every family is different,” he said. “some kids live in one house, some in two. some live with grandparents too. some with just one parent. but you still have a family.”
theo considered that. “can you come back when i’m bigger?”
becca stared at the strawberries on the counter until they blurred.
oscar didn’t answer right away. he just reached over and fixed theo’s twisted sock with fingers gentler than most people ever saw from him.
“i don’t know,” he said quietly.
theo accepted that better than they did.
he brightened a second later because he was four and the world changed quickly at that age. “can i bring the green pajamas to your house?”
“of course.”
“and the shark book?”
“of course.”
“and can mommy come too?”
oscar looked up.
becca’s hand tightened around the dish towel. “not tonight, sweetheart.”
theo sighed as if they were both being difficult on purpose.
oscar stayed another ten minutes while theo finished his milk. he always did that lately — lingered in the doorway, at the table, in the hallway while theo looked for one more toy or one more question or one more hug. it used to make becca tense, the way he still moved through the apartment on instinct, as if some part of him belonged there.
now it mostly just exhausted her.
before he left, theo ran back from the door.
“mommy used to draw buildings,” he announced.
oscar blinked. “she did?”
becca stilled.
theo nodded with grave importance. “i found the book.”
it had happened that afternoon, the old black sketchbook pulled from the bottom shelf of the hall closet while becca was folding laundry. she had forgotten it was there. forgotten, apparently, that children opened everything.
“mommy, you made this?” he had asked, holding up a page filled with pencil lines and window grids and notes in the margins in her own sharp handwriting.
“yes.”
“why?”
because once, before nap schedules and grocery lists and pediatric appointments, she had wanted things of her own.
because once, drawing buildings had been part of who she was.
“i was an architect,” she said.
now oscar was looking at her in a way that made her want to close every cupboard in the apartment.
oscar nodded once. “right.”
right. as if he had forgotten the woman he married had spent years bent over drafting tables and site plans.
at the door, oscar helped theo into his coat. then he straightened and said, softly enough that theo wouldn’t hear, “i didn’t know you still had them.”
becca folded her arms. “there’s a lot you didn’t know.”
his face changed at that. not angry. just worn, in that familiar way that always made her feel worse after she’d already said the thing.
“becca—”
“have a good night,” she said.
he nodded. “yeah. you too.”
but after the door closed behind them, she stood in the hallway for a long time anyway.
the apartment felt wrong without theo in it. too still. too grown-up. too quiet.
she went back to the hall closet and pulled out the sketchbook.
the pages smelled faintly dusty. some were from before oscar. some from when they had just gotten married, when they still spent sundays walking through neighborhoods and pointing out facades and cafés like they had all the time in the world.
there was one page from the year theo was born. half-finished. a residential concept with notes that stopped mid-thought.
she sat on the floor with it in her lap and stared until her phone lit up.
oscar: he fell asleep in the car
oscar: still holding the shark book
a minute later another message came through.
oscar: he asked again if you could come over next time
oscar: i told him maybe we can all do dinner soon, if that’s okay
becca stared at the screen.
she should have said no. it was easier, usually, when they stayed in their separate lanes. pickups. drop-offs. preschool calendar. medicine dosages. neutral things. useful things.
instead she typed:
becca: okay
theo got sick three weeks later.
it started with a fever at preschool and turned into one of those awful, fast-moving nights where nothing seemed dramatic enough for a hospital but everything still felt frightening in the dark.
by nine-thirty, becca was sitting on the bathroom floor in an old sweatshirt, theo half-asleep against her chest, his skin hot, the humidifier rattling in the next room. he kept waking long enough to whimper for water and then falling back into that heavy, uncomfortable sleep children had when they were ill.
she texted oscar because of course she did.
becca: fever 39.3
becca: gave him medicine at 9
becca: he won’t settle
oscar called immediately.
“does he sound congested?”
“yes.”
“is he breathing okay?”
“yes.”
“i’m coming over.”
“you don’t have to—”
“i know,” he said. “i’m still coming.”
he was there in twelve minutes, hair damp from the shower, sweater on inside out, keys in one hand and children’s fever syrup in the other.
theo stirred when he heard oscar’s voice.
“daddy?”
“hey, buddy.” oscar crouched beside them on the tile. “heard you’re not feeling so good.”
theo reached for him without even opening his eyes properly.
and just like that, they were moving around each other like they still remembered how.
oscar took over the next dose, coaxed theo into taking a sip of water, rubbed circles into his back when he coughed. becca watched his hands move with easy certainty, watched him find the clean washcloths without asking, watched theo calm just because he was there.
by midnight, the fever finally started to come down.
they moved theo into becca’s bed because he kept waking every time she tried to set him in his own. oscar sat on one side while becca tucked the blanket around him from the other. their fingers brushed over theo’s stomach, and neither of them moved away.
when theo finally fell fully asleep, they stepped out into the kitchen and closed the bedroom door most of the way.
becca leaned against the counter. oscar stood by the sink, sleeves pushed up, tired, and more familiar than she wanted him to be.
“thanks for coming,” she said.
he nodded. “of course.”
the apartment was dim except for the stove light. on the table sat theo’s family project from school, which he had brought home that week. a paper house made of folded cardboard and crayon windows.
inside, he had drawn three stick figures.
mommy. me. daddy.
all in the same room.
oscar saw it too. his mouth tightened.
“he made that with me,” becca said. “at first, he drew you outside.”
oscar didn’t speak.
“i asked why.” her throat felt dry. “he said because that’s where you live.”
he looked down.
“and then he erased it,” she said, “because he thought if he made the house bigger, you could fit.”
oscar put one hand over his mouth.
for a long moment, neither of them said anything.
finally he exhaled and dropped his hand. “i never wanted him to think i left him.”
“i know.”
he looked at her. “that’s not what i meant.”
something in her chest shifted.
“when i left,” he said, voice low, “i wasn’t trying to leave him. or you.” he paused. “i was trying to stop making everything worse.”
becca laughed once, but there was no humor in it. “you really believed that.”
“yes.”
that simple answer hurt more than defensiveness would have.
he leaned both palms on the counter behind him, staring somewhere near the floor. “you were miserable.”
“i was drowning.”
“i know that now.”
“no,” she said, more sharply than she meant to. “you know it now because it’s quiet now. back then you knew i was tired, maybe. irritable. but you didn’t know me at all.”
he absorbed that without flinching.
becca folded her arms tight. “i left architecture for a little while, oscar. that was the plan. a little while. and then suddenly theo was two, and your company was bigger, and your hours were worse. and i couldn’t remember the last time anyone had asked me what i wanted besides what groceries we needed or whether i’d booked his checkup.”
his face had gone pale, the way it always did when he was trying not to interrupt.
“you still got to be yourself,” she said. “you were tired, yes. you worked hard, yes. but you still had your world. mine got smaller and smaller, and i kept waiting for you to notice.”
oscar swallowed.
“i did notice,” he said.
she stared at him.
“i just…” he pressed a hand to his chest once, briefly, as if the right words might be somewhere behind his ribs. “every time i came home, it felt like i was already failing. you were angry, and i was defensive, and i knew i wasn’t there enough, but every time i tried to fix it, i did the wrong thing. so i worked more because that was the only place i knew what to do.”
the anger in her wavered. not because he was excused, but because the truth was late and still true.
“i thought if i could just get us stable enough, then eventually you’d breathe again,” he said. “i didn’t understand that while i was building all of that, your whole life was getting smaller.”
becca looked away.
he continued, softer now. “and then somewhere near the end, every time i walked through that door, i could feel how much i disappointed you before i’d even taken my shoes off.”
there it was under all of it. not cruelty. not indifference. shame.
“i didn’t need perfect,” she said. “i just needed you.”
“i know.” his voice broke on the words. “i know. i just… every time i tried, it felt like i made it worse.”
her hand tightened on the edge of the counter.
for a second she hated that she still understood him so easily.
the refrigerator hummed. theo coughed once in the other room, then settled again.
oscar glanced toward the bedroom. when he looked back at her, his eyes were wet.
“i’m sorry,” he said.
he looked down at the counter.
“for leaving you alone in all of it.”
he swallowed.
“for seeing how exhausted you were and telling myself it was temporary.”
his voice roughened. “and for making you think none of it mattered to me.”
becca had imagined this apology before. in traffic. in the shower. on sleepless nights. in all those fantasies, it felt satisfying.
instead it just made her sad.
because if he’d said it two years earlier, maybe she would have known how to stay.
she sat down slowly at the kitchen table, suddenly tired in her bones.
oscar stayed where he was.
“i’ve been doing a little freelance work,” she said after a while.
he blinked. “really?”
she nodded.
he looked at her like the news hurt and relieved him at the same time. “that’s good.”
“i’m rusty.”
“you won’t be for long.”
the certainty in his voice nearly undid her.
she looked up at him. “why does it still feel like this?”
he didn’t pretend not to understand.
“because i never stopped loving you,” he said.
becca looked at him for a long time.
“i never stopped either,” she admitted.
oscar shut his eyes.
when he opened them again, he didn’t come closer. he didn’t rush her. didn’t reach for an ending they hadn’t earned.
“so what do we do with that?” he asked.
becca thought of theo’s paper house. of the extra toothbrush at oscar’s place. of the sketchbook in her closet. of the way they had ended up on the bathroom floor tonight without thinking, moving around each other like they still remembered how.
“we go slowly,” she said.
he nodded instantly, like he would have agreed to anything.
“we don’t confuse him.”
“of course.”
“and if we do this, oscar, we do it honestly this time. no pretending things are fine when they aren’t. no disappearing into work because it’s easier than talking to me.”
his expression tightened. “okay.”
“and i go back to work.”
a small, aching smile pulled at his mouth. “okay.”
she let out a breath that felt years old.
he came around the table then, slowly enough that she could have stopped him if she wanted to.
she didn’t.
he stopped in front of her first, close enough that she could feel the warmth of him, but he still waited.
when he touched her face, it was with the same care he used when theo had a fever — gentle, attentive.
becca leaned into it before she could think better of it.
the kiss wasn’t dramatic. it wasn’t desperate.
it was quiet. familiar. a little sad.
a beginning, not a rescue.
in the bedroom, theo made a sleepy sound.
they pulled apart at once and looked toward the door.
oscar laughed softly under his breath, and becca found herself smiling for the first time that night.
“still good at timing,” she murmured.
he shook his head. “still on cue.”
she stood. “stay tonight.”
his eyes searched hers. “are you sure?”
“no,” she said honestly. “but stay anyway.”
so he did.
he slept on top of the blankets beside theo while becca dozed on the other side. sometime just after dawn, theo woke up, blinking blearily between them.
then his whole face changed.
“daddy?”
oscar opened one eye. “morning, buddy.”
theo pushed himself upright, curls flattened on one side, cheeks still warm from the fever. “you’re here.”
“i’m here.”
theo looked at becca next, then back at oscar. “are you staying today?”
oscar didn’t answer right away.
he looked across theo’s small body to becca.
she was tired, uncertain, far from finished with any of it.
but she nodded.
oscar turned back to his son and brushed a hand through his hair.
summary: in a hospital waiting room, oscar and avery share a quiet, emotional moment that forces long-buried feelings and old grief closer to the surface. as the night turns into morning, both of them are pushed to face what’s been left unsaid.
contains: hospital setting, mention of death, grief, widowhood, mention of trying for a baby
not because of the smell, though that antiseptic sharpness clung to the back of his throat longer than it should. not because of the fluorescent lights either, or the polished floors that reflected too much of everything. he hated hospitals because they felt like places where time got split in two. there was always a before, and then there was an after, and nobody ever asked if you were ready for the difference.
he stood near the vending machines on the third floor with a paper cup of terrible coffee in his hand and watched avery through the glass wall of the waiting room.
she sat curled into the corner of a blue plastic chair, one leg tucked beneath her, her cardigan falling off one shoulder. her hair was tied back in a loose knot that had mostly given up by now, strands slipping around her face. she looked small in a way she never actually was. avery had never been fragile.
and still, under hospital lights, everyone looked breakable.
lando had texted the group chat at nearly midnight—his sister had taken a bad fall, concussion, stitches, a precautionary overnight stay—and somehow avery had gotten there before any of them. she wasn’t related, wasn’t obligated, but that was who she was. the person who remembered everyone’s coffee order and their deadlines and the names of their childhood dogs. the person who stayed.
oscar had arrived twenty minutes ago and she still hadn’t noticed him.
or maybe she had, and she just needed a minute.
he knew better than to rush her in places like this.
avery had once told him, on a half-empty balcony in monaco with a glass of wine in one hand and the city glowing beneath them, that hospitals made her feel like she was nineteen again even though the worst of it hadn’t happened until later. her mother had been sick when she was younger. not terminal, not catastrophic, but enough to leave a mark. enough that the smell of disinfectant and cold tile and distant beeping could drag old dread back into her bones.
that had been the first time she’d told him something real—the kind that made his chest tighten because he knew she was handing him something delicate and trusting him not to drop it.
he hadn’t.
he never would.
he took one last sip of coffee, grimaced, and tossed the cup into the bin. when he looked up again, avery was staring at him through the glass.
she lifted a hand in a small wave.
he went in.
“hey,” he said quietly.
her mouth curved, but only a little. “hey.”
“you’ve been here all night?”
“mostly.”
“you should’ve texted.”
she looked down at the paper cup in her hands. tea, probably. she hated coffee. said it tasted like regret.
“you were in the simulator yesterday,” she said. “i didn’t want to bother you.”
oscar sat in the chair beside her, leaving a little space between them. enough to be respectful. not so much that it felt distant.
“you never bother me.”
avery smiled again, faint but real this time. “that sounds suspiciously rehearsed.”
“it isn’t.” he glanced at her. “maybe a little.”
that got him a quiet laugh. he would’ve done anything to hear it again.
through the far window, dawn was beginning to press weakly against the city skyline. the waiting room was almost empty now. a television mounted in the corner played some breakfast show on mute. the nurses at the desk spoke in low voices. somewhere down the hall, a machine beeped steadily.
avery rubbed the side of the cup with her thumb. her wedding ring was gone, had been for a while, but sometimes oscar still caught himself looking for it.
not because he thought she should still wear it.
because he remembered when she had.
he had met avery after chase—after the accident, after the phone call that had split her life in two.
lando had told him once, quietly, like it was something to be handled with care: avery and chase had been stupid in love. childhood-neighbors-turned-something-more kind of love. the kind people looked at and believed in. they got married young because waiting felt pointless. two years later chase died in a car accident on a rainy stretch of road outside london, and avery’s life had divided itself cleanly into before and after.
oscar had not known her then. sometimes he was grateful for that. sometimes he hated it. there were years of her life that belonged to someone else, and grief had sealed parts of them off in a language he would never fully speak.
he turned toward her. “how’s she doing?”
avery exhaled softly. “better. they said she can probably go home this morning. they just wanted to monitor her a little longer.”
“that’s good.”
“yeah.”
for a moment he looked at the floor, then back at her.
that was how it had started, really. quietly. not with anything grand. just a hundred small things he couldn’t seem to stop noticing.
the way she tucked her hands into the sleeves of oversized jumpers. the way she listened like what you were saying mattered because you did. the way she remembered small things about people and carried them around like they were worth keeping.
and then, before he even realized, he’d wanted impossible things.
her shoes by his front door. waking up and hearing her in the kitchen. a life that made room for what had happened to her without pretending it hadn’t.
avery let people close only so far. she laughed easily, cared deeply, showed up for everyone, but some part of her always stayed out of reach.
and oscar had spent two years learning how to stand near that distance without asking for more than she could give.
beside him, avery shifted in her seat. “you’ve got that look.”
he blinked. “what look?”
“the one where you disappear into your own head and forget the rest of us are here.”
“i’m right here.”
“physically, maybe.”
he looked at her and smiled.
through the glass doors at the end of the hall, two nurses wheeled in a cart of linens. morning had fully arrived now, pale and silver. the world kept moving with or without permission. it always did.
oscar rested his elbows on his knees and looked at the floor for a second before speaking.
“can i ask you something?”
her voice was soft. “always.”
he almost laughed at that. always. if only she knew.
“do you ever get tired,” he said, “of being brave for everyone else?”
she went still.
that was the thing about avery. cruelty, she could survive. distance, she could navigate. but gentleness aimed straight at the center of her—she never quite knew what to do with it.
“i’m not brave,” she said after a moment. “i just keep going because i don’t know what else to do.”
oscar turned to her fully now. “that’s what brave people usually say.”
avery looked at him then, and there it was again—that split-second openness, that glimpse of the locked room with the door not quite shut all the way.
“you always do this,” she said quietly.
“do what?”
“say things like that.”
“what things?”
her lips pressed together. “things that make it hard not to…”
she stopped herself.
oscar’s heartbeat stumbled.
“not to what?”
avery looked down at the paper cup in her hands. “nothing.”
he should have let her retreat. he knew that.
but there was a hospital around them and dawn in the windows and exhaustion stripping them both down to the truth.
so he said it.
“avery.”
she looked at him.
“i’m in love with you.”
the words settled between them with startling softness.
avery stared at him.
oscar felt absurdly calm for about two seconds, and then not calm at all.
“i didn’t mean for it to happen,” he said. “i’m not even sure when it did. i just know that somewhere along the way, you became the first person i want to tell when something happens. good or bad. you became the person i look for in every room.”
her eyes were wide now, glassy with something that looked dangerously close to panic.
“oscar…”
“i know this isn’t simple,” he said. “i know you loved him. i know what i’m asking for isn’t small. i just…” he exhaled slowly. “i needed you to know. because pretending i don’t feel this has started to feel dishonest. and you deserve honesty from me.”
for a moment she said nothing.
then she set the tea down carefully on the seat beside her, as if she needed both hands free just to survive the conversation.
“why would you do this here?”
he swallowed. “i don’t know.”
her eyes filled. “oscar—”
“if i’d waited, i might not have said it at all.”
she pressed the heel of her hand briefly to her mouth, then dropped it again.
“that’s the problem,” she whispered.
his brow furrowed. “what is?”
her throat moved as she swallowed.
“if it were anyone else,” she said, voice trembling, “maybe i could pretend this wasn’t happening.”
oscar didn’t move.
“but it’s you.”
hope moved through him so sharply it almost hurt.
avery looked down at the floor.
“people say the strangest things after someone dies,” she said quietly. “they talk like it all has to mean something. like there has to be a lesson. a reason.” her mouth shook. “but there wasn’t. it was just one ordinary day, and then it wasn’t.” her laugh came out broken. “at first, they looked at me like i was made of glass. then, after a while, like i should be better already because i was young. like being young made it smaller. easier.”
oscar’s jaw tightened.
“we were twenty-four,” she went on. “we were already building a whole life. we were trying for a baby, and every month i told myself not to get my hopes up. every month, i did anyway. and he would just smile and tell me it was fine, that we had time.”
her voice cracked.
“all the time in the world.”
the silence after that was thin and aching.
“and then suddenly we didn’t.”
tears slid down her cheeks. she didn’t seem to notice at first.
oscar kept his hands still against his knees.
“after he died, everything changed,” she said. “not just my life. the way i thought about love changed. it stopped feeling safe. it stopped feeling beautiful, even. it started feeling borrowed. like anything good could be taken back the second you let yourself believe in it.”
she wiped at her face with the heel of her hand, frustrated by the tears, but they kept coming.
her breath caught.
“and then you happened.”
oscar’s chest tightened so hard it hurt.
avery laughed once through tears, but there was nothing light in it.
“you happened so quietly,” she whispered. “you were just there. all the time. being good to me without making a show of it. being patient with me. seeing things i didn’t ask you to see.”
she looked at him then, eyes bright and unguarded.
“and i think some part of me has loved you for a while.”
oscar forgot how to breathe.
“that’s what makes this so unfair,” she said. “because if i let this become real, i don’t think i could survive losing you too.”
her fingers twisted together in her lap. “you get in that car every race weekend and people can tell me all they want that it’s safer now, that the odds are low, that i shouldn’t think that way. but grief doesn’t care. once you’ve lived through that kind of phone call, your mind never stops knowing it can happen.”
oscar let her say it all.
“and i’m scared that if i let this happen, part of me will feel guilty. like i’m betraying chase. and if i still grieve him while i’m with you, i’ll feel guilty for that too, because that wouldn’t be fair to you either.”
that was the moment oscar finally reached for her hand.
slowly. carefully. leaving her every chance to pull away.
she didn’t.
his fingers closed around hers.
“i know,” he said softly. “and i know there isn’t a perfect thing i can say that fixes fear like that. i know i can’t talk you out of grief.”
her eyes stayed on his.
“but i need you to hear me anyway.”
avery’s mouth trembled.
“i’m not asking you to forget him,” oscar said. “or stop loving him. or act like what happened to you didn’t happen just because i wish this were easier.” his thumb moved once against her knuckles. “and if part of what scares you is that it might feel like you’re betraying him—”
he didn’t hesitate.
“you wouldn’t be betraying him,” oscar said quietly. “you’d be surviving him.”
avery let out a sound that broke somewhere in the middle and covered her mouth with her free hand.
“oscar—”
“come here,” he murmured.
she shook her head once, helplessly, like she already knew this was a bad idea and wanted it anyway.
“please.”
that did it.
she set the cup down with unsteady hands and moved toward him, and the second she did, he opened his arms.
she folded into him all at once, like exhaustion had finally won. oscar held her carefully at first, then tighter when her shoulders started to shake. he tucked one hand against the back of her head, fingers slipping gently through the loose strands of her hair, and felt her breathe him in like she was trying to remember how.
“it’s okay,” he whispered, even if he wasn’t completely sure what he meant by it. “it’s okay.”
she cried against his shoulder in the quietest way he’d ever heard anyone cry, as if some part of her still hated being witnessed even now.
oscar sat there and held her, and he did not try to untangle the grief from the fear. he just stayed.
after a while, her breathing began to steady. she didn’t move away immediately.
“i’m sorry,” she said against his shirt.
“you never have to apologize to me for this.”
she leaned back just far enough to look at him. her eyes were red, cheeks damp, lashes stuck together.
“i don’t know what to do,” she admitted.
“you don’t have to do anything right now.”
she searched his face like she still expected some condition hidden underneath all of this. there wasn’t one.
“if i let this happen,” she said quietly, “it won’t be easy.”
“i know.”
“i’d be scared on race weekends. when you didn’t answer. every time something went wrong.” her mouth trembled. “i think i’d ruin parts of it with that.”
“you wouldn’t ruin it.”
“you can’t know that.”
“no,” he said softly. “but i know i’m not asking for easy.”
that made her look at him.
he held her gaze.
“i don’t know how to do this without bringing everything with me,” she whispered. “him. what happened. the fear.”
oscar’s thumb brushed once across her knuckles.
“then bring it with you,” he said, and his voice caught a little on the last word, like he meant it more than he knew how to say cleanly.
something in her face changed at that.
not fully. not all at once.
but softened.
she looked down at their hands, then back at him. “i can’t promise i’ll be brave.”
“you don’t have to be.”
“and you’d still want this?”
“yes.”
he said it so quickly that her eyes filled again, though this time the tears didn’t fall.
“yes?” she asked, almost like she needed it confirmed.
“yes,” he said again. “even like this. especially like this.”
avery let out a shaky breath.
morning light stretched wider across the waiting room floor. somewhere down the hall, a door clicked shut. the nurses at the desk changed shifts. the television in the corner kept flickering through a world that had nothing to do with theirs.
avery looked at him for a long moment.
“i don’t know what this means yet,” she said.
“it doesn’t have to mean everything today.”
she nodded once, slowly.
then, so quietly he almost missed it, she said, “it means i’m saying maybe.”
oscar’s heart stumbled.
she gave him the faintest, most fragile version of a smile. “a real maybe. not a polite one.”
a breath left him, unsteady and relieved, and the smile that answered hers felt almost disbelieving. his hand tightened gently around hers. “i can work with maybe.”
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
summary: set during the f1 75 live event, oscar piastri attends the night with his girlfriend hailey, a chart-topping pop star whose latest album reveals a little too much about their relationship. when jack whitehall makes oscar the target of the night’s most brutal roast, hailey laughs herself to tears while oscar is left to endure the very public consequences of dating a woman who turns private moments into hit songs.
contains: established relationship, mild sexual innuendo, roast humor, teasing, public embarrassment, no real angst, sabrina carpenter song references
the second was assuming he’d make it through the night unnoticed.
that assumption had started unraveling back in the hotel room, when hailey had chosen his tie and informed him, with complete certainty, that people would notice.
“it matches my dress,” she’d said, standing there with one heel on and the kind of expression that suggested this was not a discussion.
oscar, who had somehow assumed this was just some formula 1 media thing and not a full red carpet production, had glanced up from fastening his cufflinks and said, “i don’t think anyone’s going to notice.”
hailey had gone still.
then she’d turned, very slowly, to look at him in the mirror. “oscar.”
he’d sighed. “they’ll notice.”
“thank you.”
now, hours later, seated in a room full of drivers, celebrities, cameras, and far too much media, oscar was beginning to think he should’ve faked a minor illness. nothing dramatic. just enough to avoid public interaction. laryngitis. a suspicious cough. sudden need to be literally anywhere else.
beside him, hailey looked infuriatingly perfect and completely at ease, one hand looped through his arm as she watched the stage with bright, dangerous interest.
onstage, jack whitehall was in the middle of his opening set, moving through the drivers with the confidence of a man who knew no one in the room was actually allowed to hit him.
he’d already had a go at half the grid. charles had taken a joke about his face and his love life with admirable patience. max had looked like he’d rather be trapped in a lift with george russell for six hours. lewis had laughed. george had laughed too hard. lando, seated a few rows ahead, had nearly folded in half.
oscar had relaxed, slightly.
that was clearly his third mistake.
onstage, jack adjusted his jacket and glanced down at his cards with theatrical seriousness. “and now,” he said, in the tone of a man about to ruin someone’s evening for sport, “we come to perhaps the most shocking revelation of the formula 1 season.”
oscar felt himself sit up without meaning to.
beside him, hailey made a tiny sound that was suspiciously close to a laugh.
jack looked out over the crowd. “ladies and gentlemen, oscar piastri.”
the room applauded. cameras swung toward him.
oscar felt the exact moment his soul left his body.
jack lifted a hand. “yes, yes. the silent assassin. the human software update.”
laughter rippled through the room.
“for the longest time,” jack went on, nodding toward oscar, “we all thought he was still a virgin.”
the room erupted.
oscar closed his eyes.
“no, come on,” jack said. “don’t act shocked. look at him. he has the energy of a man who asks permission before holding hands.”
somewhere to the left, lando started clapping like a seal.
“and yet, thanks to his girlfriend’s latest album, we now know that’s very much not the case.”
beside him, hailey folded in on herself as she laughed soundlessly.
jack pointed toward her. “hailey, by the way — thank you. people were starting to think he reproduced by mitosis.”
oscar covered part of his face with his hand while hailey dropped against his shoulder, fully gone.
“when bed chem came out,” jack said, pressing a hand to his chest, “people thought, surely not oscar. not this lovely little tax accountant with cheekbones.”
oscar heard charles laugh.
charles.
traitor.
“but then she kept releasing songs,” jack went on, “and by the time juno dropped, mclaren weren’t the only people analyzing oscar’s performance metrics.”
another wave of laughter broke over the room.
“you’re enjoying this too much,” oscar said through his teeth.
she lifted her head just enough to gasp, “i can’t breathe,” before folding into him again.
jack grinned. “fair play to him, honestly. he spends all weekend speaking in six-word sentences and then apparently goes home and inspires platinum-level filth. there’s hope for introverts everywhere.”
lando had fully turned around in his seat by now, grinning like the world’s worst friend, and gave oscar two thumbs up.
oscar stared back at him with the expression of a man quietly drafting revenge.
jack lowered his voice like he was sharing a secret with the entire arena. “my favorite part is imagining oscar hearing the album for the first time.”
he straightened, then slipped into a flat imitation.
“track one: okay. track two: oh no. track three: definitely too specific. track four: i’m going into witness protection.”
the crowd lost it again.
even oscar’s mouth twitched, which was unfortunate, because the camera caught it and the big screen lit up with a close-up of his red face.
“oh, he’s blushing,” jack said, delighted. “someone call mclaren and let them know the boy does have visible emotions.”
even oscar laughed at that, which only made hailey lose it again.
he put a hand to his chest. “still, lovely couple. truly. one of them is a globally adored pop phenomenon with an army of fans and a gift for turning her private life into chart-topping material…”
he paused just long enough for the room to lean in.
“and the other is oscar piastri.”
oscar leaned back in his chair and stared at the ceiling for half a second.
jack finished with a flourish. “give them a round of applause. hailey for the songs, oscar for surviving them, and both of them for making sure the fia has to add emotional damage to the regulations next year.”
the applause crashed through the room.
hailey, still bright-eyed and delighted, clapped like this was one of the best nights of her life.
oscar looked like he was considering early retirement.
jack moved on.
“so, anyway — max…”
but oscar heard none of the next joke, because hailey had tipped into his shoulder again, still laughing hard enough that her hair had fallen into her face. he looked at her — really looked at her — and her lipstick was slightly smudged, her eyes wet.
she caught him staring and grinned, completely unrepentant. “oh my god,” she whispered. “your face.”
oscar looked away. “i’m never going out in public again.”
hailey pressed her lips together, which lasted all of two seconds.
“i’m sorry,” she said, already breaking again.
“you’re not.”
“i’m absolutely not.”
oscar nodded once. “thought so.”
by the time the night finally ended, oscar had been clapped on the shoulder by multiple people with the kind of sympathy usually reserved for bereavement, and zak brown had said, “well, at least the brand exposure is strong,” which oscar thought ought to be reportable to hr.
the second they made it into the back of the car, away from cameras and the crowd, oscar exhaled and leaned his head back against the seat.
for a moment, there was silence.
then hailey snorted.
oscar didn’t even open his eyes. “don’t.”
“i’m trying not to.”
“you’re failing.”
“i know.”
he turned to look at her.
that was his mistake.
the second their eyes met, she broke all over again, laughing so hard she had to grab his arm.
“it wasn’t that funny,” he said.
she stared at him in disbelief. “oscar. he called you a tax accountant with cheekbones.”
he rubbed a hand over his face. “i’m never attending anything ever again.”
“you laughed.”
“i was under duress.”
she wiped under her eyes, still grinning. “you were so embarrassed.”
oscar stared out the window. “that was a deeply unpleasant experience.”
her laughter softened then. she reached over, straightened the tie she’d picked out for him, and rested her hand briefly on his chest.
“if it makes you feel better,” she said, eyes bright, “you handled it really well.”
oscar looked at her. “i said nothing.”
“exactly. very dignified.”
he snorted despite himself.
she leaned in and kissed the corner of his mouth, smiling against his skin. “also, for the record…”
he narrowed his eyes. “what?”
“the songs were worth it.”
oscar groaned and dropped his head back against the seat.
that made her laugh again, quieter this time.
she slipped her hand into his, and he let her.
because that was the problem, really. not the joke, or the room full of cameras, or the fact that half the paddock was going to look at him differently tomorrow.
it was her.
the way she was still smiling. the way she looked pleased with herself. the way he already knew he’d go through all of this again, as long as it ended with her hand in his.
and because he clearly had learned nothing, he said, very dryly, “i’m banning you from writing albums.”
she lifted her head. “sure. i’ll just write one song.”
summary: months after oscar’s confession changed everything, lena unexpectedly comes face to face with lily. in the middle of an ordinary grocery store, the two of them are finally forced to confront the hurt that never fully disappeared.
contains: angst, emotional aftermath, guilt, closure, bittersweet healing
a/n: i didn’t originally plan on writing a second part, but after finishing the first one, i felt like the story still needed some closure. there was still something unresolved with lily, and i wanted to give that part of the story some space too.
the grocery store was quiet for a thursday afternoon. soft music drifted faintly above the aisles, almost drowned out by the steady hum of refrigerators and the occasional squeak of a cart wheel somewhere nearby. people moved through their errands, unhurried and half-distracted, the way they always did in places like this.
lena stood in front of a shelf of pasta, pretending to compare two different boxes she had no intention of buying. she’d been staring at the labels for almost a minute now without actually reading a single word. her mind wasn’t on dinner. it hadn’t really been on groceries since she walked in.
she set one box into her cart, turned into the next aisle—
and stopped.
lily was standing three feet away.
for a second neither of them moved.
it had been months since lena had last seen her. months since the café. months since oscar had looked at her across that small table and said the words that had changed everything. the kind of months long enough for life to keep happening, but not long enough for any of it to feel far away.
lena felt her stomach tighten instantly.
lily was holding a basket with almost nothing in it. bread. milk. a jar of something lena didn’t look closely enough to identify. her hair was tied back, loose strands falling around her face. she looked the same and not the same at all.
“hi,” lily said.
her voice was calm.
too calm.
“hi,” lena answered.
the word came out quieter than she meant it to.
the air between them felt strange. not sharp exactly. not openly hostile. just heavy in that specific way only certain silences could be. neither of them had expected this. lena could tell by the way lily’s grip shifted slightly against the handle of her basket, by the flicker in her eyes before her expression settled again.
lily tilted her head a little. “i guess this was bound to happen eventually.”
lena let out a small breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “yeah.”
it wasn’t much of an answer, but it was the only one she had.
a pause stretched between them while someone passed the end of the aisle without paying either of them any attention.
lena suddenly had the overwhelming urge to apologize for everything at once. for the look on oscar’s face that night in the café, for all the things nobody had said out loud before that, for being here now, for being the person oscar had chosen. but the apology caught somewhere behind her ribs, too tangled to become words.
lily’s eyes moved over her face for a second, thoughtful, unreadable. “you look good,” she said.
lena blinked. “thank you.”
then, after a beat, because anything else would’ve felt wrong, “so do you.”
something in lily’s expression shifted. not quite a smile, but close enough to soften the line of her mouth.
“i thought this would be worse,” she admitted.
lena let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding. “me too.”
another moment passed.
then lily said the thing lena had been bracing for since the second she turned the corner and saw her.
“so.” she adjusted the basket in her hand. “you and oscar.”
lena nodded slowly. there was no point pretending not to know what she meant. “yeah.”
lily watched her for a moment, and there was something unsettling about how direct her gaze was. not cruel. just steady.
“are you happy?”
the question caught lena off guard.
of all the things she had prepared herself for — anger, coldness, something clipped and polite — that hadn’t been one of them.
but there wasn’t really any use lying.
“yes,” she said.
her voice came out soft, but sure.
a quiet pause followed.
lily looked down at the floor for a moment, then back at her. “good.”
she said it simply. no bitterness. no sharp edge.
if anything, that made it worse.
lena frowned slightly. “you don’t sound surprised.”
lily let out a small breath through her nose and leaned one shoulder back against the shelf behind her. “i’m not.”
lena hesitated. “what do you mean?”
lily was quiet for a second, like she was deciding how honest she wanted to be.
then she said, “do you want the real answer?”
lena’s fingers tightened around the handle of her cart. “…yes.”
lily looked at her for a long moment. then she nodded once, almost to herself.
“i knew.”
the words landed softly.
still, lena felt them like something dropped straight into her chest.
“knew what?”
but she already knew. she heard it as soon as she said it.
lily gave her a look that confirmed it anyway. “about you.”
lena’s throat tightened.
for a second she couldn’t think of anything to say. the fluorescent lights overhead suddenly felt too bright. the aisle too narrow. the air too cold.
“how long?” she asked quietly.
lily thought about it. “long enough.”
then, after a beat, “not at first. at first i thought i was imagining things.”
lena looked down at the cart.
lily’s voice stayed even, but it had changed somehow. still calm, just less untouched by it.
“the way he looked at you,” she said. “the way he paid attention when you were talking, even when he was pretending not to.” a pause. “it wasn’t obvious if you weren’t paying attention.”
her eyes met lena’s again.
“but i was.”
the words weren’t angry. they didn’t need to be.
lena swallowed hard.
“lily, i never meant—”
lily lifted a hand, gentle but firm.
“i know.”
lena stopped.
for a second neither of them said anything. the hum of the refrigerators filled the space between them.
then lily said, quieter this time, “that didn’t make it easier, though.”
lena looked up.
lily’s gaze had shifted somewhere past her now, unfocused for a second, like she was looking at something that wasn’t in the aisle at all.
“knowing and being able to do anything about it are two different things,” she said. “for a while i kept telling myself it was in my head. that i was being insecure. that i was looking for cracks because i was scared of finding them.”
a small smile touched her mouth then, but it didn’t stay. “turns out i wasn’t.”
lena felt guilt twist low and ugly in her chest.
“i’m sorry,” she said.
this time the words came out the way she meant them. without defense. without politeness. just honest.
lily looked back at her.
“i know you are,” she said softly.
another pause.
then she added, “you were careful.”
lena frowned slightly.
lily shifted the basket to her other hand. “you never crossed a line. not really. not in any way i could point to.” her expression tightened, just for a second. “but some things don’t have to happen out loud to still be there.”
lena didn’t deny it.
she couldn’t.
silence stretched again. not endless, just long enough for it to settle fully between them.
then lily shrugged once, small and tired.
“the hard part is… you can tell when someone’s heart starts drifting somewhere else.” she looked down at the basket in her hand. “even when they’re trying to hold it in place.”
something in lena’s chest ached at that.
lily gave a quiet breath, somewhere between a laugh and nothing at all. “and you can’t really compete with a feeling someone doesn’t even want to admit yet.”
lena felt her eyes sting.
the words were too true. too clear. too kind, somehow, for what they carried.
“i’m really sorry,” she said again, even quieter now.
lily nodded once.
“i know.”
then, after a moment, she said, “he loved me.”
lena looked up.
there was no performance in lily’s face when she said it. no need to prove anything. that was what made it feel real.
“he really did,” she went on. “that’s what made it hard to leave, actually.”
lena’s expression softened.
“i know,” she said.
lily studied her for a moment, then nodded.
“but he loves you differently.”
the words were calm, but there was still something bruised underneath them. not bitterness. not even resentment, exactly. just the quiet shape of hurt that time had smoothed without erasing.
lena didn’t know what to do with that. relief and guilt rose together in her chest, messy and inseparable.
lily pushed herself off the shelf.
“for what it’s worth,” she said, adjusting the handle of the basket again, “i’m glad he didn’t spend the rest of his life pretending.”
lena blinked. “what?”
lily gave a small shrug. “it would’ve made him miserable.” then, after a beat, “and probably me too.”
that was the first moment her composure cracked — not visibly, not completely, but enough for lena to hear the hurt underneath it.
lily glanced at her one more time. “if someone’s going to fall in love with someone else,” she said, “i’d rather it at least be real.”
the words settled between them.
lena nodded slowly. she didn’t trust herself to say anything.
lily turned to leave.
then paused.
“one more thing.”
lena looked up again.
lily’s expression softened just a little. enough to look familiar. enough to hurt.
“take care of him,” she said. “he gets quiet when he’s overthinking.”
a small, helpless laugh escaped lena before she could stop it. “i’ve noticed.”
this time lily did smile. faint, brief, but real.
“yeah,” she said. “i figured.”
then she turned and started down the aisle.
lena watched her go, the basket swinging lightly at her side, until she disappeared around the corner.
only then did she realize how tightly she’d been gripping the cart handle. her fingers ached when she finally loosened them.
the aisle was quiet again. the same music. the same humming refrigerators. the same half-empty shelves of things she no longer needed.
but something in her chest had shifted.
not gone, not fully eased.
just changed.
and lena stood there for another moment, breathing through the complicated weight of it, before reaching blindly for the nearest box of pasta and placing it into her cart.
summary: oscar has been with lily for years when he meets lena. what begins as friendship slowly turns into something he can’t ignore, and by the time his relationship falls apart, he’s left facing the truth he’s been trying not to admit for far too long.
contains: angst, emotional infidelity, breakup, confession, mutual pining
a/n: sooo this is the first time i’ve ever written something like this… it was inspired by a dream i had last night, and i couldn’t get it out of my head, so here it is lol
the café had been closing for almost an hour, but no one had asked oscar to leave. maybe it was because he looked like he belonged to the quiet that filled the place. or maybe the staff looked over at the guy sitting alone by the window, shoulders slightly hunched, a mug of coffee long gone cold between his hands, untouched for a while now, and decided he wasn’t the kind of customer worth disturbing. the lights were dim, and rain slid down the windows in thin, uneven lines.
outside, the street glowed silver beneath the lamps, the pavement slick and shining every time a car passed. each set of headlights dragged briefly across the glass before vanishing around the corner. oscar had been watching that happen for so long it had started to feel mechanical, as if keeping his eyes on something moving meant he wouldn’t have to think too hard about everything that had stopped.
the door opened. a soft chime broke the quiet.
oscar didn’t turn right away. he already knew who it was. footsteps crossed the floor slowly. hesitant, almost. then the chair across from him shifted slightly.
lena sat down.
for a moment neither of them spoke. she didn’t ask why he had called her. she didn’t ask if he was okay. lena had always been like that — patient with silence, comfortable inside it.
oscar finally looked up. her hair was slightly damp from the rain. a few strands clung to her cheek, and she pushed them back absentmindedly.
“hey,” she said quietly.
“hey.”
another pause stretched between them.
oscar looked back down at the table, fingers tracing the rim of the mug. he had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in his head. none of those versions felt real anymore.
lena leaned back in the chair, watching him carefully. “you sounded… weird on the phone,” she said after a moment.
oscar let out a small breath that almost sounded like a laugh. “yeah.” he rubbed the back of his neck. then he said it. “lily’s gone.”
the words landed between them.
lena blinked slightly. “gone?”
oscar nodded once. “we broke up.”
there was no drama in the way he said it. no anger. just something tired.
lena looked down at the table, processing it. “i’m sorry,” she said softly.
he shrugged. “it’s fine,” he said automatically.
she didn’t call him on the lie right away. she just looked at him, and that somehow made it worse.
he rubbed one hand over his jaw and looked out at the rain. “actually, no. that’s not true.” his voice came out quieter this time. “it’s not fine.” he laughed once, but there was nothing amused in it. “i think what happened is that by the time it ended, it had already been over for longer than either of us wanted to admit.”
she didn’t answer.
he looked back at her. “and i think you know why.”
her eyes flickered, and that was enough.
“oscar,” she said, and there was warning in it now.
“i know.”
“then don’t.”
he swallowed. “i can’t really do that anymore.”
she leaned back a little, arms crossing loosely over herself, not defensive exactly, but bracing. “you had a girlfriend.”
“i know,” he said again, quicker this time. “i know, lena.”
the words came out sharper than he intended, not because he was angry at her, but because he was angry she had to be the one to say it. angry because she was right. because it sounded worse out loud. because it was worse out loud.
he looked down at his hands. “that’s part of why this is so messed up.”
lena’s mouth parted like she wanted to say something, then closed again.
oscar went on before he could lose his nerve. “i kept telling myself it was nothing. that i’d gotten in my head. that if i just waited long enough, whatever it was would pass.” he shook his head once. “but it didn’t.”
she stayed quiet.
“and i tried,” he said. “i really did. i tried to be who i was supposed to be. i tried to be good for her. to be present. to want the things she wanted in the way she wanted them.”
his fingers tightened around the mug.
“but every time she talked about us — about later, about plans, about where things were going — all i could think was how wrong it felt that i was standing there nodding while part of me…” he stopped, jaw tightening.
“while part of you what?” lena asked softly.
his eyes lifted to hers.
“while part of me was somewhere else.”
the words sat between them.
lena looked away first.
the muscles in his throat worked around a swallow. “she deserved better than that.” his voice had gone rough around the edges now. less careful. more honest. “she deserved more than me standing next to her and giving her whatever was left over after i spent half my life trying not to think about—”
he cut himself off.
lena stared at him.
he exhaled hard and dragged a hand back through his hair. “i’m not trying to make myself sound noble here,” he said. “i know i handled it badly. i know it wasn’t fair to her. and i know it’s probably not fair to you either.” his eyes dropped again. “that’s kind of the worst part. there isn’t a version of this where i come out looking good.”
her expression shifted then, something softer threading through the frustration.
oscar laughed under his breath, tired and self-directed. “i don’t even know when it happened exactly.” he rubbed his thumb against the ceramic again, slower this time. “i just know one day i started noticing every time you walked into a room. and then that turned into noticing when you left. and then that turned into missing you when i wasn’t even supposed to.”
lena didn’t move.
he looked at her and, for once, didn’t try to make it sound prettier than it was.
“i think i’ve been in love with you for a while.”
the room felt smaller after that.
lena blinked, her breath catching so quietly he almost missed it.
oscar kept going, because stopping here felt impossible. “i didn’t want that to be true,” he admitted. “for a long time, i really didn’t. because if it was true, then i had to look at what that meant. what i was doing to lily. what i was doing to us.” his voice dropped on the last word.
to us.
her eyes lifted to his again.
“i kept thinking maybe distance would fix it. or time. or guilt.” he gave a hollow smile. “turns out guilt doesn’t actually make you stop loving someone. it just makes you feel worse about it.”
a silence followed, but this one was different. less empty. more fragile.
then, very quietly, he said, “i love you, lena.”
no flourish. no shield. just the truth, placed carefully between them.
she looked at him for a long moment without speaking. he couldn’t read her now, and suddenly every nerve in his body felt awake. he was aware of everything at once — the rain against the windows, the faint buzz of a light above the counter, the way his own pulse kept beating too hard in his throat.
for a few seconds, all he could hear was the rain and the distant hum of a refrigerator behind the counter.
oscar looked down again, suddenly unsure. “you don’t have to say anything,” he murmured. “i just… needed you to know.”
lena’s fingers slowly curled around the edge of the table. she had imagined this moment before too. but now that it was here, everything felt heavier than she expected.
“oscar,” she said softly.
he looked up.
her eyes searched his for a long moment.
“you really mean that?”
“yes.” no hesitation. no doubt. “i’ve meant it for a while.”
lena’s eyes dropped to the table. her fingers traced once over the wood, then stopped. “do you know how awful that was sometimes?”
oscar frowned slightly. “what was?”
“you.” her laugh was small and shaky and not really a laugh at all. “the way you looked at me sometimes, like you were about to say something and then didn’t. the way i’d go home and tell myself i was imagining it because you were with her, so obviously i had to be imagining it.”
something in his chest cracked open wider.
“lena…”
“no, let me finish.” she took a breath. “because i hated myself for even wondering. i hated that part of me that wanted it to mean something. i hated how relieved i felt every time i convinced myself it didn’t.”
he stared at her.
she looked up then, and there was too much honesty in her face now for either of them to hide behind anything.
“so no,” she said softly. “this isn’t easy.”
he nodded once. “i know.”
“and it doesn’t suddenly make everything okay.”
“i know.”
her eyes searched his like she was trying to find a reason not to say the next part.
instead, she whispered, “but i think i’ve loved you too.”
oscar forgot to breathe.
lena’s expression broke first — not into something dramatic, just into something unbearably open. “and i wish that were the kind of thing i could say and feel uncomplicated about.” she gave the smallest shake of her head. “but it isn’t.”
his voice came out low. “it doesn’t have to be uncomplicated.”
for a second she just looked at him.
then, slowly, she uncrossed one arm and set her hand on the table between them.
not reaching all the way.
just there.
an offering. a question. maybe both.
oscar looked down at it like he didn’t trust what he was seeing. then he moved, careful enough that she still could’ve changed her mind, and laid his hand over hers.
her fingers curled against his almost immediately.
outside, the rain kept falling. the streetlights still blurred gold across the glass. somewhere behind the counter, someone shut off another light, and the café dimmed around them.
but across the table, her hand stayed in his.
and for the first time all night, that was the only thing he felt.
summary: oscar piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis. oscar piastri, who you can't stand since freshman year. oscar piastri, asking you to pretend to be his girlfriend until the season ends.
contains: university au, swimming team captain!reader, pre-med student!reader, cricket team captain!oscar, engineering student!oscar, rivals to lovers, fake dating, a lot of cursing, suggestive themes, slight angst with a happy ending, use of y/n and l/n (sparingly)
word count: 15k!! + social media au.
a/n: I have no idea how university sports actually work in other countries so just bear with me here I just made it up okay. also the BIGGEST thanks to @starry-132173 for reading this first, hearing me yap about this fic for WEEKS and contributing with GREAT ideas <3 lots of love
masterlist!
✶✶✶
"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?"
"I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend until the season ends."
You're sure he hit his head really hard. He must have a concussion. He must have.
"Piastri, no one's going to believe that."
"Not with that attitude, they won't."
You scoff, staring at him in disbelief.
Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.
Oscar Piastri, who you can't stand since freshman year, when both of you joined your respective teams.
Oscar Piastri, asking you to pretend to be his girlfriend until the season ends.
What the actual fuck?
"Did you hit your head?" You finally ask, leaning closer to look at him across the cafeteria table, eyebrows furrowed with confusion and a hint of worry. "Are you okay? Are you maybe hallucinating right now?"
He rolls those brown eyes of his as if you're the one suggesting the craziest thing the whole campus has ever heard.
"Look, I just need the guys to get off my back. I need them to stop saying I'm married to cricket, you need the band, why not?"
"Why not?!" You repeat, still checking his face for any concussion signs. "Piastri, if you just need your stupid friends to stop commenting on the fact that you're a virgin, maybe just go ahead and fuck someone," your voice turns bitter as you hiss out the next words, "I'm pretty sure any girl from the stupid band you keep stealing from me would be up for the challenge."
"First of all, I'm not a virgin," he glares at you when you snort, "second of all, I don't want a relationship. I want to focus on my degree and on the cricket team. That's the point of getting a fake girlfriend, I don't have to put any effort into it."
You wonder if he'd let you do a quick examination to make sure he's actually not concussed. He must be.
"No one's going to believe that," you shake your head, repeating your words from before, "it makes absolutely no sense for us to start dating out of nowhere. We can barely stand each other."
"Well, why would anyone think we're fake dating in the first place? It's not exactly common."
"Yes, because it's fucking insane," you lean even more towards him, still shaking your head in denial, "and why me, of all people? We're not friends. Why the fuck would you want to fake date me?"
"Because I'll definitely not put any effort into it if it's you, so it's not going to affect my real priorities."
You're not offended.
Okay, maybe a little bit.
"No."
He furrows his eyebrows, and you wonder how the fuck he has the nerve to look confused, "no?"
"For half the band? For one competition? No. That's not worth it."
He blinks.
"Okay. The entire band."
"No," you cross your arms and lean back against your chair, eyebrows rising as you stare at him, unimpressed, "I've done most competitions without them. It'll suck, yes, but still not worth it."
Piastri pauses. The air between the two of you is filled with tension, as it usually is. It feels like a battle, and the two of you bargain like politicians like you always have.
"Every competition for the rest of the season."
That grabs your attention.
"Every competition?" He nods and your eyes narrow with suspicion. "Every competition? Every round through nationals? Every single one?"
He nods again.
"Even if there's an important cricket game on the same day?"
His nose twitches in annoyance at the question. "If we get through the quarter and semifinals and the finals are on the same day, we split the band."
You stare at him. Wonder for the fifth time if he's having some sort of psychological crisis. If he's concussed.
The band for every competition for the rest of the season.
You see, getting the band to play at a game or a competition is a privilege team captais fight tooth and nail for. It boosts morale, hypes up the teams, and usually makes the opponent feel a little more tense.
If there were two games or competitions in the same day, fucking Charles Leclerc, who all the team captains jokingly called band captain, liked to say it was first come, first served.
And you and Oscar Piastri had been fighting over the university band ever since you got into college — and God, was it a losing game for you.
Sure, there's a slight chance other teams may need the band on the same days the two of you did, but it never usually happens. Other sports have games and competitions on other days of the week.
Cricket and swimming are the ones that share Sundays.
Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.
"So we get the entire band for the rest of the season and split the band if you guys get to the finals."
"We will get to the finals, but yes."
There's a quiet beat as you just look at him, thinking, pondering.
"And we just have to date until the season ends?" You uncross your arms slowly.
"Fake date."
"Don't get technical on me now, Piastri."
You think you see a shadow of smile on his lips before it disappears.
"Yes, just for the next two months or so, and then you're rid of me. We can act like none of this ever happened."
"Okay," he perks up at the word, but you shoot his hope down quickly, "I'll think about it," he deflates, "I can give you an answer on Thursday."
He lifts one of his eyebrows at you.
"Charles won't like it if he has to change plans for the band too close to Sunday."
You stand from your chair, already grabbing your backpack from the floor while he watches you. You look down at him.
"That's Leclerc's problem. Thursday, Piastri."
✶✶✶
liked by alexandrasaintmleux, kikagomes and 1,478 others
yourusername practice day❤️
tagged: alexandrasaintmleux, kikagomes
kikagomes love youuu ♡ liked by yourusername
alexandrasaintmleux ay ay captain 🫡🫡🫡 ♡ liked by yourusername
freshman1 sooo cool!!
freshman2 YESSSS
pierregasly amazing work from our girls!!!
↳ kikagomes darling don't say it like that it sounds weird af ♡ liked by yourusername
francolapinto I leave early ONE DAY and you post pictures without me. I see how it is.
↳ yourusername yes that's exactly how it is!!!!!
liked by landonorris, olliebearman and 3,214 others
oscarpiastri Good work today as always, keep pushing
"Okay, so we need to set some ground rules," you tell Piastri later that evening, when you meet at the campus café to discuss the details of this mess you've gotten into. "And we can't be long, because I have to be up at 5 for tomorrow's practice, so try not to waste too much of my time."
"You know, if you're going to be my fake girlfriend, I think you'll need to be a little nicer to me," he raises his eyebrows at you, crossing his arms and watching quietly as you order a cappuccino at the counter.
"Alright, I'll be nicer to you in public," you answer when the barista starts making your order, turning your body away from the counter and towards him, "what else?"
His eyes narrow in suspicion.
"You're serious about setting rules."
"Obviously," you roll your eyes, "I'm not letting you just do and say whatever you want about this fake relationship of ours, Piastri. I don't trust you like that."
He hums in acknowledgement, the quiet whirring of the coffee machine comfortable inside the warm establishment.
"Fine. You can't tell your swimming friends the relationship is fake."
Your eyes widen. "Piastri, I can't keep that from them. This is for your friends, not for mine, and those guys see me basically every day and know me better than everyone, even the freshmen — they're not gonna believe me if I say we just started dating out of nowhere.”
"We’ll make up a love story, I don't know," he shrugs, "but they can't know. Alexandra would tell Charles, who would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone, and then my plan would be ruined."
You sigh deeply before nodding, uncertain. You’re not sure how you feel about lying to your swimming friends — your best friends.
… but he is right. Alex would definitely tell Charles, who would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone.
"Okay. Alright, okay. I'll figure it out."
The barista calls out your name and you turn to grab your hot drink, smiling at the barista before turning to Piastri again.
"Aren't you gonna get anything?"
He shakes his head. "I don't drink coffee."
"You engineering freak," is your muttered answer, moving towards one of the small tables and immediately sitting down, watching him as he sits across from you. "Anything else?"
He seems to think it over for a second, gaze going from you to the coffee machine behind the counter and then back to you again.
"If any of my game dates don't match yours, you'll have to go watch me play. Supportive girlfriend and all."
"Well, only if you watch my swimming competitions as well," you twitch your nose at him, bringing the mug to your lips, "supportive boyfriend and all."
You don't notice the way his eyes focus on your mouth as you take a long sip. Piastri clears his throat loudly, looking away. You don't notice how a light flush paints his cheeks either.
"Sure, I can do that," he nods, clearing his throat again before his tone takes a condescending turn, "what about you? No rules?"
"Oh, I've got many rules," your smile is so forced even the barista, from the other side of the café, can see through it, "first things first, I want flowers. Once a month, at least."
His eyebrows shoot up.
"I told you I didn't want to put in any effort."
"I literally couldn't give less of a shit," you take another sip, clearly unimpressed, "I told you you're not going to be a deadbeat fake boyfriend. There's only a couple of months until the season ends, you can do flowers."
He sighs loudly, leaning his back against the chair and staring at the ceiling.
"Of course you'd be a high maintenance fake girlfriend."
"Don't piss me off, everyone knows I wouldn't have a disinterested boyfriend," your eyes are filled with amusement, "you have to make me swoon, Piastri. I wouldn't date someone that isn't willing to sweep me off my feet."
"Sweep you off your feet, got it," his eyes lingered on the curve of your smile, "go on."
"Okay," you set the mug down, "you have to pick me up from swimming practice every morning."
"Are you serious?" He all but moans, staring at you in disbelief. "You guys practice at the crack of dawn."
"It's called discipline," you snap back, "yes, I'm serious.”
He groans.
“Fine.”
“And you have to post me somewhat regularly. I'm not willing to be someone's secret fake girlfriend."
He sighs again, but nods in agreement.
"And you can't fuck anyone while we're doing this. I mean, not that I think you're capable of fucking anyone, but I don't want any gossip about getting cheated on."
He scoffs at the insult, but doesn't seem too offended.
"I wouldn't do that to you," he rolls his eyes, "obviously."
Piastri watches surprise flicker through your features.
You’re vaguely aware that Piastri isn’t devil on Earth, much less that bad of a guy. Still, you don’t expect the readiness of it — the obviously, the consideration. It sends a tingle through your chest.
You elect to ignore it.
"You have to volunteer at my lab."
"What?"
"We don't have enough volunteers for our current research," you shrug as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, taking another sip from your drink, "I'd clearly make my boyfriend do that for me. It's nothing much, we'll just make you run and do a few exercises. You'll be fine. And, at last — no kissing."
Piastri lifts his eyebrows.
"No kissing?"
"Oh, don't look at me like that," you kick him beneath the table, rolling your eyes when he glares at you, "I don't want to kiss you, period."
"That's gonna ruin our plan," he shakes his head, brow furrowed, "what, I win a game and don't kiss my girlfriend in celebration? That's ridiculous."
You ponder it for a second. A slight breeze comes through the window and you sigh at the feeling. Piastri watches it carefully.
"Okay," you concede, "you can kiss me after the finals, if you win and I'm there."
"That's ridiculous," he repeats. "Just the finals?"
You nod.
"Just the finals."
He sighs tiredly, running a hand through his hair.
"Fine, okay. But you have to be nice and affectionate with me when we're in public, even if we don't kiss. Hold hands, hugs, all that stuff."
"You're really greedy for someone who didn't want to put in effort, you know?" You lean forward slightly, eyes focusing on his.
"Aren't you the one who wants to be wooed?" There's no friendliness in his teasing, and you roll your eyes again.
"Oh, you're not gonna woo me. You'll just act like you can, Piastri."
He scoffs.
"I guess we'll see about that."
✶✶✶
✶✶✶
"You know, you have a pretty nice car."
He does. The seat is cushioned to no end, the drive is almost silent, and, even though the music volume is low, you can tell the sound is insanely good.
You wouldn't be able to say what car it is, but it did make your eyes widen when it stopped by the pool's entrance, and the silence is so awkward you can barely handle it.
Not that you feel any joy in talking to Piastri, of course. Still, the discomfort of it all is getting to you.
"Thanks," his tone is dry, but you can hear the hint of confusion in his voice.
Maybe he's as surprised as you are that you're trying to, what? Start conversation with Oscar Piastri of all people?
"How was practice?"
Your eyebrows shoot up at the question. His furrow. Neither of you expected him to keep the conversation going either.
"It was okay," you answer carefully. It feels weird to talk to him without trying to start a fight. "We're taking a rest day tomorrow so we aren't too tired for the competition on Sunday."
"Cricket takes two rest days before games," he mutters, eyes on the road.
"Are you trying to compete with me over rest days, Piastri? I didn't ask."
Well, there goes not trying to start a fight.
You're not sure why you do it. He's being exceptionally polite, and he got out of the car to open the door for you even though no one could see it, which was, perhaps, the weirdest thing that had ever happened to you.
He'd actually shown up, as well. Right on time as practice ended. You don't even think you told him what time you'd be done with swimming for the morning.
Maybe you just feel defensive. Maybe you just don't know how to act in this situation, don't know how to talk to him.
His gaze flies towards you for a mere second before focusing on the campus streets again.
"You're insane," his expression doesn't even change when he says it, and somehow that makes it worse.
Well. You started conversation and then immediately shut him out the moment he tried to keep it going.
Maybe you are insane, and you definitely feel a little bad about it, but not enough to apologize or say anything else.
The last minutes of the ride are spent in that same awkward silence. When he stops the car, you move to open the door on the passenger side, but he moves quicker — in a couple of seconds, he gets out the car, around it, and opens the door for you.
You gape at him like a fish out of water as you slowly get out the car, his hand still firmly gripping the handle.
You look around. He drove you back to your dorm building as you had asked, and only a few students walk nearby, most of them not even noticing the two of you. Some stare.
He closes the door as you sling your backpack over your shoulder.
"You don't need to do that everytime," you mutter awkwardly, feeling heat creep up your cheeks, "I can open the door by myself."
Once more, Piastri is quicker than you. He leans down and plants a quick kiss on your warm cheek, ignoring the surprised gasp that leaves your lips.
"You're insane, but you also prohibited me from being a deadbeat fake boyfriend," he shrugs, but you see the way his mouth curves in a smirk at your startled reaction. "Have a good day."
And, in a second, he's back in his car and driving away.
Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.
Opening doors and kissing your cheek.
A sophomore you're pretty sure plays in the university band flashes you a smile as she walks by, but you don't acknowledge it nor do you move. You just watch his car get smaller and smaller as he drives it away.
God, you should not have agreed to this.
✶✶✶
You're very particular about competition days.
You joined the swimming team mere months after you started university, and it felt like a much needed outlet for any frustration you felt towards everything else going on in your life. Pre-med was no joke, and you were known for being either at the pool, at the library, or at the PT research lab.
Married to swimming and school work, just like Piastri's friends say he's married to cricket. You try not to dwell on that similarity.
Swimming is where you feel most at ease — it's where you can finally breathe, funnily enough, and mornings feel incomplete without it.
Of course you're passionate about the sport. More than passionate, if your frequent angry outbursts at Charles Leclerc are anything to go by.
You see, it isn't always Piastri's fault that the band doesn't show up to swimming competitions. The cricket and swimming calendars don't always align and, even though they do align enough to annoy the shit out of you, you have to admit Piastri can't take the blame every single time.
Sometimes they have to be somewhere else, sometimes they have their own competitions, and there was even a time or two when the university dean asked them to play at a board event. It all culminates in the fact the band hasn't shown up to any swimming competitions all season, which pisses you off to no end.
The swimming team has never gotten this close to nationals, at least not in recent history. This might be the most important competition day ever since you joined the team, bright-eyed, shy, excited.
You take your breakfast like you always do — not too light to be hungry, not too heavy to vomit into the pool, a lesson freshman you had to learn the hard way. You stretch before you even leave your dorm and you check your backpack a thousand times to be sure you haven't forgotten anything, rechecking for your lucky swimming cap a thousand times more.
When you finally meet the rest of the team at the state pool, your hands are trembling more than a captain's hands should. Alex and Kika are bursting with energy, and Franco all but jumps in his own spot. The new freshmen look ready to throw up.
"Okay," you clear your throat when your voice cracks, nerves fighting to get the best of you, "this is our most important competition to date."
"Damn, no pressure," Franco mutters, shrugging when you glare his way. For a semi-freshman, you're always surprised by how much shit he says.
"If we win, we go to nationals. The band is here," you wave towards the bleachers by the side of the pool, directly next to the other teams, which you suppose is purposeful, "and everyone expects us to do at least somewhat well."
"Again, no pressure," Kika rolls her eyes with amusement and directs a soft smile to the freshmen, "we'll just do our best."
"No," you shake your head, tightening your fists to stop their trembling, looking at each and every person in your team with determination as you take in a deep breath, pushing away your anxiety, even if you still feel it, "we'll do more than our best, and we'll win. We're fast as fuck and the best swimmers in the world and this competition will be a breeze. Leclerc will play trumpets on their ears and they'll be no match for us."
Alex lets out a laugh at that, but some of the freshmen puff out their chests.
"I believe in each and every one of you," you nod. "Don't let me down, and I won't let you down either. Now, let's get ready to win."
The team lets out cheers, clapping as they start moving toward their spots around the pool, some stretching, others sighing and trying to shake out the nervousness.
"That's why she's the captain," you hear someone mumble, and feel almost guilty over how untrue that sounds.
Saying it is one thing, believing it is entirely another.
If there's someone feeling the pressure, it's you. You, who committed to being team captain before you were even a senior. You, who pushed every teammate to their limit during pratice every morning. You, who agreed to fake date your archnemesis to make sure you'd have a supportive audience at this pool.
Minutes later, the whistle sounds.
You can still hear the band with your head underwater.
✶✶✶
liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri and 9,987 others
swimteam Congratulations to all of our athletes for absolutely DOMINATING all swimming categories on the state competition today and therefore qualifying to NATIONALS!
And shout out to our captain @.yourusername for setting the new state record for the 800m front crawl category ❤️
yourusername FUCKING LOVE YOU GUYS I'M SO HAPPY!!!!!!! ♡ liked by swimteam
oscarpiastri What a great job from the team! ♡ liked by swimteam
↳ kikagomes 👀
francolapinto first full season and already going to nationals maybe i'm a good luck charm? ♡ liked by swimteam
pierregasly YESSSSSSS ♡ liked by swimteam
charles_leclerc Congratulations to the team! I'm so grateful I was there to witness this ♡ liked by swimteam
↳ alexandrasaintmleux ❤️
liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 5,321 others
yourusername feeling actually insane. what a crazy fucking weekend. thank you guys for everything @.swimteam ❤️ WE'RE FUCKING GOING TO NATIONALS
also thank you @.charles_leclerc and the whole band for being there, couldn't have done it without you
kikagomes BEST CAPTAIN THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEEEEEEEEEN ♡ liked by yourusername
freshman1 you are THE GOAT ♡ liked by yourusername
alexandrasaintmleux OH HELLO STATE RECORD HOLDER ♡ liked by yourusername
oscarpiastri Beautiful work babe ❤️
↳ kikagomes wtf
↳ alexandrasaintmleux hmmm hi?
↳ landonorris mate???
↳ yourusername ❤️
✶✶✶
✶✶✶
When you leave the pool on Tuesday, Alex and Kika walking beside you, Piastri is already waiting outside.
Piastri is waiting outside with flowers.
You stop dead in place at the sight, gaping at him as you hear Alex and Kika gasp.
Not any flowers, either. Pink camellias and a few white gardenias, all wrapped up in brown paper and a nice white bow. He smiles at you so wide when he sees you that you feel your cheeks grow warm.
"There's my girl!" He walks towards you in wide strides, immediately leaning down to kiss your face. You just stare as he puts the delicate flowers into your hands and turns his head toward your friends. "You guys did great on Sunday. Are you excited to go to nationals?"
Alex and Kika can't seem to speak, staring at him in utter shock as you look down at your flowers.
You suppose you did ask for it, yes. You didn't expect him to deliver, though, at least not like this. Perhaps some simple roses. Maybe daisies.
The silence stretches. Piastri clears his throat.
"Well. Should we... Go?" He looks at you when he asks it, uncertain, but you just look down at the pretty bouquet sitting between your hands.
He says your name quietly and that's what snaps you back into reality.
"Yes. Yes, of course," you shoot a smile to your friends, barely registering their shocked glances to each other, "I'll see you tomorrow, guys!"
The girls watch as he opens the door for you and walks around the front of the car to get into the driver's seat, waving at them before closing his own door.
"So," the car starts to move, "how was practice?"
You blink down at the flowers, and then back up at him.
"You got me flowers."
"Yes, I did," he nods and glances at you, "I didn't know which ones you liked, so I just picked the ones I thought looked nicer. Are they okay?"
You look down at the flowers again. Beautiful, fresh, colorful, staring up at you brightly.
"You could've just gotten roses or something."
"Nah," Piastri shakes his head, eyes focusing on the road, "roses are too basic, and we've already come to the conclusion that you're high maintenance."
"That's..." you open your mouth to speak and find yourself at a loss for words, "thank you?"
"Don't thank me yet," he glances at you again, "I have a favor to ask you."
You groan, setting the flowers down on your lap as your stare at him, grateful for the sudden annoyance that can distract you from how fucking flustered you are.
"Another one, Piastri?"
"Look, Lando is throwing a party this weekend to celebrate our quarter finals, since we couldn't celebrate on Sunday after getting the news that Jack won't be able to play for the rest of the season. I've told him I'm seeing someone, so they said I should bring you."
"Someone? You haven't told them it's me?" Your eyes narrow at him, gripping the flower stems a little tighter.
"No, I thought you'd prefer it if we told people on your terms," he glances at you again, "hence why the party could be a good place for it."
For what feels like the thousandth time during this car ride, you blink at him.
"That's surprisingly considerate."
He rolls his eyes.
"I am considerate, just like I am nice," you watch as he sighs, "you can invite the swimming team if you want."
"I never took you for a party guy," your eyes turn to your flowers again, chest tightening at how lovely they look, at how the colors complement each other.
"I'm not," Piastri agrees, and your focus moves to the way his hands turn the steering wheel, taking a right, "but it'd be awkward if the team captain doesn't go to the team's celebration party, you know? And, again, it'd be a good place for us to make it official."
"Make it fake official," you mutter, forcing yourself to look back at the flowers.
You don't miss the way his lips curl into a teasing smile. You hate the way your face tingles with warmth.
"Don't get technical on me now, L/N."
A chuckle escapes you, and his smile grows wider. He turns a left and you notice you're on your street.
"Fine," you sigh tiredly, "but you're picking me up for that too."
He laughs back and, for some reason, you hate it.
"Of course."
✶✶✶
✶✶✶
"You know, you could've just said we needed to meet to align what story we're telling everyone, you didn't need to scare the crap out of me."
"Oh, don't be so dramatic."
You throw a pillow at Piastri, who sits on your desk on the other side of your room, chair moved so he can look at you. You huff when he catches it.
"Besides, if it was something worth getting worried about, you're not exactly the person I'd be texting. We're not close like that."
You think you see hurt flicker through his expression, but it's gone before you can be sure.
Piastri has never been in your dorm room before.
Your roommate is out for the day, and never in his life did Piastri think he'd ever be alone in your room with you.
The dorm is surprisingly untidy. For all your talk of discipline, there's clothes hanging from the desk chair, a little pile of shoes on the floor. Your desk table is a complete mess — papers everywhere, books on top of each other, your sunglasses too close to the edge. By the desk, there's a duffle bag filled to the top with clothes, a couple of swimming goggles, a clean swimsuit, and an assortment of swimming caps.
"The party is tomorrow night," you remind him, "I won't be able to escape Alex and Kika there. What are we gonna tell them?"
"Well, I don't know," he crosses his arms, not a hint of emotion on his tone, "maybe you just fell for my crazy charm and begged to go out with me?"
You laugh so loudly the sound rings in his ears, and Piastri can't help but smirk.
"No one is going to believe that," you shake your head and he doesn't take it personally, "we need to think of something better."
There's a beat of silence as the two of you try to think of a good story to explain how, miraculously, you got together.
You and Oscar Piastri. Well, that would be hard to explain, wouldn't it? You hadn't liked him for years now, and what could have possibly changed that?
"Maybe we kissed at Gasly's party a month ago," he suggests, and you arch your eyebrow.
"The one where you looked uncomfortable the entire time and left early?"
He tilts his head in surprise. "You noticed?"
"I mean—not like that," you roll your eyes, but there's no denying the warmth on your face, "I just saw you a couple of times, that's all."
There's another beat of silence, and you wonder if you can swallow back your words and choke on them.
"Okay," he nods slowly. "Maybe you saw me leaving, went after me to see if I was okay, and we kissed."
"Why would I check up on you?" You blurt out and immediately wish you could swallow those words, as well.
"Because you're nice to people," he says quietly, looking away from you, "so maybe you were just being nice."
It's stupid, but you feel a pang on the left side of your chest.
"Yeah, okay. That seems fair," you swallow, and your throat hurts, "I was drunk and you looked sad and pitiful, so I kissed you."
There's a slight lilt to his lips. "You kissed me?"
"Obviously," you match his small smile, "I wear the fake pants in this fake relationship, Piastri. I kissed you."
He lets out a snort and your smile widens.
"Sure, okay. What then? You asked me out?"
"No, I didn't," you lean back against your bedrest, head turned to look at him, "I kissed you and you were so overwhelmed with joy that you asked me out on the spot."
Piastri really laughs this time, and you allow yourself to grin at him. He notices and grins back.
"Did you say yes?"
You shrug, but the smile stays on your face. "If you looked pitiful enough, I might have."
"Oh, so you only accepted because I looked pitiful?" The teasing tone to his voice sounds nice. You've never heard it from him, not without any annoyance behind it.
"Obviously," you throw another pillow at him and he catches it again, "I have a soft spot for sad men."
He throws the pillow back and you catch it clumsily. He shakes his head and lets out another chuckle. "Of course you do."
"We hung out in secret for a while," you keep the story going, resting your chin on your hands as you look at him, thoughtful, "I wasn't sure if it was serious or not, and you're married to cricket."
He nods, still smiling. The flowers he gave you on Tuesday are on top of your bedside table, he notices, inside a jar filled with water and still holding up. They bring some color to the space. He feels flattered you actually still have them.
"Maybe—" he hesitates, face falling, and you gesture for him to continue. He clears his throat, "maybe that day when you messaged me about the band, my favor was for you to be my girlfriend officially."
You study him for a second. The deep brown eyes, his strong jaw, his lips no longer forming that smile you were growing to enjoy. He looks a little embarrassed, a little uncomfortable, just like he had that night at Gasly's party. Some strange part of you wants to see him grin at you again.
"That's a good idea," you nod slowly. "Would make the timeline add up."
"Exactly," he nods back.
That awkward silence settles in again, the one that fills his car when he drives you back to your dorm, the one that swims between your text messages.
You don't know what it is. There are times when you talk and laugh and chat like normal people — acquaintances, at least. Other times, it seems you've never met before, like you just have no idea how to act with each other.
You don't know how to act with each other. It's been years of angry glances, sarcastic answers, underhanded compliments. Mainly from your part, you realize, even though you know for certain that he has gone after his way to get the band when he knew you wanted it for a swimming competition.
Even then, is that sufficient reason for the weird relationship you two have always had?
Piastri seems to be asking himself the same questions, because the next words out of his mouth are, "why do you hate me so much?"
You blink at him, surprised by the question.
"I don't hate you, Piastri."
"I mean, you sort of do," he crosses his arms again, almost as if trying to make himself smaller, "I know you're... Intense, but you don't seem to have this much of a problem with other people."
You think it over for a few seconds. It's true. While you've had issues with almost everyone in the student athletic association and in band, with Piastri it's always been personal — it's not just sports and business like it is with others.
"I mean, you do make it your mission to steal band from me all the time."
He shakes his head, "you know it's more than that. Yes, I do try to steal band from you every Sunday. I know how much you like the band, and in a selfish way I guess I want to upset you in the same way you upset me by— I don't know, just being mad at me all the time."
Your eyebrows furrow and your voice goes a little quieter. "It upsets you?"
"Of course it does."
You look at him closely, his arms still crossed, clearly uncomfortable sitting in your dorm, asking you questions that haunted him since freshman year.
"It's stupid," you murmur, and he immediately leans forward to listen, interested, "you pranked me in freshman year."
Piastri looks at your startled, eyebrows shooting up. "What?"
"When we started university," you start, feeling so embarrassed you wish you could bury yourself in a hole, "I met you at one of those welcome cocktails, do you remember?"
He nods, confused.
"Well, we talked a bunch that night. I had a lot of fun. I thought you were really cute, too," you look away, the embarrassment increasing tenfold as you avoid his gaze, cheeks glowing red, "so I asked for your number, and you gave me a fake one. I tried to text you and it just didn't exist. Never felt that humiliated in my life," you laugh humorlessly, "I know it's stupid, but I just could never really like you after that. It was awful because you were always so nice to everyone, and I didn't understand why you did that. You could've just said no, you know? And then the following year I became more involved with the swimming team and you were just a dick about the band. So yeah, I guess that's how it started."
When you finally gather the courage to glance at Piastri again, you don't think you've ever seen him look this confused in his life. It makes you feel even more embarrassed, the way his eyebrows furrow with no understanding.
"I remember that night," he concedes, and then shakes his head in denial. "We talked, and I gave you my phone number and you never reached out until sophomore year, when we started talking—well, when we started fighting over the band."
It's your turn to look confused.
"No, you didn't give me a real number, Piastri. I had to get your number from someone else later."
"I did not give you a fake number," his voice is solid, firm, and he stares at you with certainty. "Maybe you heard one of the numbers wrong due to the party noise, or I mixed something up, I had just changed numbers at the time. But I did not give you a fake number. I wanted to talk to you."
You stare back at him, unsure on how to answer. You weren't hurt by that anymore — it happened years ago and, at this point, you didn't care. But it was the starting point of your distaste towards him, and it had tainted the first following interactions. The image of him that stuck with you had been that one — smiling Piastri, sweet and polite, giving you hope and butterflies and a fake number, a dead end.
Polite enough to not be cruel to your face, to let you feel the humiliation and embarrassment on your own on the next day, seeing every message refuse to go through.
And to know that that wasn't what had happened? That maybe it had all been a silly misunderstanding, and you held a grudge over nothing?
Well, that was awkward.
"I—well, it doesn't matter," you try to shift the topic, letting out an uneasy chuckle, "it was years ago, and it's not like I'm still upset at you because of that. Nowadays, my only issue with you is the band and the fact that you're always a little shit about it."
"It does matter," he presses, and you notice the way his finger grip the edges of your desk chair so tight his knuckles go white, "it matters to me. I did not give you a fake number. It wasn't a prank."
"Piastri—"
"I promise you I didn't. I wouldn't have done that, even if I didn't want you to have my number, and I did."
"Piastri, it's fine," you insist, still avoiding his gaze, "I can promise you I'm over something that happened when we were 18." You pause. "But it's good to know you didn't do it on purpose. Makes it a little less embarrassing, I think."
He doesn't answer, just studies you quietly. Maybe he's waiting for something. You're not sure what it is. Your heart beats loudly inside your chest. You suppose this shouldn't change anything, but it does.
Not the fact that he didn't mean to give you the wrong number, no, but the fact he cares so much about it. About you knowing he wanted to talk to you, that he gave you the right number, that he waited for you to text him.
"So," you clear your throat, face flaming red, "the party this weekend."
✶✶✶
liked by yourusername, landonorris and 3,215 others
oscarpiastri incredible night out with my girlfriend, the state record holder for 800m front crawl
tagged: yourusername
yourusername LMAOOOO
yourusername looking good piastri ♡ liked by oscarpiastri
↳ landonorris dating the guy and still calling him by his last name my man can never win
↳↳ yourusername it's my brand at this point
francolapinto still can't believe you refused to kiss for the camera i just wanted to capture this monumental moment
↳ yourusername weirdo
username1 can i say that as a fellow colleague i ALWAYS thought you guys would look cute together ♡ liked by oscarpiastri
kikagomes CUTIESSSSS ♡ liked by oscarpiastri
liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 2,741 others
yourusername coffee date
tagged: oscarpiastri
kikagomes the hard launch i can't ♡ liked by yourusername
kimiantonelli you guys are like parents to me ♡ liked by yourusername
alexandrasaintmleux did you guys go grab coffee immediately after the party 😭😭😭
↳ yourusername perhaps
oscarpiastri ❤️❤️❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername ❤️❤️❤️
username1 power couple ❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername
landonorris i can't believe you guys are really dating we thought he was lying ♡ liked by yourusername
✶✶✶
A week later, Piastri waits for you to get ready for lab after bringing you to your dorm.
"I said I'd volunteer to help with your research," he explains when you stare at him quizzically, shruging as if it's just obvious.
And you guess it is. He did say he'd do it.
Besides, getting a ride to lab does feel quite nice. The awkwardness and silences from that first week seem to be dissipating slowly after you two managed to actually enjoy being together at Lando's party, even if you didn't do much besides dance with your friends and let him put his arm around your back a few times. You ask about cricket, he asks about swimming. He tells you about his engineering degree and how excited he is to get a job in the market, and you tell him all about doing physical therapy as pre-med and about how much work you're putting into it. He listens. He asks questions.
You find yourself enjoying those few minutes between the pool and your dorm more than you ever did. Worst of all, you find yourself looking forward to the way he laughs.
You're not friends, per se. You barely text outside of quick "I'm here" or "waiting for you" messages when he comes to pick you up, and your conversations don't ever stray much from your sports and your classes.
But it's nice to talk to him normally, to talk without feeling like there's a ticking bomb waiting for you to start an argument. You don't even feel angry or irritated at him anymore, not even when he jokes around too much or says something stupid.
When you arrive, your colleagues are absolutely ecstatic that you’ve brought them what is, essentially, a lab rat. Piastri barely introduces himself before they have him hooked up to a bunch of wires, monitoring his body’s responses as they make him jump, run, and do a thousand little exercises, moving his arms this or that way, flexing his legs.
You have to admit his calm demeanor and politeness are somewhat captivating. He’s extremely nice to everyone in your lab, and he asks them for details and information on your research, which, as everyone knows, is enough to make any academic’s heart soar.
Oscar smiles softly at you whenever you’re the one to come check on his wires, tell him to move in a specific manner. He obeys solemnly, calling you “doctor” and chuckling when you roll your eyes at him, unable to mask your grin.
Your colleagues make him promise to come back in the following week. He laughs and agrees, planting a kiss on the top of your head and telling you to text him when you get home before leaving.
You still have a smile on your face after he's gone, making notes and studying the data with a lightness on your chest. When your professor clears her throat and your eyes meet hers, your face is bright.
"So, that was your boyfriend, huh?" She smiles knowingly, looking you up and down.
"Yeah," you smile back, glancing back at the numbers and lines on the lab computer, "you know me, I had to force him to volunteer."
She chuckles at your answer, leaning her hip against your work desk.
"I can tell he really likes you," you turn your face towards her again, "just by the way he looks at you. You've got that man hooked, Ms. L/N." She claps your shoulder. "Good luck with that data, let me know when you're done so I can look it over."
You try to smile back, try to take it in stride. She gives you a wink before walking away, asking someone else a question and leaving as if your heart wasn't breaking a little bit.
Oscar must be good at this pretending thing, if even your lab professor thinks he's in love with you. You do nothing but smile a little more at him and actually look him in the eye, while he's the one giving you cheek kisses, opening doors for you, and laughing at every joke you make.
You're not sure why it bothers you, but it does. A lot.
✶✶✶
Another week later, you're preparing for the first round of nationals.
And Oscar has started to visit your dorm.
The first time it happens, it's a Monday. During the ride back from the pool, he asks if it'd be a good day for him to volunteer at the lab again, because he did promise he'd come back and he isn't sure if he'll be able to do it another time. You tell him he can wait for you to get ready inside your dorm instead of outside, in the car. Your roommate is leaving for her morning classes when the two of you arrive and shoots you a knowing look when she closes the door behind her, but doesn't say anything.
You don't say anything either. You just let him into the messy room, let him sit on top of your bed and between your pillows, let him ask questions about some of the books on your desk.
He keeps coming back, starts coming in after swimming practice and driving you from your dorm to the physical therapy building as well. You start asking questions back. What's his favorite book, is his dorm also a little untidy, who's his favorite teacher.
You tell him about your lucky swimming cap — the only one you wear during tournaments, the one you can't compete without, the one you check your duffle bag for a million times before leaving your dorm on competition days.
He tells you he has a lucky pair of socks for cricket games.
"Do you wash them?" You ask him then, wrinkling your nose, a smirk on your lips.
"Only when we lose," an amused grin covers his face, and it opens up with laughter as you gag, throwing a pillow at him that he quickly catches.
"You're nasty," your whole face scrunches up with disgust, shaking your head as if trying to shake the information away.
"Hey!" He objects between chuckles, smile bright. "If it works, it works."
Around the same time, the lingering touches start. You suppose it makes sense, considering the fact you're technically dating.
Oscar starts sitting with you on the cafeteria, holding your hand on top of the table, leaning his shoulder into yours. The tender kisses don't stop, they increase in frequency — on your cheek while he waits for you to get into the car, on your forehead when he leaves you after lunch, on the top of your head while you're hanging out with others.
You don't go out on dates. You don't have to — everyone knows how busy your lives are, so no one questions the way you're never seen out for dinner. Even then, it feels adequate. You're seen together everywhere, and you actually show up to one or two cricket team night practices to watch them play and wait for him before he drives you back to your dorm after a hard day.
Neither of you mention the way his hand sometimes searches for yours while he drives. Neither of you mention the fact he kisses your cheek even when there's no one around.
You're not sure when Oscar Piastri went from your archnemesis to your sort of touchy friend. You're not sure when you started texting him about annoying teachers, boring assignments, muscle aches from swimming. But you do, and he answers every time — he entertains you, makes jokes, asks questions, complains about his own classes.
Oscar Piastri becomes your friend.
And he isn't there during the first round of nationals because the cricket team has a friendly game to practice for the semifinals in the following week, but he texts you a string of four-leaf clover emojis for good luck and asks you to send him a picture wearing your lucky cap, which you do with a big smile on your face.
Oscar is nice, and considerate, and funny, and charming. He's more on the quiet side, yes, but he's so expressive and attentive that you just can't help but think that, if he didn't steal the band so often and you hadn't developed a grudge from a misunderstanding, maybe you could've been friends through the entirety of your graduation years.
Maybe this could've been real.
You try not to dwell on these thoughts, but it's impossible. You can't stop yourself from looking forward to the small kisses, the hand holding, the hugs, the car rides, the lunches, the talking in your dorm. The lines become blurry — how much are you really friends, and how much is it just pretending?
✶✶✶
"So, you and Piastri, huh?"
You look up from your duffle bag, hair still dripping wet with pool water.
Alexandra stares at you from a few feet away inside the locker room, drying herself calmly. Some of the other girls chat, energized from a productive practice and the good results from the first round of nationals, and none of them pay attention to you.
You clear your throat.
"Yeah," you look back down, trying to find the clean shirt you know is somewhere among the mess of your belongings, "Piastri and me."
Alex closes her locker carefully before walking closer to you, tone careful.
"Why didn't you tell me anything? I mean, you're my best friend, and I never thought—" she furrows her eyebrows in something between frustration and confusion, "I guess I just didn't see it coming."
"Oh, come on," you try to smile it off, finally picking up your shirt and standing straight to look back at her again. Your chest clenches for a reason you can't quite explain, "why are you asking me that now? We've been together for, what, a month?"
"I have to admit I thought it was a joke," she crosses her arms, "you've never liked the guy, and you didn't mention it even once."
"Of course it's not a joke. I mean, if it was, why wouldn't I tell you?" You cross your arms again, feeling strangely defensive even though you knew from the start that it would be difficult to hide the truth from Alex and Kika, specially Alex.
They knew everything about you. Why didn't they know you had been apparently seeing Oscar Piastri for an entire month before the two of you were officially dating? You didn't have an answer for that. They would've known if it was real.
"I don't know. Why didn't you tell me you were going out with him?" Her eyebrows furrow further, asking the exact question you don't kno how to answer. "I just don't understand why you kept it a secret. It's not like I would judge you or tell anyone or anything. You know that, right?"
"Of course I know that," your fingers tighten over the shirt they're holding, "I—it was just complicated. I didn't know if it was just a casual thing, you know?" You lean into the excuse you and Oscar had thought of weeks ago. "And he was too preoccupied with his degree and cricket and everything. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it if it wasn't anything serious."
"Oh, please," Alex rolls her eyes, "are you kidding? If you guys have always looked at each other the way you do, there's no way you thought it could be casual."
For a second, your entire body tenses, brain sending out sirens inside your head. You blink, and Alex looks at you expectantly.
"I—hum—what do you mean?" is all you can muster, feeling your face grow warm.
"You're joking, right?" She stares at you like you're stupid. You feel like it. "That man looks at you as if you hung the sun, the moon, and the stars in the sky. Whenever he has lunch with us, he just has eyes for you the entire time. Even when other people are speaking, he just keeps stealing glances at you. And you may not even notice, but he goes bright red whenever you smile at him. And the door opening? The cheek kisses? You cannot fool me into thinking you ever thought it could be casual when he's clearly head over heels for you."
A beat passes by. You just stare.
"And that's not even mentioning the way you look at him," she continues pointedly, "it's like he's the funniest, most brilliant person in the world, when, come on, he's nice, but he's still just Piastri."
"Oscar doesn't look at me like that," you answer late, mouth not quite catching up with your thoughts.
But did he? You never noticed. Did he look at you like that? Was he looking at you like that the whole time?
Was it even real? Did he look at you like that because he's supposed to be your boyfriend or because he actually couldn't help it?
No, it had to be because of your whole scheme. Oscar—Oscar was just now becoming your friend, he didn't—he couldn't—
Despite her growing irritation, Alex couldn't help but smile softly.
"He's really got you hooked, huh? I didn't think you'd ever be able to actually call him by his name."
Oh.
When did you start calling him Oscar? When did he become Oscar in your thoughts, and not just Piastri?
Did you look at him like that?
As if sensing your trouble, your phone starts to buzz. When you look down at it, laying on top of your open bag, his name pops up.
"He's... waiting for me outside," you stare up at Alex again. "I need to change and go."
"Look, you're my best friend," she repeats, small smile falling, "I just feel like there's something weird in all this, and I want you to know you can count on me, okay? I wanna hear all about this love story of yours. I just—I'm just really confused, honestly. Why didn't you say anything before you two started dating?"
Your phone buzzes again. You lean down to grab your bag, gesturing randomly towards the door.
"I'm gonna go change. I'll see you tomorrow."
"Why are you leaving like this?" She calls out, but you're already moving.
"I'm not," you call back, walking backwards so you can look at her, "I just can't do this right now."
You disappear before you can hear her response.
Ten minutes later, you're inside Oscar's car. He looks you up and down, your hair still dripping wet after running out without properly drying it, your eyebrows furrowed in deep thought, your mouth a straight line.
"Is everything okay?" He asks as he closes his door and starts the car.
"Alex cornered me to ask why I kept our relationship a secret from her."
You watch the way Oscar tenses.
"What did you say?"
"I didn't say anything," you shrug, looking out the window, "I sort of just ran away and left her at the locker room."
He snorts at that, and even though you still feel tense, you can't help but smile at the sound.
"Why would you run away?" He asks with amusement, shaking his head.
"I didn't know what to say!" You throw your arms up and, despite yourself, you feel the panic and discomfort from the conversation with Alex wash away in his presence, smile lingering on your lips.
"You could just tell her what sounds more believable," he suggests, but the smirk on his lips makes your eyes narrow teasingly, "that you fell for my unbelievable charm."
You laugh and he grins, glancing at you from the driver's seat.
"Oscar, no one would ever believe that."
You move your eyes from the window to his face, finding his own eyes mid-glance towards you. He sees your smile.
For the first time, you notice the way his cheeks turn pink.
✶✶✶
✶✶✶
When Oscar parks his car in front of your dorm building on Saturday, you’re already waiting for him, face warm as you watch him grab his phone to text you, barely aware of your figure standing outside. He’s usually the one who waits for you.
You watch him look towards the sidewalk lazily. You notice that he’s already in his cricket uniform, shoulders straight, ready for the game. His demeanor is calm, but you’ve heard him grumble enough to know how important this is to him — how much he wants to win.
The moment his eyes meet yours, you watch him blank, skin growing impossibly red as he looks you up and down.
You’re wearing his jersey. His number. His name on your back.
The moment Oscar sees you, he’s usually out of the car, opening the passenger door. This time, he stares. You almost feel self-conscious under his wide gaze, his mouth open, expression painted with surprise and something you can’t quite read.
For a moment, you think it’s awe.
You aren’t sure that's not just wishful thinking.
He snaps out of it when you start walking towards the car, stumbling over himself as he climbs out of the driver’s seat to open your door. His fingers touch the small of your back as you turn it to him while you get inside, and it sends an electric current through your spine. He closes the car door and walks over to get into his seat.
Oscar sits down, turns his head to stare at you again, skin bright red, eyes wide. You feel yourself shrink under his intense gaze.
“Do you… not like it?”
His eyes widen even further.
“What? No, I—hum—you—that’s my—hum—” somehow, his face grows even redder, and he clears his throat before speaking again, finally taking his stare away from you. “You look great. I’m—yeah. I love it,” he starts the engine and grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. Your eyebrows furrow slightly, but a feeling akin to amusement starts to crawl up your throat, warmth creeping up your chest. “How—where—”
“I asked Norris if you guys had a spare jersey so I could surprise you,” you answer calmly, watching the way his jaw works, the way he stares straight ahead as the car starts to move. “He told me he had the perfect one.”
He looks flustered.
And, God, you enjoy it. You savor it. It makes your heart soar.
Oscar Piastri is gripping the wheel, deep scarlet, stumbling over his words because of you.
You don’t dwell on what it means. You try not to think too hard about it or about how much you like it. But you notice the way he keeps stealing glances, the way his neck burns red whenever he looks at you, the way he can barely speak the entire drive.
Oscar Piastri is your archnemesis.
“Beautiful, loving, and supportive girlfriend, huh?” You tease after a couple of minutes, turning your head to look at him. Somehow, his face turns an even deeper red.
“Shut up,” he mumbles in response, unable to hide his sheepish grin when you cackle at his answer.
And it's at that moment that you realize it, sitting on the passenger seat, watching him grin, wearing his colors, his jersey, his number, wishing he had his hand on your thigh the same way he did when the two of you gave Kika a ride after practice on Wednesday.
That moment while he groans something about annoying swimmer getting on my nerves and glances your way just to find you already studying him, while his fingers flex against the steering wheel, while he looks you up and down and blushes again at the sight.
It hits you hard, makes your breath catch, turns the corners of your vision fuzzy.
You're not sure when it happened, you're not sure how. You could barely stand him and, a month later, he's the one who makes you laugh, who gets you to relax after tense days with a cheek kiss and the sound of his voice as he drives you around. A month ago he was just Piastri.
Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.
Oscar Piastri, who has pissed you off at every given opportunity since freshman year, who stole band every Sunday, who was never anything but annoying.
Oscar Piastri, who sits on the desk chair inside your dorm and catches every pillow you throw at him.
Oscar Piastri, who the colleagues in your lab adore and call their favorite volunteer.
Oscar Piastri, who smiles at you and lets his hand linger on the small of your back and kisses your forehead to say goodbye — never your mouth, because you told him not to. Never your mouth, and he still manages to make the soft kisses against your temple feel more intimate than any make out session you've ever had.
Fucking Oscar Piastri. Just Oscar.
You're not faking anymore.
✶✶✶
liked by oscarpiastri, kikagomes and 987 others
yourusername MY BOY IS GOING TO FINALS BABYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY (still unsure how this sport works tbh)
tagged: oscarpiastri
oscarpiastri thank you so much for being there ♡ liked by yourusername
oscarpiastri literal good luck charm ♡ liked by yourusername
oscarpiastri YOUR TURN TOMORROW ♡ liked by yourusername
↳ kimiantonelli hoping the swimming gods listen to you
kikagomes CUTIESSSS OMG OMG OMG ♡ liked by yourusername
✶✶✶
You're very particular about competition days, and Oscar Piastri being attached to your hip feels like the weirdest and most welcomed disruption in the entire world.
He carries your bag for you while you find the rest of your team, cleans your swimming goggles when you aren't looking, kisses the top of your head softly before you put your lucky cap on, squeezes your hand when he finally has to leave your side.
None of it feels fake and most of it happens when you're sure no one else is looking. None of Oscar's friends are here to take note of how kind and caring he is towards you, except Charles and Pierre, who are both too busy with their own girlfriends.
It makes the soft spot he's been carving for himself inside you bigger.
The band is there, yes, but his cheering is the loudest thing you hear whenever your head comes up for air.
He doesn't need to do all of that. He does it anyway.
You don't dominate — the team does well enough, managing a few podiums, but no wins.
It's not the best prospect for the final round. You know so. The team knows so. You speak briefly about it, tell them it was good enough, that you'll train harder and do better next round.
Even then, Oscar hugs you close when you can finally go up to him, already out of your swimsuit and into warm clothes, pressing a kiss against your temple, and you feel any worry in your body melt away.
"You guys did amazing," he reassures as he holds you close, and you snort.
"You don't know much about swimming," you retort, but there's no bite to it.
"Well, I know the front crawl categories are only in the final round, and that's your specialty, right?"
You smile softly against his shoulder, breathing him in for a second before taking a step back.
"We'll see," you sigh as his hands linger on your arms, thumbs circling slightly, "it's a shame you won't be there. You were almost louder than the band."
Oscar chuckles at your teasing, and you almost miss the way his skin turns pink as he looks away from you, putting his hand on your back and starting to guide you towards the exist.
"About that, there's been talk about bringing the cricket finals forward by a week or so. I'd be—well, I'd be free to come, then."
You blink at him, but his eyes stay straight ahead.
"What? Isn't that really uncommon? Why would they do that? Did something happen?"
He clears his throat.
"I asked."
You blink at him again, stopping right in place. He takes a single step before he notices and turns to you.
"You asked?" You repeat, eyebrows furrowing, heartbeat skyrocketing.
"I did," he answers sheepishly, hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck, "I just—I'd like to be there. For the final round. And I'd like you to be there for the cricket finals as well."
You feel the air leave your lungs, heart ramming against your ribcage. He finally meets your gaze, and the look in his eyes is so intense you feel worried your legs might give out underneath you.
"Why?" Your voice cracks in the middle of the word, and his eyes turn impossibly soft. The sight makes your heart flip inside your chest, fingers trembling.
"You know why," is his quiet answer, hand reaching out so his fingertips touch yours, sending an electric current through your body while he keeps looking at you like that — like there's no one else in the entire world, like this is the most important thing ever, like this is real.
You open your mouth to speak when Franco calls your name from a couple of feet away.
The two of you look towards the sound to see Franco, Kimi, Alex, and Charles walking your way. You ignore the way Alex's eyes narrow, try not to remember she can probably read your expression like a book.
"Captain!" Kimi smiles as the four of them come to a halt in front of the two of your, "the band invited us to grab a bite together after this. Do you wanna come? Piastri too, obviously."
"I—yeah, sure, why not," you let out a breathy laugh, chest feeling impossibly tight. You can't get yourself to look at him properly, body tingling at the way you can feel him stare at you. "Oscar?"
He clears his throat again, but his voice comes out raspy. "Yeah, yeah, of course."
If anyone notices the tension between you, they don't mention it. Kimi asks if Oscar could give him and some of the other freshmen a ride, and you don't say anything while your fake boyfriend, who apparently asked the cricket organization to reschedule the final game's date for you, drives you and a bunch of freshmen to a restaurant nearby.
Neither of you mention it afterwards either, when he drives you home and the two of you are quiet for the entire drive.
You don't let him open the door for you when he parks in front of your dorm building — you almost throw yourself out of the car, ignoring the way he calls your name as you grab your duffle bag and speedwalk to your building.
You don't go straight to your dorm. Your mind is racing and you don't want to interact with your roommate right now, so you sit down in the building's empty lobby and breathe.
And then you do something you don't expect yourself to do.
You call Alexandra.
✶✶✶
"Why the fuck would he ask you to fake date him?"
"I don't know!" You throw your hands in the air, hair still sticky with pool water as Alex stares at you from the other side of the screen, shaking her head in disbelief. "He said he wanted his friends to stop annoying him about being married to cricket or something like that."
"I don't buy that for a second," she rolls her eyes, "why would he ask you of all people? No offense, but it's not like you guys had a good relationship or anything."
"I don't know, okay?" You repeat, throwing yourself back on the lobby's couch. "I don't know. I just wanted the damn band, and then he had to—I don't know, open every door for me and kiss my cheek. I don't know."
"Okay," you can hear her breathe deeply, "okay. I guess the reasoning behind it doesn't matter anymore. You're in love with him."
Your cheeks grow warm.
"I think 'love' is too strong a word, Alex."
"Is it now?" She rolls her eyes again. "If it's just a crush or whatever, why are you freaking out?"
"I'm not freaking out."
"Sure."
A quiet beat passes by.
"What are you gonna do?"
You sigh, closing your eyes tightly, hand coming up to your forehead.
What are you going to do?
"I don't know. Maybe I should call it off?"
"Maybe you should tell him."
Your eyes open wide and you sit up on the couch, glaring at the image of Alexandra on your screen.
"Are you insane? I can never do that."
You watch her shrug.
"Why not?"
"It's all fake, Alexandra," you answer as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, "he's gonna think I'm fucking crazy."
"You are fucking crazy," she points out, not even reacting to the way you huff, "you accepted to fake date a guy you couldn't stand just for band privilege and then proceeded to fall in love with him. That's fucking crazy."
"Thanks," your tone is bitter, but she takes it in stride.
"But he's even crazier for asking you in the first place, for doing all of this. I think you should tell him."
You sigh again.
"I don't know. He's become sort of a friend, you know? I don't want to make things weird as fuck."
"Things will be weird as fuck regardless when you fake break up. Things are already weird as fuck now," you chuckle humorlessly, and her voice softens, "look, I told you that day in the locker room—he looks at you like you're the only person in the whole world. You're telling me he's changing game dates for you when you know doing that is a pain in the ass—for fuck's sake, he probably likes you too and this hasn't been fake for a while."
Another quiet beat passes by as you roll her words over inside your head.
“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” She finally asks when you don’t answer, a hint of hurt on her tone.
“Oscar said you’d probably tell Charles, and Charles would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone. Afterwards, everything felt too complicated.”
Alex offers you a sad chuckle.
“I—well—maybe.” She sighs. “I won’t tell anyone now, though. Not when I know what you actually feel for him.”
You sigh back.
“Thank you.”
✶✶✶
You don’t tell him.
You can't. Whenever you try, his eyes meet yours, and it feels like throwing a rock on a dormant volcano, like taking something good and staining it.
You don’t tell him on Tuesday, when he picks you up after swimming practice and the two of you have gone back to sharing awkward silences. He doesn’t come up to your dorm when he drops you off. You don’t ask him to.
You don’t tell him the following days, when he tries to start a conversation and every one of your answers feel hollow, even when you don’t mean them to.
You have a couple of weeks before the season is over and this scheme ends. The thought hits you like a truck, almost harder than the realization that you had feelings for him in the first place — how is it gonna be after it’s done? Are you supposed to pretend it never happened? To act like friends? To act like it hadn’t become real for you? How would you tell your friends that things between the two of you are done? How would you tell yourself?
These questions haunt your every waking moment to the point you can barely look at him.
So you don’t tell him. And you just hum in acknowledgement when he mentions that they did bring the cricket finals forward, so he’ll be able to watch you swim during the final round of nationals, and you keep not inviting him up to your dorm and slipping out of the car before he can react.
And it's supposed to be fine, right? Because you couldn't stand him before, and it's all fake, and it's stupid to be upset by it.
Except you are upset, and none of it feels fake, and you actually miss the fragile friendship you were building before everything seemed to go wrong.
(And was it even fragile, really? It didn't feel fragile when he made you laugh so much your eyes got teary, when you smiled at each other inside his car, when he held your hand, when he kissed your face, when he spent time with you in your dorm, in the lab, around campus. Was all of that fragile? You aren't sure.)
What you don't expect is for Oscar to be waiting for you with a bouquet of baby's breath and red tulips, feet tapping against the concrete as he stands next to his car when he shows up to pick you up for the cricket finals.
"Oscar..." you sigh deeply at the sight, and your chest clenches when his face falls at your tone.
You’re wearing his jersey again, his name hanging from your back like it means something. It does mean something.
He notices it immediately — eyes traveling up and down your figure, face growing pink despite the awkwardness of it all. He clears his throat before speaking, arm already moving to open the passenger door for you.
“Ready?”
You swallow dryly before nodding.
Less than a couple of minutes later, the two of you sit in dead silence as he starts the car. You look down at your flowers.
Baby's breath and red tulips. You can't help but notice that, once again, he didn't go for plain roses — which would've been fine and were just what you expected. You didn't even expect him to actually meet your "flowers once per month" requirement.
But, God, he met every requirement and then some.
“So,” Oscar clears his throat again, bringing your attention back to him, “are you excited?”
You hum. “I—yeah. Are you?”
“Yes,” he nods with so much intensity you can’t stop a small smile from forming on your lips, “We have worked really hard to get here.”
“You have,” and it’s so awkward it pains you after an entire month of easy conversation, exchanged smiles, loud laughing. “You’ll do great.”
“Are you okay?” The words blurt out of him as if they’ve been lodged in his throat for a week, which they probably have been. “You’ve—you’ve been… Distant. All week.”
“I’m fine,” is your firm answer, leaving so little room for question that Oscar only manages to glance at you before focusing back on the road.
The rest of the drive is spent in awkward, awful silence. You study your flowers — fresh, bright, sweet, beautiful, so much more than you ever expected. He studies you — wearing his jersey, so close yet so far away, quiet in a way you haven’t been in weeks.
When you arrive at the cricket field, he opens your door for you and tells you to leave the flowers inside the car so you don’t have to carry them around. You place them down carefully, trying not to damage the petals or the leaves, and you walk side by side until you have to part ways — Oscar, towards the rest of his team, you, towards the bleachers.
As usual, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek as goodbye. There’s no one there to see it. Your hand reaches out for his.
“Good luck,” you say quietly, squeezing his fingers against yours, “you’ll do great.”
He nods once, game nerves starting to build underneath his skin. He kisses your forehead this time. There’s still no one there to see it.
“I’ll see you after the game.”
“Okay,” you hum, pulling him for a quick hug before you slip away towards the stands.
The match starts less than half an hour later. You sit close to the band, so low on the stands you’re basically level with the field, a couple of feet away from the grass. You wave to Leclerc before leaning forward as the game starts.
Oscar and the others start fielding, which you’ve learned means they need to keep the other team from scoring. Oscar yells out orders and directions as they move across the field — you watched him do it during the semifinals, and it still feels weird to see him change like that. Your soft-spoken Oscar, taking command of the team with so much naturality no one can even question it.
When it’s finally their turn to bat, your body is so tense from the expectation you can barely breathe. You know Oscar tends to be one of the last few batters, but even from the bench he calls out to his teammates, cheering when they bat well, cheering when they score another run.
You find yourself cheering as well, singing alongside the band, rooting as Lando manages to score 4 runs and Ollie scores 3. There are a few times when Oscar turns to look at the stands from his spot on the bench. You meet his gaze and he smiles, nervous but excited.
It takes quite a few minutes before Oscar gets back on the field. He’s wearing a jersey that looks exactly like yours, helmet well positioned on top of his head. You cheer louder when he steps on the grass, and he turns to look back at you. You shoot him a thumbs up and, even though everything is weird and awkward, he still grins.
And you still cheer.
His teammate bats first. The two of them manage to cross each other 3 times before the other guy gets bowled out, and your eyes keep traveling to the scoreboard.
As well as the team has done, they’re still outscored by 5 runs. As Oscar prepares to bat, you hold your breath. You’re already rolling the motivational speech inside your head — you guys did great, second place is still amazing, you’ll get it next year — when Oscar hits the ball.
And it flies outside of the oval field.
You don’t know much about cricket. You know it has some similarities to baseball. And you know what a fucking home run looks like.
You’re already screaming when the bench and the bleachers explode in cheers, the six points effectively winning Oscar the cricket championship.
It takes a couple of minutes before the referee declares the end of the match, and you watch with a grin as the players on the bench run towards the field, jumping on top of each other as they celebrate the win. The band claps and cheers beside you, and you glance at them before looking back towards the field and seeing Oscar running straight towards you.
Your heartbeat picks up immediately, and you’re already standing up, already leaning on the barrier that separates the audience from the cricket field when he reaches you, hands coming up to your waist as he pulls you towards him, hugging you tight.
His uniform is damp with sweat, and he holds you for a few seconds before jumping over the barrier, getting dangerously close, fingers reaching up towards your jaw, eyes looking down at your mouth before looking back up into your eyes.
You expect him to just do it. You told him he could, right at the start of this mess, if they won the championship. When they won, he had corrected you.
Instead, he whispers, out of air, his breath caressing your lips, “can I?”
The question undoes you in a way you could never prepare yourself for. It makes your heart burn, your skin flush, your body tingle, and you barely feel yourself moving — you just watch it happen. Your hands come up to the collar of his jersey, and, in a second, you’re pulling him in, shoving your mouth against his with an urgency you’ve never felt before in your life.
The world melts away. You can only feel Oscar’s hands on your jaw, then on your waist, then tangling in your hair. His firm body presses against yours, and he tastes of salt and sweat, and you don’t want it to end.
It lasts a second, a minute, an hour. Either way, it’s not enough.
When he pulls away, your lips follow, chasing his. It’s the cheering from the team that snaps you back into reality, the hoots and delighted laughs that make your cheeks burn red as the boys start clapping each other on the back, throwing cricket balls at Oscar in celebration.
You let out a laugh that comes out like a breath, and he grins boyishly at you in a way that turns everything around you golden — his hair, his eyes, the sky, the feeling in your chest. He kisses your cheek tenderly before turning towards the team, jumping the barrier again and throwing himself at them. You smile as they all bump into each other, jumping in place and cheering.
After that, time stretches. You chat with Charles as the boys go into their locker rooms to shower and change, and, when they come out, you hear them talk about throwing a celebration party next Friday, about Instagram posts and trophies and the next season.
Oscar smiles warmly at you when he reaches you again, pulling you against his side as he says goodbye to the others and starts guiding you towards his car, hand lingering on the small of your back.
The flowers are still waiting for you on the passenger seat when he opens your door. You take them carefully, placing them on your lap as he walks around the car, slips in, and starts the engine.
He starts speaking as soon as the car starts, going nonstop about the game and how fun it was and how happy he is that they won, that you were there, that the band was there, that they’re the cricket champions. You smile brightly at his enthusiasm, but then something inside you dims.
The season is over.
He doesn’t notice the change in you until he parks the car right by your dorm building. When he does, he seems to quiet down as well, studying you hesitantly before asking for the first time since you stopped inviting him, “can I go up with you?”
You release a tired sigh, unable to look at him, focusing on the flowers on your lap.
“You don’t have to, Oscar,” your voice is quiet, sorrowful, “the season is over.”
It hits him at that moment, his face falling before his eyebrows furrow in confusion.
“No, it’s not. You still have the final round of nationals next weekend.”
“Oscar,” it sounds like begging, but you don’t know how else to say it, “the deal was for you. The season ended for you. We don’t need to drag this for another week,” your eyes sting, “it’s over.”
An awful silence takes over the car. The two of you just sit there, and you feel something like grief settle in your chest.
When he speaks, his voice is quiet, tentative. “It doesn’t have to be.”
Your head snaps up to look at him, face contorting with warning. “Oscar.”
"Can we talk? Upstairs?"
His words sound so raw, so vulnerable, that it makes something inside you break.
"Please?" He adds, and it just makes everything worse.
You sigh again, voice as quiet as his.
"Okay."
Tension builds between the two of you during the elevator ride up to your dorm, and you let out a relieved sigh when you see your roommate isn’t home for the day, leaving the small room empty.
You're still holding onto your flowers as you sit down on your bed, side by side, your fingers gripping the green stems as he turns his head to look at you.
"So," he starts after a few seconds of awkward quiet, "what's up with you?"
You blink at the question.
"Nothing," you answer, and you can taste the lie on your tongue.
"No, it's not nothing," he shakes his head in denial, eyebrows furrowing, studying you intently — the way your body is tense, the way your knuckles hold the flowers, the way you keep avoiding his gaze. "We were doing fine, and now you can't even look at me. Back there — we kissed, and for a second it felt like everything was fine and we could be friends, at least, and then you start talking about ending things and being distant again. What's wrong? I feel like I'm dating a ghost."
"Well, except you're not dating anyone, right? Maybe that's the problem."
Oscar blinks down at you.
"What?"
"We're not dating," you answer, gripping the stems so tight you can feel its ridges marking your palm and fingers, "that's the problem. I—," you stop yourself, face growing hot with embarrassment.
In a moment, his entire demeanor changes. His body tenses up, his fingers flex against his thighs.
"Why?" He leans towards you with so much intensity you can't help but meet his stare, heartbeat picking up at his eagerness, the way his expression seems to beg for something you can barely understand. His voice is low, and it sends a pleasant shiver through your spine. "Why is that the problem?"
"You know why," your voice cracks right down the middle, and you swallow dryly, "you know why," you repeat, clearly this time, breath hitching as he leans even closer.
"I—," he answers quietly, and you can't take your eyes away from him, from the way he looks back at you. He clears his throat, "don't do this to me."
"Don't do what?" You whisper in return, suddenly hyper aware of how close he is.
"Don't— don't make it sound—," Oscar shakes his head almost as if he's waking himself up, leaning away from you. You let out a breath as space grows between you. "Why haven't you been talking to me? Why have you been ignoring me for the entire week?"
You sigh deeply, finally able to look the other way.
"I got too attached," you admit, hands fidgeting with the flowers before you sigh again and stand up to lay the bouquet on your desk. "I didn't—I don't know how to deal with that."
You left the bed hoping it would help with the weird tension hovering around the room. It doesn't.
He stands up, following you around the dorm, and, when you turn your back to your desk, he's right there, arms crossed, looking down at you. He's not as close as he was before, but he's close enough to make your heartbeat skyrocket again.
"And why didn't you say anything? Why did you let me kiss you like that if you—if that’s how you feel?"
"You know why," you say for the third time, fingers gripping the edge of your desk table. "I didn’t want to ruin it when it’s so close to ending. I didn't want to—"
"Admit it wasn't fake anymore?"
You stop. You stare at him. He stares back.
"Yeah."
He lets out a shaky breath.
"You mean that?"
He looks uncertain, almost hopeful. Something about it makes your heart burn inside your chest, quiet but insistent. It feels like it's meant to happen — like every road, every argument, every smile, every touch, every laugh led to this, to this moment, to the way Oscar stares at you as if you're holding his heart in your palm, as if he's begging you not to crush it.
And he's holding yours in his.
"Yes," your answer comes out like a prayer, airy and fearful, "I haven't been faking it for a while."
He chuckles quietly, and the sound turns your insides molten. His hand comes up to your jaw just like it had in the cricket field, and he cradles your face hesitantly, afraid of being pushed away.
"I don't think I was ever faking it at all," he confesses, and your breath hitches when his nose touches yours, "I think I've been in love with you since freshman year, when we talked at that cocktail party and I spent weeks wishing for you to call."
You watch him intently. He breathes in deeply.
"You swept me off my feet the day we met and I just couldn't get over it, even when we didn't get along well. I guess the reason I even asked you to pretend to be my girlfriend is because I couldn't imagine even pretending to have feelings for someone else."
You smile softly and watch the way his cheeks turn pink at the sight. It immediately weakens any resolve you might have, any doubt, any fear.
"Good", is all you whisper in return, and then you slot your lips against his once more.
This time, it isn’t urgent, quick, or rushed. Oscar sighs into your mouth, and the feeling sends sparks down your spine and up your neck, something hot and sweet running through your veins.
He hums when your fingers come up to tangle themselves in his hair, and the hand that isn't holding your jaw moves to your waist, gripping you firmly but delicately, strongly but carefully.
His lips travel down to your neck, leaving a burning trail on their wake, and you tug at his hair lightly, making him sigh again.
"So much for 'no kissing', huh?" He mumbles against your neck, and you can't help the snort that leaves you before your hands move to his collar, pulling him away from your neck so you can look at him.
"Shut the fuck up, Piastri," and then your mouth is on his again, feeling the way he smiles cheekily against you and then feeling the way his smile dissolves as your tongue touches his lip.
He sighs once more when your tongue touches his, arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer. Your bodies collide, and you can feel every inch of your skin burning.
You kiss him again and again and again until both your lips are red and swollen, until his hands travel under your shirt, until his hair sticks up in five different directions.
You can't stop yourself. You don't want to.
Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.
Oscar Piastri, in love with you since freshman year.
Oscar Piastri, kissing the air out of your lungs, holding you close, sending sparks through your body.
Oh, you're in too deep.
✶✶✶
liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 1,024 others
yourusername no but like it's FOR REAL this time
tagged: oscarpiastri
oscarpiastri truly swept you off your feet, huh? ♡ liked by yourusername
↳ yourusername shut up
↳ yourusername yeah you did
oscarpiastri ❤️❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername
alexandrasaintmleux CALL ME RIGHT NOW? ♡ liked by yourusername
landonorris what's that caption about
liked by yourusername, landonorris and 1,101 others
oscarpiastri well to ME it was real all along
tagged: yourusername
kikagomes even his ig posts are looking like yours.... you got him good @.yourusername
↳ oscarpiastri she really does!
kimiantonelli literally my parents please give me more rides after competitions dad ♡ liked by oscarpiastri
yourusername well i DID kiss you first in the end ♡ liked by oscarpiastri
↳ oscarpiastri did i look pitiful at the time?
↳↳ yourusername just a little bit ♡ liked by oscarpiastri
check out my masterlist!
THIS TOOK ME A LIFETIME OMGGGG I'M SO GLAD SHE'S OUT IN THE WORLD <3 really hope you guys enjoyed, likes and reblogs are always appreciated :)
summary: You SWEAR you have met the cute boy in the cafe before, but he swears you have NOT
content/warnings: MINORS PLEASE DO NOT INTERACT! 18+ THEMES!! not necessarily smut, but sex is a major plot point! mild language, very small mention of alcohol,
word count: 1.5 k
pairing: oscar piastri x reader
a/n: this is barely proofread 😁 i miss watching these silly boys go around in circles can the break be over
You aimlessly take another sip out of your coffee, proofreading the email in front of you for the fourth time before willing to hit send. This is how a lot of your morning looked now, and you loved it.
Your job had offered to move you into a fully remote position, which you gladly took. It was your dream to see the world, and now you could, all while still having a steady stream of income to support it. You had been living out of a suitcase for around 6 months now. You were just flying by the seam of your pants, willing the wind to take you where it pleased.
You arrived in Australia 2 weeks ago, your 15th country. Your mornings so far had been spent in random coffee shops, bumming their free wifi that was infinitely stronger than the hotel’s you were staying at. Your afternoons had been spent at the beach or sightseeing. And your nights, well, they had been spent at, probably, one too many clubs.
You hover your mouse over the paper airplane button and hit it, promptly closing your laptop after checking that it did, in fact, actually send. You let out a brief sigh of relief, letting your posture finally fall into a more natural position as you close your eyes for just a second. Opening them, they fall on the two other long, empty coffee cups sitting on the table, collecting condensation from the cold air conditioning.
Your eyes dart over to your phone lying on the table. You reach out your hand and grab it for the first time since you set it down earlier in the morning. You scrolled through the few notifications that had accrued throughout the day before finally looking at the time. You were expecting to see 12 or 1-aka the time you wanted to stop working, instead you found a giant 3:00 staring back at you. You slightly groaned, another week of totaling over 40 hours of work.
You set the phone back down where it had been and grabbed the three cups you had acquired. You made your way over to the trash cans that were on the other side of the cafe. You had been too engulfed in your work to realize that the once-empty cafe now had quite a few patrons. Your eyes scanned the place, just for a moment to take in the day for the first time. That’s when your eyes caught someone. You did a double-take, practically not believing them yourself.
The same swoopy hair, the same downward turned eyes and smile.
It was him.
You hadn’t stopped thinking about him since last Tuesday. The man who had given you the best sex of your life.
He was quiet in the club, barely moving his head to the sound of the bass. He was sitting with a friend at the bar when you walked up and sat beside him. You weren’t looking for anything but a good vodka cranberry at that moment, but when he turned and smiled at you and said Hey in that Aussie accent, the drink left your brain, and all that was left was him.
You hadn’t planned to go home with anyone that night, but when he asked, well, how could you have said no?
You were expecting him to be very vanilla, very calm, based on how he was at the club.
Boy! Were you wrong!
He was rough, but gentle in all of the best ways. He listened to you, begged you to tell him what you wanted. And you know how people tell you it’s not about how big it is, but how well it is used? Luckily for you, this man had both down pat.
Your breath just hitched thinking about it again. You could still see him hovering over you with that damn shoulder tattoo you kept staring at the whole night.
You regretted not getting his number the next day. You had planned on asking him when he woke up, but a work emergency had come up, and so you had to rush back to your hotel. You tried all afternoon to find your way back to his apartment, but you could never seem to. You didn’t necessarily think it was a good idea to show back up at a random man’s apartment, but you had to at least try; he needed to be praised for his work at the very least, you thought.
You had finally come to terms with the fact that you were never going to see him again. That you were going to spend your whole life trying to chase the high of that night.
But here he was. In a random cafe. Sipping his coffee and scrolling on his phone.
You walked back over to your table and grabbed your laptop and phone, gripping both firmly in your hands as you walked over to his table. You were not letting this chance go untaken this time. You were not leaving this cafe without this boy’s phone number.
You set your stuff down on the table by his iced coffee and took the seat across from the man, still scrolling on his phone.
“I never thought I would see you again.” You say with a smile, leaning in and placing your hands under your chin.
The boy finally looked up, brow furrowed so much you could have made a swimming pool in the wrinkles between them. “Do I know you?”
You let out a dry laugh, leaning back into the chair. “Yes,” then dropping your voice to a whisper, “Last Tuesday night.”
He furrowed his brows even more and picked up the coffee sitting on the table. “Last Tuesday?”
You leaned up again, voice once again barely above a whisper, “We had sex.”
He nearly spit out his drink, his pupils went big, cheeks blushed. “I think you have the wrong guy.”
You shook your head; you had never been more certain of anything in your life. “Nope, you’re Brad. You’re an architect.”
The man across from you shook his head, placing down the coffee again, “Nope. My name is Oscar.”
You let out a sharp, dry laugh. “Okay, maybe I didn’t remember you’re name, but you are an architect, aren’t you?” You finished, playfully pointing at him.
He shook his head again, “Definitely not. I’m a race car driver.”
You let out a breath, now getting fed up with him pretending like he didn’t know you. It hadn’t even been a week. “Okay, well, I know you have a tattoo on your right shoulder.”
The boy sharply inhaled before slightly shaking his head again, “I hate needles.”
You threw your arms up in defeat. “I know I didn’t hallucinate the tattoo.”
He pulled down his shirt collar to expose a very muscular, but very bare shoulder, “Not saying you did.”
“So, the tattoo is on your left shoulder.” You say, pointing to it. You had never been good at distinguishing between your left and right.
He did the same thing, though; he showed you his very tattoo-less left shoulder, too, adding in another head shake. “You have the wrong guy. I wasn’t even in Australia last Tuesday.”
He flipped his phone around to show you a photo of somewhere in Italy, and above it showed it was taken last Tuesday.
Your cheeks instantly heated up. How was it possible that the man sitting across from you looked that much like the man you had slept with? This moment was now forever etched in your mind as a top 3 embarrassing moment, and it definitely wasn’t in second or third place.
You thought about telling him this was all a part of an elaborate prank that someone had set up. You thought about apologizing around 100 times. All your mouth could get out, though, was, “I think you might have a doppelganger.”
That, at least, earned a laugh from him, “Thanks for letting me know.”
You gave him a short, awkward nod and stood up to collect your things from the table.
“Hold on,” He said, holding out a hand to touch your hand, which was currently picking up your phone, “I have a question.”
You slowly sat back down. You wanted to go into a hole and hide for the rest of your life after this moment. You didn’t want to hear the question, assuming it was going to be him asking for your full name for the court documents to get a restraining order against you.
“Was the sex that good?” He asked, leaning back in the chair.
You paused, nodding your head, “Yeah, It really was.”
He nodded his head back, pushing his phone over to you. “I may not be Brad, but, I am free tonight if you want to give me your number.”
You slowly picked up the phone and entered your number before pushing it back over with a smile. Maybe Oscar wasn’t Brad; maybe Oscar would be even better.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
✓ Live Streaming✓ Interactive Chat✓ Private Shows✓ HD Quality✓ Free Actions
Free to watch • No registration required • HD streaming
oscar piastri x yn!singer x ex!jacob elordi - social media au | request — here
fc: sabrina carpenter
summary — oscar's crush on a certain singer is reveled when his mom makes it her mission to embarrass her son..
─── oscar masterlist !
note — (manips made by me) i've been so nba focused recently so sorry this took a while to put out !! another fic with sabrina as the face claim don't hate me... (prob some misspellings but we ignore) thank you for this request !!! likes, reblog's and comments are always appreciated ❤
Liked by oscarpiastri, clario and 4,748,362 others
yourinstagram ACL weekend 2 💛 such a special night.
you were so loud and rowdy Texas i miss you already but i do nottt miss that heat thank you goodbye, till next time Austin x
also maybe look out for some new music... 💋
view all comments
user1 such cute looks every time
user2 NEW MUSIC?!?!?
user3 what a fun performance!
user4 so in love with the fits, i need that dress..
user5 girl why is oscar piastri here? 😭
->user6 he's mentioned her music a handful of times!
->user7 i think he's a fan lol
user8 omggg the curly hair is so gorg
user9 if your going to do anything it's put on a show!
user10 need to go to a show SOOOON
☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆
☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆
Liked by oscarpiastri, rachelzegler and 5,663,857 others
yourinstagram a little song called "nobody's son" that i've been working on for the past few weeks is coming out tonight so i hope you all enjoy xoxo <3
view all comments
user1 I LOVE IT!!
user2 we're leaving #HIM in the past queen
nicolepiastri Love the song! I have a good son! Liked by yourinstagram!
->oscarpiastri ????
->oscarpiastri MOM????
->user3 THIS IS CRAZYYY
->user4 Y/N LIKING HER COMMENT BRUHHH
->user5 oscar's gonna go into hiding after this
user6 this song is going to hit so hard live
chappellroan ate Liked by yourinstagram!
user7 im only here because of oscars moms comment but i love the song <3
user8 you done it again!!! it's so good
clario perfect as always Liked by yourinstagram!
user9 actually in love with this song LOVE ITTT
user10 this cover art and the song 10s!
☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆
☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆
Liked by user1, user2 and 653,846 others
enews Formula One Driver Oscar Piastri talks about the comment his mom left on Y/n L/n's Instagram post.
"I felt a little bad, my mom didn't have ill intentions but I knew when I saw the comment that it would end up becoming a story and I didn't want to subject her (Y/n L/n) to that. I'll probably send a apology gift."
Click the link in our bio to read more.
view all comments
user1 his reaction to it being "MOM?????" is still so funny to me
yourinstagram omg nooo, i thought it was really sweet!! it made me laugh :)
->oscarpiastri 😅 So no gift necessary?
->yourinstagram we could work something out..
->user2 we are witnessing the start of something beautiful
->user3 oscar flirting on main? never thought i'd see the day
user4 y/n liking his moms comment and not saying anything was hilarious
user5 i really love when random celebs have these kinda crossovers
user6 one of them has to be playing 4d chess, this is such a random interaction
user7 "i'll probably send a apology gift" i hate him
user8 it's kinda sweet he didn't want to subject her to f1 fans 😭
user9 my niche f1 driver on enews what the hell :0
☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆
☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆
Liked by user1, user2 and 733,846 others
enews Jacob Elordi talks going through a public break up with popstar Y/n L/n.
"Relationships aren't really supposed to be so public and if it doesn't work out it becomes bigger than you, there can be things said that were in the moment and now it's out in the public. The only thing you can do is move on, and I obviously have."
When asked for a comment Y/n L/n and her team declined.
view all comments
user1 he knows the only way he's going to get clicks is to mention y/n 🙃
user2 girl we really dont gaf
user3 "and i obviously have" but waited until she was seen with someone else to say something... right
->user4 he's such a loser
->user5 like it's so obvious why he chose now to say something
user6 anyways... everyone make sure to stream nobody's son
user7 bros doing the sad boy act as if we didn't hear nobodys son
user8 shes moved on dude no need to keep dragging it
user9 okay im over this "heartbroken" gimmick he keeps doing, we saw him holding a girls hand not even a month after they split
☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆
☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆
Liked by oscarpiastri, rachelzegler and 6,748,362 others
yourinstagram a weekend filled with many happy tears <3
view all comments
user1 come on face card
user2 at least your a pretty crier ❤
valtteribottas Not pictured was y/n beating me at paddle ball
->yourinstagram didn't want to embarrass you guys 🙂
->oscarpiastri how kind of you ❤
->user3 "Peral is so kind ❤"
->user4 y/n is the only real athlete on that plane
user5 y/n and valtteri bottas on the same plane "what the hell, sure"
user6 IM SO HAPPY FOR U TWO!!
user7 the tears are so real mama
user8 we were looking forward to seeing u on tv diva 😔
user9 the balloons and decorations 🥺
user10 already such an iconic couple 🤭
☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆
☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆ - ☆
Liked by yourinstagram, lewishamilton and 3,672,856 others
oscarpiastri 🏝➡🏎
view all comments
user1 omg the kitty!!
->yourinstagram called him vroom and wanted to take him home so badd
->user2 so adorable 😭
user3 y/n looks like a princess wow
user4 i too would make y/n my entire personality
user5 bro got a girl and don't know how to act
nicolepiastri See! I have a son! Liked by oscarpiastri !
->yourinstagram and he's good!!
->user6 THANK YOU MAMA PIASTRI
->user7 the only reason we have this royal couple ty ❤
user8 u both look so hot 😩
user9 are you serious.... y/n looks so perfect
user10 so in love with this photo dump thank you king
user11 THE PEOPLES PRINCESS
user12 thank you nicole piastri for commenting on y/n's post 👏
summary: 5 times oscar tries to reach out to his new team manager, who he's pretty sure hates his guts, and 1 time his team manager reaches out to him instead.
contains: strangers to lovers, curse words, a little bit of angst, charles and reader are childhood besties, descriptions of fist fighting and a little blood (it's a hockey fic it was needed) (it’s just a little bit of blood), fluff, tiny glimpses of lando and charles playing matchmaker
word count: 8.1k
a/n: BRING BACK 5+1S!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!! special thanks to mara @lyricsandvenom and star @starry-132173 for reading this first, and the MOST special thanks to jackie @motorsportbarbie13 for explaining hockey to me!!!!!!! oscar plays in the red wings just for you fr <3
masterlist!
To put it simply, Oscar thought he was imagining it at first.
He has to admit that he was pretty excited when he got traded in from his old team, specially when he found out he'd be playing with Lando again. The media had gone crazy — the Wonder Duo from McLaren University playing defense together once more, this time in professional hockey. An opportunity of a lifetime that filled the sport with expectations. More than that, it was lovely to actually work with Lando after all the years they spent only playing together on free weekends, still good friends despite all the time passed.
As a new addition to the Detroit Red Wings, Oscar made a point to build a good relationship with his team. Not only with his teammates, but also with the staff, the managers, the coaches. Hockey is a team sport, his old coach taught him back in the college league, and that goes beyond the rink.
And he didn't really worry about it. It's obvious that the team manager would be closer to the older players in the team — you had known most of those guys for years, some for your whole life, and it made sense for you to be a little hesitant towards him at the start.
Except it didn't go away.
The first thing he notices is how close you and the right winger are. Charles has been in the team for around 3 years, now, and Oscar starts taking note of how the two of you leave the rink together sometimes, how you apparently have dinner at his house with him and his fiancée every once in a while.
A couple of weeks in, someone mentions you and Charles went to high school together, and that the two of you have known each other since you were kids. He got traded in almost a year after you started managing the Red Wings, which turned into the staff making jokes over how Charles only got into the team out of some sort of nepotism. Oscar laughs about it when Max brings it up in the locker room, and smiles when, later, Charles tell him he's glad to be known as the manager's childhood friend.
From that, it makes sense for you and Max Verstappen, their center and captain, to get along as well. Max and Charles were like Oscar and Lando, in a way — played with each other in their college years, grew into hockey together. Oscar can understand why you'd be close with him if you've always known Charles, even though Max is potentially the scariest person in and outside of the rink.
Oscar tries really hard to rationalize all of it. You, Ollie, and Gabi are attached at the hip because Bearman, goalie, and Bortoleto, left winger, are basically your younger siblings, and they got traded in many months before Oscar even started negotiating with the Red Wings. There has been time and opportunity for your friendship to grow, so it's fine, it makes sense, Oscar understands.
Now, he can't fucking get past the way you act with Lando.
Oscar and Lando joined the team at roughly the same time. They saw you the same amount of times. They even play in the same position, for fuck's sake.
And yet — you already act around Lando in the same way you act with the rest of the team: carefree, enthusiastic, funny, making intelligent jokes and giving teasing jabs. You grow into that friendship easily, chatting nonstop during quick breaks and laughing loudly whenever you interact before and after games.
So Oscar genuinely, truthfully thought he was imagining it at first.
But after a couple of months, he becomes pretty sure that you just hate his guts.
He can't come up with another reason why you can barely look him in the eye. You have inside jokes and anecdotes with every single player in the team, except him. You go out of your way to talk to everyone, except him. You have an actual friendship with everyone, except him.
It's not that you're mean or cruel — you aren't! You're polite. You're nice. Professional. Efficient.
It drives Oscar fucking insane. With everyone else, you waste your time, you talk, you laugh, you joke, you tease, you complain. With him, it's don't worry, Mr. Piastri; I'm on it, Mr. Piastri; I've already taken care of it, Mr. Piastri; do you need anything, Mr. Piastri?
Oscar's been in the team for three months when he decides to bring it up to Lando.
"I think our manager hates me," he introduces the topic late one evening, while they walk together to the parking lot after practice, and the image of your carefully neutral expression while you listened to him stutter when he asked you if you could get his skates sharpened is burned inside his eyelids.
Lando turns his head to look at him, eyebrows furrowed in confusion, staring as if Oscar's fucking crazy.
"Y/N?" He says your name like a holy grail, and it drives the knife further. "Osc, she's the best manager I've had in my life. She solves every issue before it even appears. She's the nicest person in this team."
"Yes, and she hates me." Oscar shakes his head in annoyance, standing still beside Lando's car when they finally reach it. "She doesn't even speak to me unless it's strictly necessary. She's friends with every other guy in the team but me."
"Mate, she's a lovely girl." And Lando's still looking at him as if he's insane, and Oscar feels like it. "Maybe you just haven't been… you know, approachable."
Oscar blinks.
"Approachable?"
"I mean, yeah." Lando shrugs, hand patting down his duffel bag until he finds his car keys. "Maybe you're just not giving her signs that you want to be friends with her like the other guys are. She can definitely be a little reserved — maybe try reaching out first?"
Oscar stares in disbelief as Lando finally unlocks his car, throwing his bag in the backseat as soon as he opens the driver's door.
"She doesn't seem reserved with anyone else," he complains, a hint of bitterness sticking to his words.
"Maybe, but being more friendly can't hurt, right?" Lando speaks as he climbs into the driver's seat, looking at Oscar from inside, door still open. "Friendships are a two-way street, aren't they?"
He mumbles something in return that his teammate can't quite hear, and waves unenthusiastically while Lando drives away, sighing deeply before he starts walking towards his car, parked a few feet away.
When Oscar is finally sitting inside his car, he grips the wheel and stares ahead, eyebrows furrowed with frustration, thinking over Lando's words.
He guesses he could be more approachable. He's not sure that's really the issue, but he guesses he could try. Just to check.
Oscar turns on the car.
Yeah. He can check.
His first opportunity happens as soon as the following day.
Oscar wakes up his usual time. He goes out for his morning run, comes back home, and then starts getting ready for hockey practice.
He usually arrives a few minutes before practice, just enough to stretch, tidy up his spot on the locker room and make sure everything is in place. This time, he arrives even earlier so he can get used to his reserve skates for the morning — he left his regular pair with you for sharpening, and there's no better way to get used to another than by getting into the rink.
You're already there, and Oscar realizes he's never seen you skate before.
You do it completely naturally. It's not flashy, not calculated, not complicated — you're just skating around the ice as if you were taking a walk in the park, hands behind your back, eyes ahead, clearly lost in your own thoughts, moving just for the sake of moving.
It's nice. Like watching a fish swim.
"Good morning," he clears his throat slightly, worried he'll startle you, and your head snaps towards him.
He watches as your eyes widen in surprise, and then you're already skating towards the edge of the rink, face slightly flushed.
"Good morning, Mr. Piastri," you answer, and you're the image of professionalism, and Oscar hates it. "You're here early."
"Yeah, I—uh—," he lifts his duffel bag as if it explains something, and it feels so incredibly stupid. "Needed to—need to get used to the reserve skates."
"Oh, I got you some as well," and you're getting out of the rink, sitting down to slip off your ice skates. Oscar feels weirdly bad about it. "I wasn't sure you'd want to wear your own reserve pair or not, so I made sure you'd have one here. They're on your spot in the locker room. Do you want me to grab them for you, Mr. Piastri?"
"No, it's okay," he says awkwardly, fidgeting in his own spot. "Mine are already broken in, so there's no need. They're just not my favorite."
You nod, tying the shoelaces on the sneakers you put on. "That's fair. I already asked our equipment manager to sharpen your usual pair — he's not here this morning, but he'll do if after lunch, so you can wear yours during afternoon practice if you want."
"Right." He nods back, still stuck in place. "Thank you."
"The other guys usually just get their blades switched." You stand up, holding your skates in one hand. "If you'd rather that."
"No, I—I don't like getting them switched that often. Maybe next time, though."
You smile politely.
"Okay."
An awkward beat passes by. Usually, Oscar would give you an uncomfortable smile, nod, and head into the locker room. This time, however, he remembers Lando's words — being more friendly can't hurt, right?
"You— uhm—," he begins, and you look as shocked as he feels about the fact he's trying to make conversation, "you enjoy skating?"
You blink at him slowly, clearly confused.
"I— yes?"
He fidgets with his bag. You fidget with the pair of skates in your hands. Oscar wants to kill himself from the absolute awkwardness of this clearly failing trial of being approachable.
"Did you—," he clears his throat and it sounds like nails scratching a chalkboard somehow, "did you play any ice skating sports back in college?"
"No." He can see the way you grip your skates, clearly uncomfortable. "I ran track back in college."
"Right. Did you want to go professional or…?"
"Not really." You shift your weight from one foot to the other. "I always knew I wanted to work with sports, but I've never been an athlete myself. I only skate and run for fun."
"That's cool." Oscar does his best interested face and worries he's only managing to look slightly constipated. "And how did you end up working with hockey?"
"Well—"
You're interrupted by Gabi's loud good morning! as the boy enters the rink, and he is forced to acknowledge the way the tension immediately leaves your shoulders, a soft smile taking over your expression as you look to the entrance.
"Gabi! Hey!"
And you can't get away from Oscar fast enough, nodding politely towards him before speed walking to the left winger, who greets you with a kiss on the cheek and a half hug.
Bortoleto waves excitedly at him while he walks by your side towards the locker room, listening as you talk excitedly, easy and smiling in a way that's completely opposite to how his attempt at speaking with you went.
You hate him. You must do.
However. Now he knows that you ran track in college. And you were about to actually answer his question about your— your professional journey or whatever, so maybe that could've turned into a meaningful conversation eventually.
Despite the fact this was clearly a failure, it fills Oscar with a weird sense of motivation.
He can try being friendly again.
Maybe without startling you out of the ice rink next time.
Oscar isn't sure how, but he ends up squished between you and Charles a week later, sitting down in the team's favorite pizzeria after days full of awkward nods and polite greetings. The NHL season is in full swing, and the Red Wings' game that weekends ends with a sparkling victory that paints every face with a bright smile. It also ends with a team dinner.
And it leads Oscar to sit right next to you.
Lando sits on your other side, entirely engrossed in conversation with Ollie, which, quite honestly, convinces Oscar that his shoulder is brushing yours due to some sort of scheming from his favorite teammate.
He's even surer of that after a few seconds of awkward silence, when Lando shoots him a meaningful glare and then glances pointedly at you.
Oscar clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable, focusing really hard on his goal of being more friendly and approachable.
"Hey."
What a fucking awful, terrible start.
"Hi." Your eyes are painted with barely veiled surprise.
Another beat of silence goes by.
"Did you enjoy the game?"
It's a stupid question. They won. Of course you enjoyed the game, even though you had to help Max clean his bloody brow while he served his penalty for fighting in the rink. There's a bruise already forming on his face, an ugly mix of yellow and purple.
"I guess, yes." You pause for a second, and the way you choose to keep talking is so tentative and unsure Oscar can feel his heart rate spike with expectation. "You and Lando did an amazing job today. They just couldn't get past you, even when they were pushing really hard."
Thoughtful. Nice. Maybe this is getting somewhere.
"Thank you! It was a hard match, but Lando and I work pretty well together."
"You definitely do, Mr. Piastri."
And there we go.
"You can call me Oscar, you know," he offers, trying to sound the most casual he can about it, but he knows there's frustration slowly dripping from his every word, "I'm just another guy from the team, it's fine."
You blink and shrink into your chair, clearly taken aback by his tone.
"Oh, okay. Sorry, I didn't know it made you uncomfortable."
"It doesn't— it's okay. Sorry. Just— you can call me Oscar, really. I don't mind."
One more awful beat of silence.
Oscar isn't sure why it upsets him this much. You're not obligated to like him. However, he likes to think he's a pretty nice guy, and he doesn't understand why the fuck you can barely look at him when he's never been anything but nice to you — specially considering the way you've managed to become friends with every single other player on the team.
In the back of his mind, he's slightly aware that it's because he thinks you're pretty lovely, as well. He likes the sound of your laugh, the way your voice has a happy lilt whenever you congratulate the team after a victory, and specially after a loss — keeping morale up no matter what. He likes your smile, the way your eyebrows furrow when you're paying attention, the way your roll your eyes when Gabi and Ollie are saying something stupid and you're forced to hear it.
You, always so sweet, friendly, funny. It feels childish, in a way, but he can't help it — he wants you to smile at him too.
"Okay, Oscar," and he loves how his name sounds from your mouth, making him blush even while his irritation lingers.
"You were telling me about track the other day." He doesn't let another beat pass by, trying to pick up some imaginary momentum, bringing up the first thing he can think of — the only thing he knows about you. "Were you any good at it?"
It comes out way too blunt and stupid, but you give a surprised, honest laugh at the question, and Oscar feels something bloom inside his chest.
"I was, yes." Your words come out intertwined with a quiet giggle. "Not the best, sure, but pretty good. Got a few medals back home."
"Yeah?" He encourages, leaning even further towards you, pressing his shoulder against yours. "Did you do distance? Or sprinting?"
Your eyebrows rise, but you seem happy with the question, content with his interest, even if his knowledge is unexpected.
"Both. But my favorite was hurdles."
"Oh, hurdles is so fun to watch." He gives you a small smile, and you nod excitedly.
"I had a lot of fun with it. I really do enjoy running, and I could jump quite high too." You fidget with your hands, but it seems more like a thinking habit than anything else. "Hurdles was the most challenging for me. I think that's why I liked it so much. It felt good to do well at something that felt so difficult."
Oscar's smile widens. "That's really impressive, you know?" You dismiss the compliment with a wave of your hand and warm cheeks, and he chuckles. "I was awful at it — tried it out in high school."
"It's not for everyone," you agree, skin still flushed, smile fighting to take over your lips, "but hockey isn't either."
He chuckles.
"Yeah, that's true. Specially with all the fighting."
"Right!" Your eyes widen in the way he's seen they do whenever you're enthusiastic about something, and he can't believe he's experiencing it first hand. "You guys really need to wrap that shit up. It's a problem."
"My dear, the fighting is an essential part of the sport," Charles interrupts, and your eyes soften when they meet his. "You can't wrap it up! That's a betrayal to our traditions!"
"I know it's important," you concede, "I don't enjoy cleaning you guys up, though. We're an NHL team, we should get someone else to do that instead of leaving it to the team manager to do."
"Oh, we can all tell you don't like it," Max chimes in from the other side of the table, voice full of fake annoyance, "the way you poked at my bruise today was enough proof of that."
"You deserved it," you grin teasingly, giggling, and Max's jaw drops in exaggerated disbelief.
Oscar watches as your focus slips away from him, the conversation reaching every end of the table as the entire team erupts in excited chatting.
He doesn't mind.
He made you laugh.
"You've known her for a long time, right?"
Charles looks up from his skates to follow Oscar's gaze on you, breathing heavily as they sit together on the bench during a quick break from practice two weeks after that dinner. Their coach is lecturing Lando about something while they catch their breath.
"I have." Charles nods thoughtfully. "She's one of my best friends. She's gonna be a bridesmaid at my wedding — Alexandra loves her."
"That's nice." Oscar's hand comes up to wipe away some of the sweat on his forehead. "Is it true that you only joined the team because of her influence here?"
He laughs loudly at the question, a grin taking over his lips as he shakes his head in amusement.
"Oh, absolutely." He laughs again. "She definitely hyped me up way more than she should to the board when they started talking about trading me in." Charles looks towards you again, watching you fondly, and then turns his head to meet Oscar's curious eyes. "She's like a sister to me. Did you know she was my hockey team manager back in high school too?"
Oscar's eyebrows rise in surprise.
"Really?"
"Yeah. She told me back then that she was going to get into Business and Management School so she could become the President of a big sports team someday." Charles smiles with caring amusement. "She's definitely gonna make it."
Oscar can't help but smile too.
"Yeah, I believe that."
"Piastri, Leclerc, get off your asses and back on the ice!" Coach yells from the middle of the rink, an echo of yes, sir quickly ringing out from the bench as they stand up on their skates.
For a passing moment, Oscar studies you, talking with the equipment manager by the bleachers, adjusting a strand of your hair behind your ear while you listen attentively.
Practice runs late and when the team leaves the ice, the sky is already dark. You linger around the rink, on the phone with another team's manager to set up a friendly game before the next NHL match on the following week.
Oscar showers and changes and still finds you on your office, typing furiously on your laptop when he knocks on the open door.
Your interactions are still… complicated. You don't start conversations, and there's this lingering awkwardness that permeates every glance you share.
But you've started calling him Oscar instead of Mr. Piastri, and he's even managed to ask you about your day a few times.
Now, he's taking it a step further.
"Hey." He smiles when you look up from your laptop to meet his eyes, anxiety churning inside his stomach.
"Hi." You smile back, and it's awkward and weird and his heart flutters for some reason he doesn't really want to understand. "Are you guys done for the day?"
"Yeah." Oscar leans into the doorframe, fingers gripping the strap of his backpack more tightly than necessary. "I think everyone's already gone home."
You look down at your watch, eyebrows raising slightly when you take note of the time, sighing tiredly before leaning back on your chair.
"The hours pass by too quick when I'm doing paperwork," you mumble, and he lets out a quiet laugh. You look back up at him. "Why haven't you gone home as well?"
And this is when Oscar is taking a leap of faith, which is a very dramatic way of thinking about it, sure, but it does feel like an enormous gesture to him, specially considering he's still not sure you've stopped hating him.
"I was waiting for you," he starts, and it comes out a little creepy, so he's quick to continue, "I thought I could give you a ride home? I know you usually take the bus."
Fuck, is that worse? Did he manage to come off even creepier?
"Ollie mentioned it," he adds, wondering if that makes it any better at all, "I'm not stalking you or anything."
Yeah. That's definitely worse. Congratulations, Oscar. He can quite literally see Lando's disappointed expression in his mind.
You blink, speechless.
"I'm… glad?"
"What I meant," he tries again, face burning up with embarrassment, "is that Ollie mentioned you usually take the bus home because you don't like driving. But practice ran late today and it's already dark out, so I'd like to drive you home. If that's okay with you. Please."
You blink again, a certain level of understanding shining through your expression.
Oscar doesn't really get what you think you are comprehending from his awful rambling, because he's honestly at a loss as well.
"Okay."
He goes completely still, stuck somewhere between being impossibly surprised, really relieved, and insanely confused.
"Okay?" A mix of emotions can be heard through his voice, and a small smile appears on your lips.
"Okay. I just need to get my stuff — can you wait 10 minutes or so?"
Oscar stares at you.
"Yeah. Okay. Yeah. I can. Cool. Right. Okay."
You laugh through your nose, and your smile widens. He's still standing by your doorframe, eyes slightly wide.
"You can wait by the exit," you suggest, eyes sparkling with amusement. He nods, turning on his heels to walk away, barely able to conceal his disbelief.
"Okay. Alright. The exit. Okay."
It takes you less than 10 minutes to get ready, and then you're walking beside him to the parking lot, going around the car so you can get into the passenger seat.
You help him put your address in his car's GPS. Oscar starts the car. And then he realizes he didn't plan this far ahead.
He decided to offer you a ride at the start of the day. It was supposed to be a nicety, and it sounded even nicer when practice ran late. You agreed. You're in his car. One more mission completed in his never ending quest of being friendly and approachable and reaching out first. He has no fucking idea what to say to you.
"So." To his absolute surprise, it's you who breaks the silence. "You're stalking me."
Oscar almost crashes the car.
"What? No! What? No, oh my God, of course not, I just—it came out all wrong back at your office, I really didn't—I'm so sorry, I promise I'm not stalking you, I—"
He's interrupted by your loud laughter. Easy and sincere, the way he's always heard it around the rink, never directed at him — not the small, startled laughs he's managed to get from you. A real laugh, this time, that comes deep from your chest and rings through the air.
It shuts him up immediately, his cheeks burning bright red as he watches you cackle, trying to hide your giggles behind your hand and failing miserably.
"I know—I'm sorry," you start, but you're still laughing in earnest. He's not mad about it. He enjoys the sound, actually. "I'm just kidding, Oscar. I know you're not."
He lets out a relieved breath, a soft smile growing on his face.
"That's good. I'm glad."
"Your reaction was priceless, though."
Oscar sighs tiredly, but he's not really annoyed.
"Yeah, I'm glad you had fun from it."
You snort, and it puts a grin on his lips.
He reaches your building's driveway a couple of minutes later. You live somewhat close to the rink, and Oscar already misses your short lived company on his passenger seat.
He parks the car, but you hesitate.
"I'd invite you up for dinner," you start, and he immediately shakes his head in denial, "but my place is sort of a mess right now."
"It's okay," he answers quickly, heartbeat picking up even though your teasing broke some of the awkward tension between you, "don't worry about it."
"You can come up some other time," you offer still, "I make a pretty decent carbonara."
"Really, don't worry about it."
"I mean it though," you insist, and Oscar feels something warm building in his chest. "I'd love to cook for you sometime. I'm quite good at it."
"Like you were at track?" He asks with a soft smile, and you laugh again.
"Even better than that."
He nods, eyes twinkling with excitement.
"Then alright. Just let me know when."
"You'll know exactly when. As a good stalker you probably have my Google Calendar logged into your phone or something."
"Okay— stop that."
You laugh again, and he comes to the conclusion that he doesn't mind your teasing at all.
You wave at him when you finally get inside your building's gate, a shy upwards tilt to your lips.
Oscar waves back, and he drives away feeling like his heart might burst open from his rib cage the entire way home.
There's no excuse to arrive to the rink earlier that Monday morning. Oscar does anyway, searching for a glimpse of what he finds the moment he comes in through the entrance — you, skating with your hands behind your back, lost in thought.
There are times when you seem to forget your hatred for him.
That's not fair. Oscar has to admit your relationship has improved greatly over these past few months — you don't run away the second the two of you end up alone, you call him by his first name, you wave to him when he arrives for practice, and you even let him give you a few more rides home during the course of the last few weeks, even if your invitation for carbonara was never mentioned again.
It's as if every once in a while the fact you don't really like him slips away from your mind, and that's when you share instants like that one when he first drove you home. You crack a joke, he blushes until his face is beet red, you laugh, his heart beats like a drum. Then the moment dims, and you revert back to your awkward smiles and quick glances.
You still never reach out first. You still never seem to settle into yourself when around him, as if there's always a tiny piece of you that can't get comfortable when he's there.
It bothered him when he first joined the team, and now it bothers him tenfold. Perhaps because he's experienced the glimpses, the little moments when you can afford to be yourself around him, and now he craves those moments like a man starved.
Oscar wants to know you like he's never wanted to know anything in his life.
"I think you're in love with her," Lando said when he tried to explain it, the two of them sitting on a bench at their favorite padel court in town. Lando used to love to play it during their free weekends back when they were still in college, and it seems that old habits die hard.
"I think you're reaching incredibly far," Oscar answered at the time, drying some of the sweat on his forehead. "I'm just hurt that she hates me so bad."
"Osc, she clearly doesn't hate you at all." His teammate rolled his eyes. "You're hurt because you like her and can't handle the fact that she doesn't seem to correspond. At least not in front of you."
Oscar furrowed his eyebrows.
"Not in front of me? What's that supposed to mean?"
"You know," Lando shrugged, and there was a smirk building on the corner of his lips, "with the way she flushed when I asked about those rides you keep giving her, I'd say she's pretty interested."
"Shut up," Oscar mumbled, looking away in embarrassment, cheeks burning hot.
"No, hey, I mean it!" The other boy insisted, and his smirk gave way to a full grin. "But really, think about it. Why would you care so much whether or not our manager wants to be your friend? You didn't seem to have that issue with any of our team managers back in college. Like it or not, you have feelings for her. Better to just own up to it and take a chance on la-la-la-la-love—"
Lando laughed loudly as Oscar shoved his shoulder forcefully, face bright red, and then immediately stood up from the bench, muttering something about it being damn time for their next round of padel.
So when Oscar enters the rink the next Monday and sees you, it's safe to say he feels a lot more nervous than usual.
Not because of what Lando said, no. It's not like Oscar to be that affected by someone else's opinions, at least not if there isn't any truth to it. The issue is that it had some truth to it.
Love is too strong a word. Now feelings is pretty accurate.
When you see him at the entrance, your movement is immediate: just like that first time, you start skating towards the rink's edge, ready to get out of the ice. This time, however, Oscar's quicker than you, all but racing to the glass that separates the actual rink from the bleachers.
"No, wait!" And he attempts to offer a chill smile that he's sure looks anything but chill. "I was wondering if we could skate together?"
"Oh." You blink at him, just a couple of feet away from the exit. "Why?"
Oscar blinks back.
Well, he doesn't know the answer to that.
Because Lando said I have a crush on you and I'm pretty sure he's right? Because you skate like a fish swims and I want to see it up close? Because I want to be friendly and approachable?
"I don't know," he answers instead, "why not?"
It's small, but he notices. You smile.
It takes him a couple of minutes to get ready until he's actually on the ice with you, and then you're skating side by side. You've got your hands on your back again, and you look so incredibly at ease that he can't help but admire it, in a way.
"Do you do this every day?" He asks eventually, and you hum in soft agreement. "How come none of us ever see you?"
"Gabi does," you shrug, "he's usually the first one to arrive, so I get out when he comes in. Sometimes it's Max. It's my little break before I start to actually work."
"You're really good at it."
You chuckle. "You know, you just keep finding things I seem to be good at."
"Not my fault you're good at so many things."
"Ew, Oscar. Ew."
It's his turn to laugh at your teasing tone, a smile on his face while you move in perfect sync — he's even got his hands behind his back, easily keeping up with your momentum.
Until an awkward moment passes by. Oscar realizes he isn't sure what to say, and you don't seem to quite know either. So you shoot him a glance full of expectation, immediately picking up your pace, skating away from him. The challenge is clear.
And Oscar is a little more competitive than he lets on, even though it feels too real to chase after you.
He gains speed quickly, and you keep turning your head towards him to gauge the shortening distance, giggles spilling out of your lips as you skate around the rink.
You're laughing, and you're good, and he's grinning just from watching you move. You're about to complete a lap around the rink, and you're quick but he's quicker. He's almost reaching you when Gabi's good morning! rings in the air, getting to you faster than Oscar can.
You still shoot him a smile before correcting your path to the edge of the rink, your greeting seeming to echo when you take your first step out of the ice.
Oscar stays behind, momentum making him move even after he stopped chasing.
Oscar wasn't exactly a star player back in the Chicago Blackhawks.
A promise, they used to call him. A player who would grow into himself.
Still, they were pretty pissed when he got traded to their biggest rival before that promise was fulfilled, that's for sure.
In his defense, he didn't like being seen as potential. He was sure he could do better in a team that actually felt like he was valuable and able to contribute, and he was right. They all probably knew it — sports channels and commentators all mentioned how much he developed as a player after going to the Red Wings. The change was obvious.
It didn't stop his old teammates from provoking him the second they stepped into the same rink again.
Oscar knew they were targeting him. Charles told him not to bother with it — to play his game and defend. To ignore the side glances, the throwaway insults, the way they just kept bumping into him. Hard, purposefully, annoyingly.
He had never been a fighter. No, everyone knew that was Max's job in the team — Max's and Gabi's, even though they'd all back each other up when fights grew, with Ollie speeding from the goal to join quite a few times.
And yes, he'd partaken in the fighting before. It's inevitable when you're a hockey player, even more so in college, when Lando had that phase when he would start swinging whenever anyone looked at him wrong.
However, in all his years of hockey, including his clumsy middle and high school teams, college, and his professional career, Oscar had never thrown a punch first.
He sort of wants to this time.
By the time the first period of the match ends, Oscar's entire body feels like it's burning, and it isn't just from the effort.
"We need to go in harder, boys, we can't let their defense hold us back so much," coach starts as soon as they're all sitting down on the bench, eyebrows furrowed. Oscar tenses when his eyes focus on him. "And Piastri, you need to stop playing into their games. They're trying to rile you up so you'll make mistakes. Don't let them."
Right. He breathes in deeply. He can do that.
The second period passes by slowly and Oscar's still annoyed, but he's taking it better. The forwards manage to score a couple of times, safely securing the Red Wings' lead. By the time they have a quick break again, the team's mood is generally better, even though Oscar's blood is boiling from a hard shove he received from the Blackhawks' center at the period's last minute.
"We're doing great, just keep it up. Piastri, Norris, amazing work."
Oscar doesn't even answer, resorting to gulping down his water bottle while their coach speaks about bettering their strategy even further. He barely pays attention to it — he's angry, and annoyed, and he knows he can't let them rile him up, but everything is too intense and the adrenaline makes slight irritation feel like fury.
When your hand touches his shoulder, he jumps, startled. An apology is already forcing its way out of his lips when you take his empty water bottle from his hand and offer him a new one.
"You're doing a great job." You smile when he takes the bottle from you, a little of the tension seeping away from his body. "Those guys are assholes."
He snorts, muttering a soft thank you before taking a sip of the new bottle.
"Don't get too pissed off, champ." You clap him on the back and it's awkward as hell, but, even through the exhaustion and anger, it makes his heart flutter. "The game will be over soon."
And Oscar really, really tries. He does!
The other team must've watched your interaction from afar. Maybe they even noticed how softly he smiled at you. Honestly, what matters is that, the next time one of their forwards bumps into him, he says —
"Didn't know you were messing around with your new manager, Piastri. Is that why you changed teams? For some whore?"
Next thing he knows, his fist meets a jaw.
Things get out of hand incredibly quickly. Oscar throws away his hockey stick, takes off his gloves, grabs the guy's jersey and lands two more punches before he can even react, obviously taken by surprise. After the other guy recovers from the first punches, however, he fights back.
Knuckles connect with Oscar's lip, which immediately gets torn open by his lower teeth, and then he can taste the blood on his tongue.
It drips down his chin, stains his jersey. Quite honestly, he doesn't care. His heartbeat is high, blood rushes on his ears, and he's taking all the anger he's felt the entire game out on this guy's face. His own knuckles are already battered and bruised from hitting the other guy's helmet, and his face aches in a few different places from getting punched back.
Well, at least he's feeling a little satisfied with himself. Maybe he can get behind this fighting thing.
The guy falls back on the ice, and Oscar manages a final hit before the referee is pulling him back and condemning him to the stupid penalty box. He can hear his teammates cheer at his victory, and Max and Lando hoot for him as he skates towards the box, but his body is still burning with adrenaline, energy, and something that feels like rage but could just be the disappointment of losing control like that for the first time.
He doesn't even sit down before they're taking him to the dressing room to get cleaned and changed, and you're there in under a minute, a wet rag ready to clean the blood off his face.
Oscar can't quite look at you as you press the rag carefully against his skin. Your movements are soft, measured, maybe even caring.
You're already sticking a small bandage to his lip when you speak, a little awkwardly, always a little awkwardly, "not gonna lie, Oscar, I didn't take you for a fighter."
You're just teasing. You're joking around with him, tentatively, like you easily do with others. He thinks it's the pain that gets him — the pain on his face and knuckles, the frustration, the annoyance. That sad feeling in his chest that makes him feel like an 8 year old wondering why his crush from school won't like him back.
"Why do you hate me?"
Your eyes widen so much it looks almost comical.
"What? I don't hate you."
"Yes, you do." His hands tighten back into fists, and it stretches the wounds on his knuckles, stinging. "You avoided me like the plague for months after I joined the team, and even now you can't talk to me normally like you talk to the other guys. Why? What did I do?"
"You didn't do anything." Your eyebrows furrow, and you seem at a loss for words. "I don't hate you, Oscar."
"You do, though. And I've tried to be friendly and approachable and whatever the fuck else Lando told me to do, and it still feels like you don't like me. So what's the issue? Friendships are a two-way street but this looks pretty damn one-sided to me."
"No, I—"
"Piastri, it's time." Coach shows up by the doorframe, throwing him a new jersey and looking him up and down. "Are you good? Can you come back in or do you need a few more minutes?"
"Yes, sir, I can come back in." He's already standing when he answers, quickly changing out of his bloody uniform and moving out of the dressing room.
Oscar doesn't look back to see how you've reacted. He doesn't even stop to process his own words, even if he knows he'll be embarrassed of them as soon as the adrenaline slows down.
He focuses on the match, nodding towards the player that served his penalty before getting back into the ice.
When they win, you don't go to the victory dinner, and all the praise Oscar gets for his good performance and "sick fighting" feels hollow.
Oscar promises himself that the first thing he does when he sees you again will be apologizing profusely for his insane behavior at the Blackhawks game.
This time, however, it's you who reaches out first. You pull him aside the minute he gets to the rink a few days later, just offering him a quick hi before dragging him to your office and closing the door. His face is still bruised from the fight, his knuckles neatly wrapped and pretty much black and blue.
He knows he deserves whatever lecture you plan on giving him, but he still feels so fucking anxious about the fact you closed the door. Are you firing him? Can you fire him?
"Look, I'm really sorry." He starts almost immediately, fidgeting with his own hands as he stands uncomfortably in the middle of your office, eyes following you as you don't sit down, instead choosing to stand up uncomfortably with him. "I shouldn't have—"
"I couldn't talk to you at first because I thought you were cute and, in case you haven't noticed, I'm fucking awkward," you interrupt him, words blurting out of you uncontrollably. "I was too embarrassed to talk to you. I didn't think you'd notice."
Oh. Oh!
Oscar blinks, eyebrows rising up to his hairline out of pure surprise. His heartbeat picks up and his skin flushes. He opens his mouth to answer, but you're faster.
"I'm sorry if I made it seem like I didn't like you or like I was treating you worse than the other guys. You're really nice and I've had literally no reason to hate you — I don't hate you, not at all. In fact, Charles is always saying I have a crush on you. So."
"That's—wow, okay."
"I'm not saying—fuck, okay, look." You seem to be regrouping, body tense with nerves, brow furrowed so hard the crease on your forehead looks almost painful. Oscar wants to say something, but you've stunned him into silence. "When you joined the team, I thought you were cute, so I just got—I got shy, okay? And then you started reaching out to me and you're—you're really nice, Oscar, you really are, but it just made it so much worse, because then I started to like you quite a bit. And that was an obstacle. To being able to talk to you normally. And then Charles started saying I've got feelings for you, which is true, but also really embarrassing, so it made it worse, I guess. God, I sound like a teenager. This is so fucking stupid."
There's too many thoughts and emotions going through Oscar's head.
For one, you've never hated him. Great! Awesome! That's good to know. Furthermore, apparently you talked to Charles about him in the same way he talked to Lando about you, which feels like being hit by a fucking curve ball considering Charles never thought to mention anything the brief few times Oscar asked Charles about you.
Most importantly, you think he's cute. You like him. You have unnamed feelings for him, just like he does for you.
You're still rambling. Something about how Charles schemed to make him sit next to you during that one pizzeria night when he asked you about track, about how embarrassed you were, about being afraid he might think you're uninteresting when he finally had the chance to talk to you, which is nonsense, because you're probably the most interesting person in the world.
"Would you like to go out with me?" The question seems to come out of him all at once, immediately silencing you as you stare at him, expression blank, clearly confused. "Sometime? We could go to a restaurant. Or something."
You open your mouth. Then you close it. Then you open it again.
"Like a date?" The doubt is almost palpable in your voice.
"Yes, like a date." Oscar nods enthusiastically. "I—I'm really sorry for talking to you like that during the game. That wasn't okay. And I—I always thought you were cute, too, which is partially why I was so upset you wouldn't talk to me." He chuckles awkwardly, and you chuckle back. "Lando has also been saying I have feelings for you. I also think that he's right. So, just— yeah. Would you like to go out with me?"
You take a second to answer. When you do, it's awkward — anticlimactic, a bit weird. This time, for some reason, it makes his heart go soft. You smile at each other, and you still look nervous, and he still sounds stupid, and it's perfect in its own little way.
"Okay."
"Yeah?"
"Yeah. Yeah. I'd like that."
"You were right. Pretty fucking good carbonara."
You laugh loudly at that, eyes sparkling with amusement as you twirl your fork into the pasta.
"I told you, didn't I?"
"Yes, yes, you did. Even if you tried to trick me into forgetting about it."
"Wha—I did not!"
"Yes, you did!" His eyes are sparkling too, and your apartment is nice and cozy and homey, and he loves sitting across from you at the dinner table. "We've been dating for what, two months?! And I'm only now getting to try your carbonara?! I feel like I've been robbed all this time."
"Oh, that's—you're so dramatic, Osc."
It's his turn to laugh, and he shoves another forkful of creamy pasta in his mouth while he looks at you with a fondness that keeps growing with every passing day.
Your kitchen is a mess. You didn't even let him help as you cooked, repeatedly telling him to wait by the counter while you worked, threatening to put him into the "penalty box" (also known as the living room) whenever he drifted away from said counter.
"I'm not dramatic." He points the empty fork at you, grinning like a schoolboy, feeling happy like one. "You're the one who promised me carbonara back when I drove you home for the first time and then pretended to forget about it for months."
"I did not!"
"Yes, you did!" Oscar says for the hundredth time, grin stuck to his face as he watches you stand up from your chair so you can sit down next to him and plant a soft kiss on his lips, giggling and smiling as you play argue about the pasta, the dishes, the next hockey game, your first date.
He doesn't have to chase anymore.
He's happy to argue with you forever.
check out my masterlist!
HOPE YOU GUYS ENJOYED!!!!!!!! likes and reblogs are appreciated. I don't know that much about hockey tbh but I did my best and jackie helped LOADS!!!!!!!
thank you very much for reading and HAPPY NYE!!!!!!!!!!
