The first time you try to learn the 2026 regulations the normal-girlfriend way—by asking your boyfriend who literally does this for a living—it goes… aggressively mid.

You’re curled up on the sofa in his apartment, legs tucked under you, laptop balanced on your thighs. You’ve got a tab open with a bunch of articles, another tab with an FIA render that looks like it was designed by someone who hates your ability to understand shapes, and a notes app that’s already devolved into question marks and rage.

There’s a section of your notes that is just “WHY” written three times, underlined, followed by a bullet point that says “active aero?????” and another that says “X-mode?? Z-mode?? are we naming these like video game characters now??”

Every time you think you’ve got a handle on one concept, something else pops up and knocks the legs out from under it. Energy per lap. Electrical deployment. Drag reduction targets. Diagrams that look like abstract art. Articles that assume you already understand the difference between downforce levels at varying yaw angles.

You do not.

Max is across the room, half in “home mode,” half in “driver mode.” Sweatpants, hoodie, phone in his hand, but he’s scrolling like he’s reading something important and not just doom-scrolling people arguing about whether cars should be “nimble” or “fast” like those are mutually exclusive personality traits.

You clear your throat.

He doesn’t look up. “What.”

It’s not rude. It’s just… Max.

You tilt your laptop toward him. “Okay, I’m trying to understand this ‘active aero’ thing and—”

He finally glances over, the corner of his mouth twitching. “You’re reading about that now?”

“Yes,” you say, immediately defensive, “because I want to know what you’re talking about when you say stuff like ‘X-mode’ like it’s a personality trait.”

That earns you a real look. Curious. Amused. A little proud, even, like he likes that you care enough to dig into it.

You take that as encouragement.

“So is it like… DRS, but always?” you ask. “Like the wings are just constantly moving?”

Max leans back, eyes narrowing like you just asked him to explain taxes. “No.”

You blink. “Okay. So what is it?”

He shrugs, like this is the simplest thing in the world. “It’s active. It changes.”

“Changes how.”

He lifts a shoulder. “Up and down.”

You stare at him. “Max.”

He grins. Full menace. “What?”

“I’m being serious.”

He sits forward, elbows on his knees, clearly enjoying himself now. “So am I. It moves. That’s active. Aerodynamics. Up. Down.”

“Babe.”

He tips his head. “Yes, babe.”

You feel your eye twitch. “Can you answer like a normal human being.”

His smile widens like you just handed him the red button labeled Do Not Press.

“Stupid questions get stupid answers.”

The words land way harder than he intends.

Because he says it like a joke. Like a little jab. Like haha, got you. Like it’s part of the banter you usually trade so easily.

But you’ve been trying. Actually trying. You’ve been trying to learn something that matters to him—something he lives and breathes, something you watch every weekend and cheer for and want to understand beyond just vibes and vibes alone.

You’ve been trying to meet him in his world without demanding he stop everything and teach you like you’re another media obligation.

And now your throat does that stupid tight thing.

You blink once. Then again. Pretending you’re fine.

“Okay,” you say.

Max’s smile falters for half a second, like he senses something shifted, but then he just… moves on. Like he doesn’t realize he poked a bruise instead of landing a joke.

You shut your laptop slowly, like if you do it too fast you’ll break something.

“Anyway,” you say lightly—too lightly—“I’m gonna go shower.”

“Okay,” he answers, already back to his phone.

You walk away before your face can give you away.

In the bathroom, with the door locked and the water running, you stare at your own reflection, wet hair pushed back, and you feel ridiculous for how much that one sentence stuck.

It was one comment.

You’re a grown woman.

But deep down, you’re suddenly more confused than ever—not about the regulations.

About whether you’re allowed to take up space in his brain with questions.

So you decide you won’t.

Not with him.

Not again.

It isn’t dramatic. You don’t announce it. You don’t even consciously think, I will never ask him anything again. It’s quieter than that—your brain just files it away as information.

This is a line. Don’t cross it.

You tell yourself it’s fine. That he didn’t mean it. That you’re overreacting. That you can still be curious without putting yourself in the position to feel stupid again.

Curiosity, unfortunately, does not work like that.

A few days later, you’re at the track, and it turns out curiosity followed you.

It’s there in the paddock, in the constant hum of activity, in overheard conversations that use words like “deployment” and “mode switching” like everyone in the world was born knowing what they mean. It’s there when you see diagrams taped to monitors and engineers gesturing in the air as if they’re shaping invisible wings.

And you’re walking behind Max, his hand briefly at your lower back as you weave through the paddock traffic. He’s in team kit, headphones around his neck, face set in that focused way that tells everyone to either move or perish.

You let go when he stops to talk to someone. You already know the routine: he’s going to do the driver thing, and you’re going to do the girlfriend thing, which mostly means not getting in the way and not tripping over a cable.

But your brain is itchy.

So when you spot one of the aero guys you’ve met a few times—friendly enough, perpetually tired, always smells vaguely like coffee and panic—you drift over.

“Hey,” you say, casual. “Quick question.”

He perks up, polite smile. “Sure.”

You glance around, lowering your voice like you’re asking for state secrets. “The new cars… are they actually smaller?”

His eyebrows jump. “Uh—yeah. That’s… yeah. Why?”

You rush forward before he can get suspicious. “Just curious. Like, what changes? Is it width? Length? Both?”

He blinks. “Both.”

“Okay, but—numbers?”

Now he’s staring. “You want the numbers?”

“Yes,” you say brightly. “Like, in millimeters. Please. I am trying to be the kind of girlfriend who knows millimeters.”

He makes a sound halfway between a laugh and a cough. “Wheelbase cap goes down. Width goes down.”

“By how much?”

He looks over your shoulder like he’s expecting Max to appear and drag you away by the ankle. “Wheelbase max is 3,400 millimeters now. Width is 1,900.”

Your eyes widen. “Wait, so the wheelbase is shorter by like—”

“Two hundred millimeters from the current limit, yeah.”

You nod like you’re on a mission. “Okay. Great. Thank you.”

He keeps staring. “Is… Max making you do homework?”

“No,” you say too fast. “No. Definitely not.”

He frowns. “Then why are you asking me and not him.”

You laugh in a way that is not suspicious at all. “Because I like to diversify my sources.”

He gives you a look that says that is not a normal sentence.

You smile harder. “Have a great day.”

You walk away before he can ask follow-ups.

Your notes app is open immediately.

3,400 mm wheelbase cap 1,900 mm width Smaller cars Do not let Max see

You feel… triumphant.

Like you found a loophole.

Then you try it again.

A journalist you recognize from the media pen is leaning against a barrier, typing like her life depends on it. You’ve chatted before. She’s nice. Direct.

You slide up beside her. “Hey, can I ask something dumb?”

She doesn’t look up. “Always.”

You hesitate—because you promised yourself no dumb questions—and then push through. “DRS is gone in 2026, right?”

She finally glances at you, intrigued. “Correct. Replaced.”

“Replaced by… what exactly?”

She studies you. “You mean the override.”

You nod like you didn’t just learn that word ten seconds ago. “Yeah. The override.”

She tucks her phone away. “Manual electrical override. Extra deployment when you’re close enough to the car ahead.”

Your heart does a little kick. “So you get extra battery power?”

“Within a second, yes.”

“And the active aero is separate from that?”

“Correct. Active aero is about switching between low-drag on straights and higher downforce for corners.”

You scribble notes. “So it’s like two modes.”

She points at you. “Exactly. And now I need to know why you’re grilling me like you’re writing the exam.”

You laugh, waving a hand. “Just trying to understand what I’m watching.”

She leans in, lowering her voice like this is gossip. “You’re Max Verstappen’s girlfriend. You could literally just ask him.”

Your stomach flips.

You shrug, trying to play it cool. “He’s busy.”

She hums. “Sure.”

You walk away with your notes and your cheeks warm, feeling both smarter and somehow smaller.

Because everyone keeps asking the same question.

Why aren’t you asking him?

And you don’t have an answer that doesn’t sound pathetic.

Because he made me feel stupid.

That’s not something you want to admit in a paddock where everyone already has an opinion about you just for existing near him.

So you keep doing what you’re doing.

You ask a performance engineer about the weight reduction. He tells you the minimum weight is dropping—around 30 kilos lighter than the current generation—and then explains how that changes braking behavior, load transfer, the way the car feels in slow corners.

You ask someone else about the aero targets. They talk about downforce being cut and drag being reduced, about how the whole point is to make the cars more efficient and easier to follow without relying on a wing flap gimmick.

You ask a mechanic about tire changes and he squints at you like you’ve asked him to explain the meaning of life. “Fronts narrower. Rears narrower. Still eighteen-inch wheels.”

You thank him anyway, because you are nothing if not polite while being chaotic.

By the time you get back to the hospitality unit, your notes app looks like you’re preparing to join an engineering team.

And every single person you talked to looked at you like you’d grown a second head.

You keep telling yourself it’s fine.

It’s fine.

It’s fine.

Later that week, the setting changes—but the pattern doesn’t.

You’re not even at the circuit anymore, and you’re still doing it.

At the factory, you’re sitting quietly in the sim building while Max does prep. You’ve learned the art of being present without being in the way. Visitor badge. Coffee that’s gone cold. Exactly zero business being here except that your boyfriend is Max and people let you exist as long as you don’t touch anything.

So you don’t touch anything.

You just listen.

Engineers walk past with laptops. You hear snippets of conversations—“energy deployment,” “harvesting zones,” “straight-line targets”—and your curiosity flares all over again.

You open your phone and type “2026 regs active aero X-mode Z-mode” like you’re trying to summon a demon.

It does not help.

You stare at a diagram and feel your brain melt.

Then you do the thing you promised yourself you wouldn’t do.

You message someone else.

Not Max.

You open a contact saved under “Ruth.”

You: Okay, quick question. Is the 2026 power unit really close to a 50/50 electric split, or is that being exaggerated for headlines?

The reply comes almost immediately.

Ruth: It’s not exaggerated, but it is simplified. The electrical contribution is significantly higher than it is now—close to an even split in terms of usable power over a lap.

You stare at the screen, thumb hovering.

You: That’s what I thought. I keep seeing it described as “half electric,” and it felt imprecise.

Ruth: That’s a fair reaction. “Half electric” is an easy way to explain it, but it misses the point. The real change is how central energy management becomes to everything else.

Another message comes in almost immediately.

Ruth: The removal of the MGU-H is a big part of that. It simplifies the architecture, but it also shifts the challenge. Drivers will have to be much more deliberate about harvesting and deployment.

You swallow, eyes flicking toward the sim room door.

You: So it’s less about supplementing the engine and more about planning the lap around energy?

Ruth: Exactly. Deployment timing, recovery zones, and how you approach overtaking all become strategic. It’s not just an extra tool anymore—it’s fundamental.

There’s a pause.

Then:

Ruth: Out of curiosity—why are you asking me and not Max?

Your chest tightens.

You type. Delete it. Type again.

You: I’m just trying to understand what I’m watching.

A few seconds pass.

Ruth: That makes sense. And for what it’s worth, you’re asking the right questions. But you know he’d be happy to explain this when he has the headspace.

You lock your phone.

Because he would.

He would love it.

If you hadn’t already been shut down once.

You don’t want to risk it again. Not when he’s in his work headspace, not when the factory air feels like it’s made of pressure.

So you keep assembling understanding from everywhere else. Which is how, by the end of the week, you’ve accidentally created a new problem.

Because when you don’t ask Max questions—and instead ask everyone else—it looks like you’re hiding something.

Like you’re gathering intel.

And Max notices patterns.

It catches up with you on a Friday.

The paddock is loud in that specific way it gets when everyone is pretending they aren’t stressed. Max has been in meetings all day. You’ve barely seen him except for quick passes—his hand squeezing your shoulder, a “later” tossed over his shoulder.

You keep busy.

You end up in line for coffee behind an engineer from another team. It starts as polite small talk—weather, travel, the usual—and then you mention, offhandedly, “I still can’t picture how the aero switches modes.”

His eyes light up.

Ten minutes later, he’s drawn invisible wings in the air, explaining low-drag and high-downforce configurations while holding both your coffees.

“This is actually a great question,” he says enthusiastically. “Most people don’t think about the transition between modes.”

You blink. “It is?”

“Absolutely.”

He hands you your cup, smiling. “You’re asking the right questions.”

Something tight in your chest loosens, just a little.

By the time you walk away, you’re smarter than you were yesterday—and absolutely certain Max is going to notice something’s off.

You pretend you are not conducting an investigative documentary titled Why The 2026 Regulations Are Ruining My Peace.

And then you make the mistake of asking someone in a place you shouldn’t.

It’s near the garage. Close enough that it’s obviously his space. Close enough that you can feel the hum of the team’s energy in your bones.

You catch one of the strategists and you ask, “With the lower minimum weight, are they expecting more instability in slow-speed corners, or does the aero compensate?”

He blinks. “That’s… still being worked through. Why?”

You’re mid-answer— “just curious”—when a shadow falls across you.

You don’t have to turn around to know.

You feel it.

That heat.

That presence.

The way the air gets thicker.

You turn and Max is there, headset around his neck, eyes sharp and fixed on you like he’s trying to read the code behind your face.

“Why are you asking him that?”

The strategist immediately looks like he wants to evaporate. “Uh—she asked me—”

Max doesn’t even glance at him. “Yeah, I heard.”

You blink. “Max—”

He cuts you off. “What’s going on.”

Your stomach drops. “Nothing is going on.”

He laughs once, humorless. “Nothing. Okay.”

The strategist clears his throat. “I can—uh—go—”

“Yeah,” Max says, still not looking away from you. “Go.”

The man disappears like he was never real.

Now it’s just you and Max and the noise of the garage behind you.

“What are you doing,” Max says, low.

You stare at him. “I’m standing here.”

“No,” he snaps. “This.”

He gestures, sharp and frustrated. “Asking everyone questions. Talking to people. Being weird.”

You flinch at the word. It’s not loud, but it hits.

“I’m not being weird,” you say, trying to keep your voice steady. “I’m just—”

“What,” he interrupts, eyes narrowing. “Trying to figure out how to hide something?”

Your face goes hot. “What? No.”

His jaw clenches. “Then why are you doing it?”

You swallow. “Because I’m curious.”

He scoffs. “Curious.”

“Yes,” you insist. “About the regulations. About the changes. Because I want to understand.”

Max stares at you like he doesn’t believe you.

And honestly?

You get it.

Because you’ve been acting like you’re gathering information for a heist.

Your voice cracks a little when you add, “Why is that a problem.”

He exhales through his nose, the kind of breath he takes when he’s trying not to lose it and failing anyway. “It’s not a problem that you’re curious. It’s a problem that you’re asking everyone except me.”

You freeze.

Because there it is.

The real issue.

He steps closer, voice still tight. “Are you mad at me? Are you—are you… I don’t know, are you talking to someone? Is something wrong?”

Your eyes widen. “No. Max, no.”

“Then why are you acting like you can’t talk to me.”

You open your mouth.

Nothing comes out.

Because how do you say, I tried once and you made me feel stupid without sounding fragile and dramatic in the middle of his workplace.

Max’s expression shifts into something sharper. Hurt, almost. “What am I, chopped liver?”

The phrase is so ridiculous coming out of him that it would be funny if you weren’t suddenly on the verge of tears.

You shake your head. “No.”

“Then talk to me,” he says, exasperated. “What is this.”

You feel your throat tighten and your eyes sting and you hate it. You hate crying. You hate doing it in public. You hate doing it anywhere near a camera.

You take a step back, trying to get air. “I didn’t want to bother you.”

Max’s face hardens. “You don’t bother me.”

You laugh, small and bitter, before you can stop yourself. “Right.”

His eyes flash. “What does that mean.”

It’s quiet between you for half a second. The world keeps moving around you, but it feels like you’re both trapped in a bubble of tension.

You take a breath and decide you’re not going to do the thing you always do, which is swallow it down until it becomes resentment.

So you say it.

“Because I asked you a question,” you say carefully, voice shaking, “and you gave me a stupid answer. And when I told you I was serious, you said—”

Max’s brows pull together. “What did I say?”

You swallow hard. “You said, ‘stupid questions get stupid answers.’”

The moment the words leave your mouth, you regret them. Not because they’re untrue. Because now they’re out here, between you, undeniable.

Max’s expression changes so fast it’s almost scary.

His annoyance drains out like someone pulled a plug.

He blinks once. Twice.

Then his jaw unclenches, and his eyes soften in a way that makes your chest hurt.

“Oh,” he says, quietly.

You look down, blinking hard. “So I figured… okay. Don’t ask stupid questions. Ask other people. Because I don’t want to be laughed at.”

Max takes a step closer. His voice is lower now, calmer. “Hey.”

You shake your head, stubborn. “No. Don’t ‘hey’ me. You literally trained me like a dog. One dumb joke and my brain went, okay, noted.”

Max winces like you slapped him.

“I was trying to be funny,” he says, and there’s something raw in the admission. “I didn’t think—”

“Well,” you cut in, wiping at your face like you can erase the whole moment, “I did think. And I felt stupid. So I stopped asking.”

Max is quiet. You can see him recalibrating in real time—replaying the scene, realizing what it sounded like, realizing what it did to you.

Then he sighs, and you can hear the apology coming before he even says it.

“I’m sorry,” he says, firmly. “That was stupid. I shouldn’t have said that to you.”

You cross your arms, chin lifting, because you are stubborn and you are not going to crumble just because he apologized nicely.

Max steps closer anyway, tone softening more. “You’re allowed to ask me questions. Always. I don’t care if it’s silly or not. You’re not stupid.”

You look away, blinking hard again. “Okay.”

He huffs, frustrated—but not at you. At himself. “And you’re not bothering me.”

You shrug. “You were busy.”

“I’m always busy,” he says, like it’s obvious. “That doesn’t mean you can’t talk to me.”

You press your lips together.

Max studies you. “Ask me now.”

You stare at him. “No.”

His eyebrows lift. “No?”

You tilt your head, matching his energy. “No.”

He stares, like he can’t believe you’re refusing. “Why.”

“Because now I feel stupid,” you say flatly. “And because, like my boyfriend, I can be extremely stubborn.”

Max’s mouth twitches despite himself. “Of course you can.”

You cross your arms tighter. “So no. I’m not asking.”

He exhales, long and dramatic. “Fine.”

You blink. “Fine?”

He leans closer, eyes narrowing with new intent. “If you don’t want to ask, then I’ll just explain everything anyway.”

You scoff. “I’m not listening.”

Max smiles like he’s already won. “Yes you are.”

He turns, starts walking, and hooks a finger in the loop of your badge lanyard like he’s physically reeling you in. Not yanking—just guiding. Like, come on.

You follow, because even when you’re mad, you still want to be near him.

And because you’re curious.

Unfortunately.

He brings you somewhere quieter—an empty little corner behind the hospitality unit where the noise dulls enough that you can think.

Max leans against the wall, arms folded, looking at you like you’re a puzzle he’s determined to solve.

You stand with your arms crossed, chin up, doing your best impression of someone who does not care.

Max starts anyway.

“Okay,” he says, slow. “So. 2026.”

You roll your eyes. “I said I’m not listening.”

“You are listening,” he replies instantly. “Because you’re nosy.”

You glare. He smirks, then continues.

“The whole point is efficiency,” he says. “They want the cars to be less draggy, less… like a brick. And they want the engines to be more relevant.”

You shift your weight. You hate that you’re already paying attention.

“The power units,” he says, “are still hybrid, but the split changes. More electric. Basically fifty-fifty electric and combustion.”

You hum like you already knew that. Your brain: write that down.

Max watches your face. “They remove the MGU-H, because it’s expensive and complicated and not road relevant.”

You pretend to look bored. “Mhm.”

“And the MGU-K gets way stronger,” he continues. “More electrical power. Bigger battery. More energy recovery. You harvest more.”

You blink. “From braking?”

“Yes,” he says, like obviously. “From braking, from lifting. Energy per lap changes. You have more to play with, but you also need to manage it because you can’t just deploy all the time. It’s strategy.”

You bite your lip. He catches it.

“See?” he says, smug. “You care.”

“I care a normal amount,” you lie.

Max keeps going, voice warming as he talks—because this is his thing, and when he gets into it, he gets animated in that subtle Max way. Not big gestures, but the pace of his words changes. The intensity shifts.

“They also want sustainable fuel. Advanced sustainable fuel. So the combustion side is still there, but the fuel is different.”

You nod slowly.

“And then the chassis,” he says, “is smaller. Shorter wheelbase, narrower width. Less weight.”

“Okay,” you say, unable to help yourself. “How much less weight.”

Max pauses like he’s waiting for you to realize you just asked a question.

You freeze. Then you lift your chin. “That doesn’t count. It’s a follow-up.”

His smile turns deadly. “It counts.”

You glare. “Answer.”

He chuckles, then obliges. “Minimum weight is lower. About 30 kilos less than now.”

You nod, trying to look casual, but your mind is already connecting it back to what the engineer told you.

Max continues, “They reduce downforce and drag targets too. Less downforce, way less drag. That’s why active aero comes in.”

You narrow your eyes. “Okay, explain active aero like I’m five.”

Max points at you. “See. You’re asking.”

“I’m demanding,” you correct.

He gives you a look like he’s amused you exist, then starts.

“Basically, the wings can move,” he says. “Front and rear. Not like DRS where it’s one flap, one thing. It’s different.”

You nod. “Two modes.”

“Yes,” he says. “One mode for straights, one for corners.”

“X-mode and Z-mode,” you say before you can stop yourself.

Max’s eyebrows lift. “Oh, so you have been talking to people.”

Your cheeks heat. “Maybe.”

He smirks, then continues. “X-mode is low drag. For straights. Z-mode is more downforce for corners.”

“And it switches when—”

“When you want,” he says. “Driver controlled, generally.”

You nod, then immediately catch yourself and try to look unamused again.

Max watches you like he’s watching a cat pretend it doesn’t want the treat it’s actively chewing.

“And because they get rid of DRS,” he says, “they add the Manual Override.”

Your stomach flips. “That’s the… boost.”

“Yes. Electrical boost. When you’re close enough—within a second—you can get extra deployment to help overtaking.”

You lean forward without meaning to. “So the car behind gets—”

“An advantage, yes,” he says. “And the car in front has less electrical deployment at higher speeds, so it balances.”

Your eyes widen. “That’s actually kind of sick.”

Max’s smile softens. “Yeah.”

Then his expression shifts, quieter. “And you can ask me all of this. Anytime.”

You look away, suddenly shy again. “I know.”

“I mean it,” he says, voice firm. “If I’m tired, I’ll say I’m tired. But I’m not going to make you feel stupid.”

Your throat tightens. You hate that you’re emotional. Again.

So you do what you always do when you’re feeling too much.

You go stubborn.

“I still feel stupid,” you admit, small.

Max steps closer. “Then we fix it.”

You blink. “How.”

He tilts his head, eyes bright with mischief again. “By you asking me something right now.”

You scoff. “No.”

Max leans in. “Yes.”

You cross your arms. “No.”

He grins. “Okay. I’ll make it easy.”

Then, like the menace he is, he starts talking again—casual, like he’s just thinking aloud.

“So, for example, energy deployment is going to matter a lot because on long straights you can’t just—”

You hold your ground, but your ears betray you, tuning in automatically.

Max keeps going, deliberately weaving in little details that he knows will hook you.

“And because the cars are lighter and smaller, the way they behave in slow corners could change. Plus, tire widths change slightly, so—”

You blink. “Wait.”

Max pauses mid-sentence, turning his head slowly like a predator who just heard movement.

You immediately regret making noise.

“What,” he says, too innocent.

You press your lips together. “Go back.”

Max’s smile spreads, slow and victorious. “Go back where.”

“The tires,” you say, pointed. “You said tire widths.”

Max nods, like he’s generously allowing you to participate now. “Yes.”

You sigh, defeated. “Explain.”

Max’s grin turns bright, boyish, pleased. “Okay, so the wheels stay 18-inch, but the tires get a bit narrower—front and rear. That changes grip, wake, all that stuff.”

You shake your head. “I hate you.”

“No you don’t,” he says instantly.

You glare. “I hate you right now.”

He steps closer, close enough that you can smell his soap and the faint trace of paddock on him. Close enough that the fight feels like it’s already dissolving.

Max lowers his voice. “You’re cute when you’re stubborn.”

You scowl. “Don’t.”

He smirks. “Ask me another.”

You hesitate, then—quietly, because you’re still embarrassed—“Okay. The smaller cars… does it actually make racing better?”

Max’s expression softens again, thoughtful now. “That’s the idea.”

You swallow. “And the active aero is supposed to help following?”

“Yes,” he says. “Less dirty air issues, different approach. They want it to be easier to follow and pass without needing a wing flap gimmick.”

You nod slowly.

Max reaches out, brushing his thumb along your wrist, gentle. “See? Not stupid.”

You look up at him. “You promised you won’t say that again.”

Max’s face goes serious. “I won’t.”

A beat.

Then he adds, softer, “I like when you ask. I like that you care.”

Your chest does that stupid warm thing.

You roll your eyes because you have to maintain your brand. “I care a normal amount.”

Max laughs quietly. “Sure.”

He leans down, presses a kiss to your forehead, lingering. “Come on. I’ll keep explaining. And you can interrupt whenever you want.”

You exhale, finally letting your arms drop. “Okay.”

Max’s smile turns smug again. “Got you right where I want you.”

You shove him lightly. “Shut up.”

He just laughs, wraps an arm around you, and starts his word-vomit TED Talk again—except now you’re leaning into him, listening for real, asking questions when you want to, and letting yourself take up space in his world.

And when he catches you starting to overthink, he squeezes you a little tighter and murmurs, “Always ask me. Okay?”

You nod against his chest, quiet but certain.

“Okay.”

That night, long after you should both be asleep, Max is still talking.

Not because he has new information. Not because anything urgent has changed.

But because now that you’re listening again, he’s terrified of stopping.

You’re curled against his side in the dark, legs tangled, his arm heavy around your waist. The hotel room is quiet in that specific way only hotel rooms ever are — the low hum of the air conditioning, the distant city noise softened by thick glass. His voice is the only thing cutting through it.

“And then in sector two—”

“Max.”

He doesn’t stop. He just shifts slightly, pulling you closer like that somehow helps him focus.

“—you really see the regen difference—”

“Max.”

His hand moves up and down your arm, absent-minded, grounding himself as much as you.

“—especially with the lighter car—”

“Maxy.”

He finally cuts himself off, blinking like he forgot where he was. Like he forgot it’s the middle of the night and not a debrief room with five engineers waiting for him to finish a sentence.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, voice softer now. “I just… wait, one more thing.”

You lift your head slightly, peering up at him. “You said that ten minutes ago.”

“I know,” he says quietly, defensive but tired. “But this part connects.”

You let him talk anyway, because you can hear it now.

This isn’t excitement.

It’s anxiety.

He’s replaying it — the couch, the joke, the way you shut down. The way he didn’t realize until later that he’d crossed a line.

“And then when you don’t deploy early enough,” he continues, slower now, more careful, “you end up chasing the energy later in the lap. And that’s when it gets messy.”

You shift, pressing your cheek to his chest.

“Max.”

This time, he stops immediately.

“Yeah?” he asks, too fast.

You smile into his hoodie. “I’ve got enough info for one day. Let me review. I’ll follow up later.”

There’s a pause.

Not because he disagrees.

Because he’s deciding whether stopping is safe.

“And,” you add, muffled but firm, “I do not need a lap-by-lap analysis of your last session at two in the morning.”

That finally pulls a quiet laugh out of him, the sound vibrating under your ear.

“Okay,” he says softly. “Okay, yeah. Sorry.”

His arm tightens around you, protective, instinctive.

“I just don’t want to mess it up again,” he admits, barely above a whisper. “I thought I was being funny. I didn’t think you’d—” He trails off, jaw tightening. “I don’t ever want you to feel like you can’t ask me things.”

You tilt your head back enough to look at him in the dark. His eyes are half-lidded with exhaustion, but they’re serious — fixed on you like this matters more than sleep.

You reach up, brushing your thumb along his jaw.

“You didn’t mess it up,” you say quietly. “You were just an idiot.”

He exhales a breathy laugh. “I know.”

“I just needed you to know why I stopped asking.”

“I do,” he says immediately. “I get it now.”

A beat.

Then, softer, almost unsure, “You promise you’ll ask me?”

“I promise,” you whisper. “As long as you don’t do that again.”

“Deal,” he says, just as quietly.

He presses his forehead to yours, lingering like he’s committing the moment to memory.

“I like when you ask,” he adds, voice heavy with sleep. “Even the weird ones. Especially the weird ones.”

You smile, warmth settling in your chest. “Good. Because I have follow-ups.”

He groans softly. “Tomorrow.”

You laugh, relaxing fully into him.

He kisses your hair, slow and gentle, his breathing evening out as the adrenaline finally drains from him. And when sleep finally pulls him under, his arm stays firm around you — like he’s afraid of letting you drift away again, even unconsciously.

And for the first time since that stupid joke, you fall asleep knowing your questions have a place.

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.

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Abu Dhabi, 2024. Oscar could still smell the smoke sometimes, in nightmares or if he zoned out for too long. The scent clung to his mind—burning tires, scorched metal, and marshals running around in panic. In his dreams, he could hear the crackle of flames, feel the searing heat against his skin, as they carefully dragged him out and placed him in the medical car. He was sure that it was already in some compilation on youtube about the worst crashes of the season. Hell, maybe even in history. 

Verstappen had already claimed his title, but getting the last win of the season would be a dream for anyone. It was a matter of pride, ending the season on a high note. For Oscar, it ended with a crash instead, just as he was about to overtake for the win on the last stint of the race. 

And of course, it had to be with Charles. 

Everyone loved Charles. And everyone hated Oscar for being the reason their favourite driver lost out on a win. Hate was a strong word and he was used to people having varying opinions about him, but there was something about this that he couldn’t shake off. 

The worst part was the screaming—screaming that he had later been told never even happened. He'd made it up in his head. When he was being pulled from the wreckage, he could have sworn he’d heard Charles crying out in pain. He’d replayed it over and over, only to learn that Charles had gotten out first—before the fire even started to spread. Sore from the impact, but otherwise unharmed.

Oscar didn’t realise in the moment that the crash would affect him. It took months for it to catch up to him. It all cumulated into a breakdown during the pre-season testing for 2025, where he had locked himself in a room to drown out Charles’ screaming, getting the attention of his trainer and people on his team that something was wrong. 

He was supposed to be the calm one. This was the opposite of calm. 

He had Murphy’s Law on loop in his head. Everything that can go wrong will. It had never been like that for him before—analysing every possible mistake. It wasn’t even the mistakes he actually made, but the ones that never happened. It made him paralysed to get in the car every single time, but once he actually started driving, all those thoughts went away. 

It was the imaginative screaming that had led him to where he was today—the parking lot outside of St. Anne’s Church before a group therapy and support meeting. It wasn’t a grand building by any means. The stones of the church were worn, weathered with years of storms battering its exterior. It always seemed to rain in this fucking town. 

His therapist, trainer, and team had decided that this was best for him. Mandated meetings once a week until he could feel calm outside of the car and not just while driving it. This wasn’t about talking to some high-paid therapist; he already had one of those. No, this was about learning to cope with normal people, people who had been through real trauma, people who didn’t live their lives in the fast lane.

“You need support,” they’d said, as if these weekly gatherings at a worn-out church with other equally messed-up strangers would patch up whatever was broken inside him. 

He had talked on the phone with the man leading the group, explaining that it would most likely be best for Oscar to show up to his first meeting, take a seat, and just get a feel for how it worked. 

The meeting was held in a hall on the side of the church, an annex built sometime in the seventies while the church itself was centuries old. He was hit with the smell of old wood and damp air as soon as he entered. The group wasn’t small—maybe twenty people scattered around the room, sitting on mismatched chairs. It didn’t feel like one of those alcoholics anonymous meetings he’d seen in movies, which had been his first preconception. 

He found a spot on one of the middle rows, on the edge to not draw attention to him. The personalities he could see around the room were all different. There were the nervous ones, bouncing in their seats—maybe it was anxiety, maybe it was abstinence. The tired ones seemed to be the majority. He fitted into that group himself—tired of life. You also had the desperate ones, sitting in the front, almost leaning forward to better grasp whatever words of wisdom were being said. 

Guilt seemed to be a theme for everyone. 

One after one the facilitator let people go up and speak at a makeshift lectern. Some just gave little updates, giving Oscar the impression that they’d gone to meetings for a long time. Others were speaking up for the first time. One that stood out was a mother, maybe in her fifties, whose daughter had just passed away in a car accident. She cried as she spoke, searching for some way of dealing with the guilt she felt, having let her daughter borrow her car even though she knew it was old and unsafe. 

This was around the time when Oscar thought to himself that he should just take the money he had, find a way out of his contract, emigrate to Iceland, and change his name to Fabio. Never ever have to think about a race car again.

People were going on about their lives, their regrets, their struggles with addictions, or just their attempts to survive whatever the world had thrown at them. But none of it really resonated with him. Oscar didn’t feel like he belonged here. His problems felt different. And he wasn’t sure if that was because they actually were different or because he just couldn’t find the right words to describe them.

At some point, his gaze shifted toward the back of the room, and that was when he noticed you. 

A girl his own age. You were sitting there, apart from everyone else, half-hidden in the shadows near the exit. You looked like you didn’t want to be seen—shoulders hunched, sat far down in your seat. You stared at your hands, fidgeting with skin around your nails. Oscar could spot your chipped black nail polish from across the room. He had a hard time reading your face, mostly obscured by your hair and the collar of your jacket. 

He couldn’t help but wonder why you were here. He wondered it about everyone else too, but you stuck out since you were similar in age—young enough that people didn’t automatically assume that you’d gone through hardship. You looked… different. Troubled, maybe. Definitely out of place. 

Oscar forced himself to look away, trying to focus on the group facilitator, who was droning on about acceptance and healing. He felt restless, a creeping anxiety gnawing at the edges of his thoughts. Why had he even come? This place didn’t feel like it could fix anything. 

By the time the session ended, he hadn’t spoken a word.

As the last of the attendees dispersed, Oscar lingered under the arched entrance, watching the downpour. He pulled up the hood of his sweatshirt, offering him some warmth from the cold rain. A faint glow from distant streetlights illuminated the soaked pavement, creating an eerie atmosphere that somehow felt fitting. 

That’s when he saw you again, as the heavy church doors closed behind him with a slight thud. You were the last one out of the building. Out of the corner of his eye, Oscar saw you light a cigarette. His eyes met yours briefly, but you were quick to look away. 

You exhaled smoke, sitting down on the stone steps leading up to the entrance, letting single raindrops fall onto your leather jacket, while still being mostly covered by the awning. 

For a second, Oscar thought about walking away. He didn’t know you—he didn’t know anyone here—but something kept him rooted to the spot. Maybe it was because he knew he would need to talk to someone here, not easily getting away from the mandated meetings. Maybe it was because you looked so damned lost. 

Either way, he found himself speaking before he could stop himself.

“Uh,” he started awkwardly. “I like your stockings.” 

You blinked, glancing down at your legs. Through the rips in your jeans, a pair of sheer black stockings peeked out, the floral lace pattern barely visible. You didn’t say anything right away, just stared at him with a look that was half-surprised, half-annoyed. Then, you blew out smoke from between your lips. 

“Thanks,” you muttered. 

Oscar shifted uncomfortably, unsure if he should leave or try to salvage the moment. Why had he said that? He wasn’t good at small talk, never had been. He had no idea why he thought this was the time to start improving that skill.

You let out a low chuckle, almost like you were laughing at him. Wordlessly, you asked him if he wanted a cigarette, lifting the carton up in his direction. 

He shook his head. “I don’t smoke.” 

You took another drag, shrugging your shoulders, basically saying suit yourself to him. With your gaze turned back to the ground, the silence stretched on awkwardly, only broken by the sound of raindrops splattering against the asphalt.

“Aren’t white lighters supposed to be bad luck?” he asked suddenly, noticing the bright plastic you were flicking between your fingers. He’d heard that somewhere, an old superstition and coincidence—that a group of famous people who had died at a young age all had white lighters in their possession. It was a stupid thing to say, but it felt better than nothing.

You looked down at the lighter in your hand and then back at Oscar, a humourless smile tugging at the corners of your mouth. “Maybe that’s the fucking point.” 

Oscar didn’t know what to say to that. He wondered if you actually meant it—that bad luck didn’t matter to you, like you almost welcomed it. He wasn’t sure he believed in luck in that sense anyway. To him, life felt more like a balance of choices and chances, not fortune’s favour. But sometimes, maybe when the stars aligned and all that palaver, he believed in luck and he believed in doing the right thing to experience that luck. 

Call it superstition, if you must. 

The both of you continued to stand there in silence. Well, technically, you were still sitting.  Two strangers, clinging to the building that was supposedly about to fix them, all while not really knowing if they even wanted to be fixed. 

After a few long moments, you stood up, stubbing out the cigarette on the wet stone. You stuffed your hands into your pockets, casting him one last glance before heading out into the rain. The water immediately soaked your hair, but you didn’t seem to care. You hopped into a car that had pulled up at the end of the parking lot, an older woman in the driver seat. 

You left him without a word and a strange feeling inside of him—like this situation wasn’t already odd enough. 

______________________

You put out your cigarette as you reached the entrance of the church, again. Just another Tuesday in your life. You’d lost count on how long you had been going to these meetings. Two hours every Tuesday and one hour every Sunday. 

It was a bit of a lie, that you didn’t know how long it had been. You just didn’t want to know how long it had been and therefore told yourself to not think about it until you’d all but forgotten about it. 

However, Oscar was a new addition to the meetings, for a month or so. Seeing him, seemingly waiting for you before going inside, was odd? But not uncommon by now. 

You didn’t say anything as you walked up beside him on the church steps, only giving him a slight nod as a way of saying hello. You looked out over the parking lot, glistening wet from the rain that seemed to haunt this small town. You were practically lucky that it wasn’t raining at the moment. 

Something about the parking lot was different today, though. It stood out like a diamond in a drawer of costume jewellery. 

There, parked conspicuously at the curb, was a sleek McLaren. The kind of car that didn't belong in this part of town, especially not parked outside a church where people came to unload their emotional baggage.

As if reading your thoughts, Oscar caught you staring with raised brows. “What nobhead takes their McLaren to counselling?” you muttered under your breath, clearly not expecting him to hear. But he was close enough, and the corner of his mouth twitched up into a smile.

He chuckled, a low, surprised sound. “That would be me.” 

You blinked, not expecting it to be him, let alone be so direct about it. “I’m sorry.” 

“No, you’re not,” Oscar chortled, shaking his head, like he found your frankness refreshing, if not amusing, as though he wasn’t often spoken to like that. 

“Yeah, it’s a dickish thing to do,” you admitted, giving him a half shrug. You couldn’t help but smile a little, though. He had a way of taking the sting out of your sharp words, as if he didn’t mind your snark. 

You’d quite frankly been rude to him at a few of the former meetings, yet he still didn’t mind sitting in silence next to you for two hours every Tuesday. You were both here, after all—both stuck, both dealing with whatever mess had brought you to therapy. 

The last few sessions had been the same—catching each other’s eye as you sat in the back of the room, listening to people’s stories. Neither of you said much during the meetings, but you always seemed to find each other afterward, just outside the church, where the air felt a little less suffocating. You smoked, and Oscar just stood there, pretending not to be bothered by the cold weather. 

It had become something of a routine. You weren’t friends, exactly, but there was a strange sort of understanding between you. Tonight was no different as the meeting started. 

You slipped into your usual spot near the back, watching as Oscar settled in a seat nearby. The room was filled with voices, people exchanging quick pleasantries before it started, just like every week, with people telling their stories. 

You’d gone to meetings for such a long time that you knew the backstories of most people. It had been so long that some regulars had even stopped going, claiming they were fixed. Or at least fixed enough. You guessed that was the real goal—to not completely overcome trauma but to learn how to live with it. Then there were the people who were mandated to be there, by their workplace or by a court order. They were more hesitant than the people who went by their own free will, but their stories were always better when they finally got to talking, more interesting to listen to. 

“Have you ever gone up there?” Oscar whispered at one point, curious. 

“Nope,” you replied without hesitation, not looking at him. “They can force me to be here, but they can’t force me to talk.” 

He looked at you for a moment, head tilted slightly, like he wanted to ask more but thought better of it. You could practically feel the question hanging in the air—who the fuck were they?—but he didn’t press. Instead, he glanced around the room again. 

You liked that he didn’t push. That meant you didn’t have to lie to him. 

There was an unspoken rule in these circles. Speak, or don’t, but never fake it. It couldn’t be about pretending, and for now, silence was as close as either of you seemed willing to come to honesty. 

When the session ended, you found yourselves once again standing on the church steps, the night air brisk and cutting. You fumbled with a cigarette, attempting to light it against the persistent wind. Oscar lingered nearby, hands in his pockets, as he watched your futile attempts, half amused. 

“Not getting picked up today?” he asked. 

You shook your head, giving up on the cigarette and putting the lighter and carton back into the pocket of your jacket. 

Oscar hesitated for a second, unsure whether to say anything. He was starting to feel that familiar awkwardness creep back in, the same feeling he’d had the first time he spoke to you. But before he could stop himself, he blurted out, “I could give you a lift.” 

You shot him a sidelong glance. “I’m not sleeping with you, Oscar,” you said flatly. 

Oscar’s eyes widened, and he spluttered, “W-what? No! That’s not—” He stumbled over his words, horrified.

You raised a brow, watching as he struggled to find his words. He was blushing, his ears practically glowing red under the streetlight. “You offered to drive me home without ulterior motives?” you asked, sceptical. 

“Yes, I was just trying to be nice,” he said firmly, but flustered. “Do guys from therapy usually hit on you?” 

You let out a dry laugh, almost feeling guilty for your wrong assumption about him. “You’d be surprised at how many men find head-cases attractive.” 

He only became more embarrassed, his mind flashing back to the first thing he’d ever said to you—a compliment on your stockings, of all things.

There was a vulnerability to him you hadn’t expected—something behind the stubborn façade and expensive car. He didn’t look like the kind of guy who was used to rejection. Or awkwardness. Or therapy, for that matter. But his loser personality made all of those things very possible. 

“Well… I just wanted to make sure you got home safely,” he said, shifting awkwardly.

You studied him for a moment, weighing his words. Then, with a sigh, you jerked your head toward the McLaren. “Fine. Start the fucking car.” 

Inside the car, the quiet was different, somehow more suffocating than outside on the church steps. Maybe it was the notion of having to actually talk to each other now that hadn’t felt as forced outside of the car. 

 “So, where to?” Oscar asked, his hands gripping the wheel a little tighter than necessary.

You glanced out the window, your fingers tapping idly on the door handle, almost scared to touch the absurdly shiny car. “Do you know the council houses behind the post office?” 

“By that one pub? With the—” 

“The Swan, yes that’s the one,” you interrupted. “My aunt lives right there.”

Oscar nodded, pulling away from the curb and heading in the direction you’d indicated. You kept your gaze fixated out the window as the car began to move. The streets passed by in a blur, the rain-slicked asphalt reflecting the dim glow of the town’s yellow lights.

“Aunt?” he asked after a beat of silence. “Parents not around?” 

You didn’t answer immediately. For a moment, Oscar thought he’d overstepped, thought you were going to turn to a rudeness that he couldn’t joke his way out of.  

Then, quietly, you muttered, “I think I am the one who’s not around.” 

He heard you clearly, but he didn’t press further. He didn’t try to fill the space with meaningless chatter, and for that, you were both grateful. For a moment, it was peaceful, almost as if you were just two people out for a casual drive instead of a pair of strangers bound by a not-so-positive common denominator. 

As the car approached the run-down council houses, you unbuckled your seatbelt but didn’t immediately move to get out. Instead, you turned to him, studying his profile in the low light, something unreadable in your expression. 

“Thanks,” you said after a moment. 

“For the ride?” he asked. 

“For not being a complete dick,” you replied as you pushed open the door and stepped out into the cold. You didn’t look back, but you knew that he was smiling behind you. 

______________________

The following week, you were late. Not late enough for it to actually be a problem, but late enough that Oscar felt the awkward tension of deciding whether to wait for you outside like he usually did or go inside. He definitely could have waited, but he was particular about time, so he went in. 

Oscar glanced around the room, sitting somewhere in the middle now that you hadn’t decided seats for the two of you. He noticed the faces that had become a strange sort of fixture in his life over the past months. 

The season had started and it was going fairly well. He had thoughts of disaster almost every weekend, but he didn’t hear Charles’ screaming as often. It was usually worst during qualifying, when the short amount of time made the anxiety build up quicker. But he was stable. Even his therapist had said that. He wasn’t a danger in any way, but he still just wished to get an answer as to why this crash had affected him in the way that it did. 

Your heavy footsteps interrupted his thoughts, your Doc Martens making a thumping sound against the old hardwood flooring. You looked like a drenched, unhappy cat, caught in one of the town’s relentless downpours. For a moment, Oscar smiled; he hadn’t thought he’d ever see you sit anywhere but the back row, yet here you were, sliding into the empty seat next to him with a huff.

You took off your wet leather jacket and threw your bag on the floor, almost curling into your seat on the uncomfortable chair, a paper cup of hot water warming your hands. There was a station outside of the room with tea and coffee and you would grab a cup of tea for yourself before every meeting. Oscar had learnt that by now—also knowing that you brought your own tea bags since they only offered black tea and you drank rooibos. Oscar had lived in England for a long time, but the science behind drinking tea was still something that confused him. 

You rubbed your face dry with the sleeves of your oversized sweater, not caring that your mascara smudged around your eyes. Oscar thought about offering his own hoodie, or at least a tissue, but you didn’t seem the type to want help with something so small. Instead, he kept quiet, simply watching as you tried to shake off the rain.

A beat of silence passed between you both. Then, you spoke first.

“You never come to the Sunday meetings.” 

You tried to sound casual, but the question was deliberate; it was thought through. He glanced at you, surprised. It wasn’t often that you were the one to initiate a conversation, and when you did, they were short and edged with sarcasm. 

“Didn’t even know they had meetings during the weekend,” Oscar replied with a shrug. “I work most Sundays.” 

“So do I, but I manage to show up here anyway.” 

He noticed the way your eyes held his gaze, challenging but curious. You weren’t shy to look him straight in the eye, unlike himself. The light from the nearby windows cast a muted glow over you, softening the lines of your face, your smudged makeup giving you a look of tiredness that felt familiar to him. 

It was like you were waiting, expecting him to talk again, and he felt that familiar twist of unease, a reminder that vulnerability wasn’t something he navigated easily. A hint of a smile crossed Oscar’s face as he looked away, not sure how much to say.

Today’s meeting wasn’t much different from all the others. There was the mother who dealt with guilt after losing her daughter in a car crash. There was Anthony, a local restaurant owner, who was there as part of his probation plan after an assault charge. There was Jenny, a girl in her thirties who was mandated by her therapist to be there as exposure for her agoraphobia. It was definitely ironic that the girl with a social anxiety disorder did more talking than you and Oscar combined. 

During a brief five-minute break, Oscar looked over at you again, seemingly lost in your thoughts. 

“You think you’ll ever get up there?” he asked, nodding toward the lectern. 

Oscar knew he had asked similar questions before, but this one was more to ask if you thought this group counselling thing would ever lead to you opening up—if you saw an end to these countless meetings by actually letting them help you, letting them make you feel better.

“No,” you answered flatly. “Opening up to strangers is weird.” 

He smiled at that. “I think this is supposed to have the opposite effect,” he said, crossing his arms. “That it’s easier with strangers because we won’t feel judged in the same way.”

You looked up at him, amusement flickering in your eyes. “Keep talking Oscar, and we won’t be strangers by the end of this.”

He laughed, shaking his head. There was a subtle humour to your banter, like you both enjoyed pushing boundaries without really crossing them. Oscar settled on the idea that he didn’t want you two to be strangers after all.

As the meeting came to a close, people began to shuffle out, some lingering to chat with one another, others heading straight for the door. You, as usual, made your way outside without a word. Oscar followed, as he always did, keeping a respectful distance but close enough that it didn’t feel like a coincidence.

He never knew why he lingered. He wasn’t even sure if you wanted him to. But the silence you shared after group therapy felt easier than the forced vulnerability inside.

Outside, the air was crisp, the rain from earlier having tapered off, leaving the ground damp and slick, the sun breaking through the clouds. You leant against the stone wall of the church, lighting another cigarette with the same white lighter he’d seen you use before. 

Oscar frowned slightly, feeling a strange sense of unease creep into his chest as he watched you. He wasn’t entirely sure why he cared, but before he could stop himself, he spoke up. “Can you stop buying white lighters, please?”

You raised your brows, almost mocking him. “Why? Are you superstitious?” 

“No,” Oscar replied, shaking his head. “It just feels like a weird thing to jeopardise.” 

“What do you know about the 27 club anyway?” you asked, taking another drag. You were mindful enough to turn your head in the opposite direction as you blew out the smoke. 

The 27 Club—a bunch of musicians, mostly rockstars, who had died at the age of 27 due to rough lifestyles. Rumour had it that they all used white lighters for their cigarettes and other smokeable substances. Oscar didn’t know anything about their music or the club they were in. He just knew of the rumour. 

“Literally nothing except that they died carrying white lighters,” Oscar admitted, rubbing the back of his neck. “And that you deserve to live way past the age of 27.”

You blinked, taken aback, and for a moment, the armour you wore around yourself seemed to crack. You stared at him, cigarette halfway to your lips, processing what he’d just said. 

“Who knew you could be so sweet?” you teased, trying to be your usual sarcastic self, but there was a warmth in your voice that hadn’t been there before. That tiny hint of warmth made his chest feel strangely tight.

A few moments passed in comfortable silence before you broke it; your voice quieter now. “Why do you keep coming here anyway? You don’t talk much either. So why show up?”

Oscar hesitated, unsure how much to say. He wasn’t a stranger to lying about his job to people, often times just because he couldn’t be arsed to explain or have people ask if he was rich and famous. It wasn’t like that with you, but he still decided to lie—or opt out of telling the entire truth. He wanted you to think he was normal.

“I’m mandated to be here by my workplace,” he began, choosing his words carefully. “I caused a car accident with a colleague of mine, and I kind of need to be able to drive to keep my job.” 

You frowned in confusion. “But you drove me home? Are you scared of driving?” 

“It’s… different,” he admitted. “Driving long distances for work or just around in this little hellhole.” 

You studied him for a long moment, as if weighing his words. Then, in a surprisingly gentle tone, you asked, “Do you like… get flashbacks of the crash and blame yourself all over again?” 

Oscar nodded, exhaling softly. “Yeah, I guess it’s like that. I keep replaying it, even though my colleague was fine. It’s like this... loop in my head, where I keep imagining every possible way it could have gone worse. Murphy’s Law, you know? Like, I can’t help but think of every possible mistake I could make.”

“Murphy’s Law is about engineering, though,” you pointed out. “You can’t just apply that to your everyday life. It’ll turn you into an impossible perfectionist, constantly waiting for everything to fall apart.”

Oscar smiled, appreciating the unexpected insight. It reminded him of how little you knew about him, since, y’know, he hadn’t told you the truth—that engineering actually was involved in his everyday life. And yet, somehow, you still seemed to understand. The irony wasn’t lost on him, and he found himself wondering what other surprises you might be hiding.

You stubbed out your cigarette, bending down and reaching into your bag for a piece of chewing gum. He watched as you unwrapped it, slipping it into your mouth, the familiar scent of artificial strawberry filling the air. It was a ritual he’d seen before, almost like you were trying to erase the smell of smoke as quickly as you’d created it. The action was so practiced, and he found himself charmed by the small, sort of endearing quirk.

“You’re not gonna ask me why I keep on showing up here?” you asked, looking wondering up at Oscar, mumbling slightly as you chewed to get the gum soft. 

He glanced at you with a faint smile. “You’ll tell me when you feel comfortable enough. I know that.” 

A soft, almost approving nod was your only response.

“There’s my ride,” you murmured as a car drove into the parking lot—the same car he’d seen many times before, the same old woman driving. He could now assume it was your aunt. “I guess I’ll see you next week, then.” 

Oscar stumbled on his words as he tried to say goodbye to you, caught off guard by how you almost skipped down the church stairs, looking happier than ever. It was a weird juxtaposition, because you obviously weren’t—happier than ever, that is. You actually dared to look back at him, smiling as you walked over the parking lot. The mascara still sat heavy under your eyes as light shone down on you from the clouds breaking above, and in that moment, you looked like the saddest thing under the sun.

After the car had driven away, Oscar stood still with his thoughts outside the church for a second. He had to look into the weekend meetings. Even if he could never attend them himself, he needed to know why they were important enough for you to mention them to him. 

With a last glance toward the parking lot, he went back inside, his eyes drifting toward the bulletin board in the hallway. Various flyers covered its surface. The community really tried its hardest, offering support groups for just about anything—newly becoming parents, cancer survival, dealing with grief and death. 

Oscar looked at the schedules, most of them being on weekdays. However, anonymous groups for recovering alcoholics and narcotics were on Saturdays, respectively, Sundays. 

It didn’t take long for Oscar to understand.  

He also understood why you had asked him. You wanted to know if you had another thing in common other than the group meetings. You hadn’t known he was there because of a car crash, so in your mind he might as well have been there for other issues, like drugs or alcohol.

Oscar didn’t know your full story. He didn’t know why you were here, why you kept showing up week after week, or what had led you to seek out meetings. But he did know one thing: you weren’t as unreachable as you pretended to be, and he was willing to wait until you felt ready to show him the parts of yourself you’d kept hidden.

______________________

The soft clink of glasses and low murmur of voices filled the pub as you wiped down the counter for what felt like the hundredth time that day, your hands moving out of habit, eyes scanning the sparse crowd. Picking up an afternoon shift instead of the night shift wasn’t something you normally did, just for that reason. It was the same amount of hours, but it felt a lot longer since the customers were fewer. Thankfully, the evening crowd was starting to build up. 

A woman sat at the counter, maybe ten years older than you, her fingers tracing the rim of an empty glass, her gaze flitting between the door and her phone. She had a nervous look and was dressed too nicely for the pub. You knew the type—the first daters—planning nights to the last detail, hoping for it to go well but preparing for disaster.

“Waiting for someone?” you asked, offering to take her glass. 

“Yeah, a first date. I needed some liquid courage in advance,” she replied with a tight smile. 

“Well, you look gorgeous,” you assured, showing her a genuine smile. “If they turn out to be a wanker, just come up and order an angel shot and I’ll help you out of here.”

Her smile widened, a bit more relaxed now, as she thanked you. 

You made a point to watch over her as your shift went on. Her date arrived shortly after, looking just as nervous as she did. You let yourself relax; at least he wasn’t a no-show, and he didn’t look like the type to catfish someone. In fact, he looked almost as nervous as she did, and you found yourself rooting for them.

Working in a gritty pub had never been your dream, but it was what your CV got you at this point in life. You had tried living in London, making ends meet by working at a cocktail bar, but you had crash-landed back in your hometown, like big time crashing. 

Thankfully, the owner of The Swan hadn’t looked too closely into your past, or he at least didn’t care. You knew how to pour a pint, you knew how to clean up, and you knew how to deal with rowdy drunk people. That made you a top employee. 

You moved on autopilot around the familiar bar with its familiar patrons. Some old, who frequented the bar even on weekdays, and some young, who you mostly saw on weekends. 

You had learnt to listen to some and to eavesdrop on others. Like, you knew all about Denny’s divorce and custody battle because he sat by the bar and went on and on about it as he downed London Prides. But you had to eavesdrop to know that the group of girls who came in after work on Fridays had finally staged an intervention for their friend who put up with too much shit from her boyfriend. 

Little things like that made bartending enjoyable. 

Other things—like loud groups of lads your own age—almost always made it less enjoyable. That was why you felt a tiredness fall over you like an anvil in a slapstick comedy when you, even with your back turned to the door, could hear them enter. You let out a resigned sigh, knowing that the evening was about to take a livelier turn, and maybe not for the better. 

However, they weren’t the usual group that gave you and your colleagues trouble. This were customers you’d never seen before. Strange for being such a small town with only The Swan and two other pubs. Sure, the boys were loud as they came to the bar to order from your colleague, but they were patient and not overly rude. 

You froze in surprise. 

You felt your grip slip from the glass you were holding, almost dropping it. While his friends filed up to the bar with an eagerness for drinks, Oscar lingered, his eyes darting around the room before landing on you. The shocked look on his face was almost priceless. He looked as startled as you felt, his eyes widening briefly as they locked onto yours.

He seemed out of place in the gritty atmosphere of the pub—too put-together, too polished. You knew he wasn’t British from his strong accent, and you knew he wasn’t the most outgoing type from his well… personality. He didn’t belong in here, but for some reason his friends had waltzed right in to The Swan, never having done so before. 

You were scared to think about why, but deep down you knew. 

Before your colleague could ask him for his order, you stepped forward. You wiped your hands on a towel and raised an eyebrow. “You lost?” you teased lightly, leaning against the bar.

Oscar’s friends were still gathering their drinks, a couple of them glancing your way with open curiosity. Your colleague doing the same, knowing full well that you would have to explain this to them afterwards. 

Oscar smiled back, a bit shyly. “No, just… here with some friends.” He gestured vaguely behind him, looking mildly uncomfortable.

“So,” you said, folding your arms. “What can I get you?”

Oscar chuckled, rubbing the back of his neck. “Not drinking tonight. Just…moral support, I guess.”

“You know where to find me if you change your mind.” 

For a moment, you both stood there, the noise around you fading into the background.

His friends soon called after him to join them at their table and you had a job to do. As you moved around the bar, greeting regulars, wiping down counters, and handing out drinks, you couldn’t quite shake the feeling that Oscar was still there, his presence lingering even when he was out of view.

Each time you glanced over at their table, you caught him glancing back. The first few times he seemed nervous to be caught, but when he realised how often you looked at him, he really had nothing to be ashamed of if he stared back at you. 

After a while, the place grew livelier, and you lost sight of him in the ebb and flow of customers, the noise picking up as more people filled the seats. The usual rowdiness of a Saturday night began to take hold. 

Eventually, you saw his friends begin to gather their things, settling their tabs, pulling on jackets, and nudging each other as they headed out. You felt yourself get stuck in your steps behind the bar as you watched Oscar stand up from his seat. He exchanged a few words with his friends as they left, but he stayed, earning what you assumed were amused laughs and some crude comments. 

Oscar waited a moment, watching them go, before he turned his gaze toward the bar. You tried to make yourself seem busy, cleaning a counter that wasn’t even dirty. You felt a flicker of nerves as he approached, unsure if you should be the first to talk. He sat down on an empty bar stool next to Denny. He didn’t have to dare to look at you because you already had all of his attention. 

“I don’t think I’ve seen you this long without a cigarette before, y’know,” he said, breaking the silence.  

You rolled your eyes, smirking. “I only smoke when I’m stressed, which is less often than you’d think.”

Oscar’s smile lingered, a warm glint in his eyes that hinted that he understood that the only time he saw you was at the group meetings and that they were the thing that caused you stress to the point where you felt the need to smoke. You wouldn’t even consider yourself a nicotine addict. However, of all things, nicotine wouldn’t be the worst thing to admit that you were addicted to. 

Your conversation was briefly interrupted by your other patrons, like Denny, who flagged you down for another pint. You poured his drink wordlessly, and Oscar waited, his presence somehow calming amidst the usual chaos of the bar.

The couple you’d served earlier—the first-daters—approached to settle their tab.

“That looked successful,” you remarked with a friendly smile, referring to their date.  

“Yeah, honestly green flags all around,” she replied, throwing her date a soft smile as he took out his wallet. “Thanks for the angel shot advice, though.”

You smiled. “Glad you didn’t need to use it.”

The woman chuckled, her eyes twinkling as she looked from you to Oscar, as if piecing something together. She tilted her head toward you. “Do… you need an angel shot yourself?” 

“For this bloke?” you asked in surprise, pointing at Oscar. “Nah, I can handle him myself.” 

The woman nodded, smiling in amusement as she gave Oscar another once-over before heading out with her date, holding hands. Oscar, who had been listening to the entire exchange with a bemused expression, raised an eyebrow.

“What’s an angel shot?” he asked.

“It’s a code we use for people on bad dates,” you explained with a shrug. “If they order one, it means they need help, and I step in. It’s a subtle way for someone to signal they’re uncomfortable without making a scene.”

Oscar’s eyes widened slightly in understanding, and he nodded. “That’s pretty smart.”

“Yeah, it can be useful. When I worked at a cocktail bar in London we had to use it almost every night. This place is a lot calmer.”

You knew it, Oscar knew it too—that rich people drinking Negronis at a rooftop bar in London were more troublesome once they got drunk than what people like Denny did once they were in on their seventh pint of the evening in a small town pub. 

There was a brief lull in the conversation, the uncomfortable kind where you just waited for someone to break the silence. Oscar’s fingers tapped lightly on the bar, and he seemed lost in thought for a moment before, as if summoning courage, he spoke again, his voice a bit hesitant. 

“So… when are you off?” 

“In…” you stopped to check the clock on the wall behind you. “Three minutes.” 

Oscar shifted, clearly nervous. “Do you want to maybe hang out? Get dinner or something?” 

You blinked, taken off guard. He looked so uncomfortable. It was endearing in a way you hadn’t expected. He was as unsure of himself as anyone else was. 

Oscar, meanwhile, felt as though he was the world’s worst at this. It was no wonder he never had casual things like Lando seemed to have every other weekend, one night stand after one night stand. Not that Oscar necessarily wanted that, but to even feel like he had the possibility to ask someone out would’ve been nice. 

“I mean, if you’re up for it,” he added quickly, tripping over his words. “Like, we don’t have to or anything. I just thought—”

You cut him off with an uncharacteristic giggle, the sound breaking through the tension. “Only if I can use your shower. I smell like cheap beer and fryer oil,” you said, lifting your t-shirt with the pub’s swan logo on it to your nose, grimacing at the smell. 

“Oh,” he breathed, his face lighting up in relief. “Absolutely.” 

You tossed the towel onto the counter, giving him a playful smile as you stepped around the bar to join him. “But I’ll let you know,” you said, lowering your voice, “you shouldn’t hang out with someone like me. I’ll defile you.”

“I’m not as innocent as I act,” he said teasingly, but he wasn’t even sure if he believed his own words, let alone did he fool you. 

______________________

Oscar sat like a sociopath on the sofa waiting for you to finish showering. He was not sure his posture had even been this good. You’d made your way to his flat after your shift had ended. He’d offered you his shower and clothes while he said he’d fix the rest. However, every film he could think of watching seemed pathetic. Every type of food he could think of ordering seemed disgusting. He hadn’t exactly thought this through when he asked you to hang out. He hadn’t expected it to be so… casual? Or maybe easy? Like you actually wanted to be here, in his flat, spending the evening with him.

He was probably overthinking this—no, he was overthinking this. But how could he not? He tried so hard to not think of the fact that you were wet and naked just a wall away, but he was pretty sure his brain broke in the process. Every detail was suddenly monumental, as though he was a teenager again.

The faint sound of the shower stopped, and he quickly sat up straighter, mentally scolding himself to look less… tense. He wasn’t sure he was pulling it off. He could hear the bathroom door open, and then you were padding down the hall, and he practically whipped his head around to see you. 

You were wearing one of his favourite shirts, the maroon fabric hanging over your frame, the hem brushing the tops of your thighs. Your hair was still damp, small droplets darkening the shirt where they fell. The sweatpants you’d borrowed were too long, so you’d tucked them into your socks—baby pink, fuzzy socks with little red hearts on them. The socks were definitely not Oscar’s. He couldn’t believe that was what you were hiding under your Doc Martens. 

Oscar blinked, trying to reconcile the idea that this—this ridiculously adorable version of you—was the same person who’d honestly scared him during your first conversation. 

“Cute socks,” he chuckled, unable to stop himself. 

“Shut up,” you muttered, hiding a smile, before flopping down on the sofa next to him, already more casual than Oscar could ever be. “What are we watching?” 

He opened his mouth, but no words came out. He was acutely aware of how close you were, your leg brushing against his as you made yourself comfortable. You didn’t hesitate to grab a blanket that was thrown over the back of the sofa, cuddling into it as you wrapped it around yourself. 

“We could watch… uh, anything you want,” Oscar finally managed. 

You rolled your eyes, sinking into the sofa cushions. “If you let me pick, it’s going to be something dumb.”

“I’m okay with dumb.”

Your lips curled into a smile, but you didn’t say anything as you leant forward to grab the remote. Oscar sat there, watching as you navigated through streaming options. You were on the hunt for something specific, he noticed. Right in on Disney+ and quickly you searched for…Brother Bear? 

Oscar’s brow lifted in surprise, but he didn’t question it. In a way, it felt perfectly fitting. He let out a breath he didn’t realise he’d been holding and settled into the cushions, letting himself ease into the film, into the quiet comfort of the moment.

You both ordered pizza that arrived sometime in the middle of the film. You liked pineapple on pizza, but he guessed he could overlook it. Especially if it meant you were here, sitting beside him, taking a bite with a content look on your face. 

You’d grown soft around the edges, for him. This was domestic, bordering on romantic. The girl he had first met—cigarette and white lighter in hand—would’ve never admitted to liking Disney films and to wearing pink fuzzy socks. 

When the pizza was finished and the movie neared its end, you laid down in the corner of his L-shaped sofa, blanket fully surrounding you. Oscar wanted to scoot over, closer to you, maybe put your feet in his lap, but he hesitated, scared to cross boundaries. He chewed the inside of his cheek, lost in thought, hoping that his nerves would miraculously disappear. 

And then you made a sound—a soft, involuntary awe that escaped your lips during the scene where Koda, the little bear cub, was reunited with his deceased mother through some sort of glowing spirits in the sky. Oscar had to admit that even though he’d seen this film as a kid, the plot was now completely lost on him because of you. 

It was cute. Like, painfully cute, and Oscar felt that weird mix of cute aggression, where something is so adorable you just want to squeeze it. Instead, he let himself simply watch you, taking in the way your eyes glistened and your mouth parted slightly, as if you’d forgotten everything around you, wrapped up in this world of animated magic. He mentally cursed himself when you caught him looking. 

“Why are you staring at me?” you muttered. 

“You look like you’re about to cry,” Oscar teased and smiled boyishly.

“Shut up, I do not,” you shot back, rubbing your eyes with your fingers. You were sharp enough to draw blood, and he was somehow always left unscathed.

He couldn’t help but smile wider, watching as you tried to hide your embarrassment. In a brave moment, he moved closer, daring to take a hold of your wrist so that you couldn’t hide from him. Your eyes were shining and a couple of your eyelashes had clumped together from the moisture. 

“It’s okay to cry to movies,” he said, nudging you gently. “Especially one’s about animated animals.” 

“I am not crying. Not even close,” you insisted, laughing, sinking further into the sofa, pulling the blanket up to your chin. 

You moved to the side and somehow, Oscar felt himself fitting naturally into the space behind you. He felt something shift inside him, a strange warmth settling in his chest. This was soft, quiet, almost painfully domestic. Yet it was real. You were here, cuddled up on his sofa, wrapped in his blanket, wearing his clothes, and laughing at something he’d said. 

Neither of you said another word as you moved to lay together like you’d done it a million times before. He found his arm moving to wrap around you, pulling you in closer until your back was touching his chest. You lifted the blanket to cover him partly too. The movie rolled through its final scenes, and Oscar found himself paying even less attention now that you were literally touching him. 

“You’re gonna stay there?” you whispered as the end credits rolled. 

“Yeah, we’re watching the sequel.”

But neither of you moved to get the remote. 

After a still moment, with a deep breath you moved to lay on your back. You glanced up at him, your gaze holding his for a long moment. Oscar didn’t dare look away, even if his confidence told him to do it. At least it was easier to look you in the eye than to take in the rest of you. 

His heart picked up when you adjusted yourself, the blanket slipping from your shoulders and the maroon fabric of his shirt shifted slightly, revealing the outline of your body beneath. Your breasts moved gently, and he couldn’t help but notice the lack of anything underneath the soft cotton. His throat felt tight, and suddenly, every molecule of air around him seemed saturated with the scent of you.

Then, he realised that the scent of you was actually the scent of his laundry detergent and the soap he kept in his shower mixed with something that was uniquely you. And oh, how Oscar hated being a man. Was he really pathetic enough to pop a boner because you smelled good? 

His body reacted before his brain could process it, betraying him in ways that were anything but subtle—warm and spreading, settling quickly. He shifted uncomfortably, moving his legs in a feeble attempt to hide the evidence of just how much you affected him. 

“Oscar…” Your voice was soft, questioning.

He shook his head, looking anywhere but at you as he managed to respond. “I know, I’m sorry,” he said, mortified. His face burned with embarrassment. He couldn’t believe this was happening—couldn’t believe he was that guy right now.

“You don’t have to apologise,” you whispered, and you still weren’t scared to look him in the eye. Oscar for once wished you were. 

“Yes, I do. It kind of ruins the mood,” he muttered, rubbing the back of his neck. 

Your expression softened and then you shifted to give him a bit of space. In the process, you nearly tipped off the edge of the sofa, and instinctively, Oscar reached out, his hand steadying you by your arm. The warmth of your skin under his touch sent a spark up through his palm, grounding him, but he couldn’t help feeling a pang of guilt if he’d made you uncomfortable.

“Ugh… it’s just…you just smell good, and you’re wearing my shirt, and your skin is the softest thing ever, and I can’t think straight—” he stopped himself abruptly. 

A laugh escaped your lips, soft but warm, and Oscar froze, unsure if he’d actually said all that aloud or if his brain had finally imploded.

“What are you doing?” you asked, tilting your head as you watched Oscar suddenly move away from you, sitting up in an awkward half-way position with the limited space he had behind you. It probably looked like he was about to bolt out of the flat out of sheer embarrassment. 

“What am I doing?” He frowned. “I just—I don’t want you… I mean, you shouldn’t have to, y’know, feel it.”

At that, your smile deepened, and you moved your legs, spreading them just enough to make space for him to settle between them, throwing the blanket off the sofa. 

“Oscar, can you… just calm down for a second?” you said gently, meeting his gaze with a reassuring look. “I’m not appalled by it, y’know? But you’re acting like I should be.”

His heartbeat thundered in his chest as he looked at you, processing your words. You didn’t seem bothered in the slightest. It was in this moment that Oscar also realised the position you were in, with him between your legs, fighting with his arm propped up to not fall flatly over your body. You weren’t scared to brush his sides by shutting your thighs just the slightest. 

“You’re okay with this?” he felt the need to ask. 

“I am.” 

Oscar let his eyes linger for the first time, deciding for once to let the awkwardness melt away. And just like always, your eyes were on him, almost shamelessly scanning his broad shoulders and the way the fabric of his grey sweatpants stretched.

The shirt you’d borrowed had ridden up slightly, revealing your soft stomach and the hem of your underwear—a black cotton thong, the thin material peeking out. What was the frontal version of a whale-tail called? When the elastics sank into the soft parts of your hips and showed on either side above the waistband of your sweatpants. 

Yeah, Oscar’s brain was definitely broken. 

His mind spun, grasping for words, but all he managed was a shaky breath as he leaned in, like he couldn’t believe that he was seeing it, that he was this close. The air brushed against your skin. His mouth was as dry as a desert. You inhaled so sharply that he could hear it and see your stomach rising. He was eye level with your belly button and he decided upon… kissing it. Or right next to it, on the softest part of your stomach, the world narrowing down to just that patch of skin. 

He looked up for reassurance, and you just smiled. A perfectly content smile where light sparkled in your eyes. Oscar’s hands found your waist as he kissed you again, his lips trailing gently across your stomach. Your skin was impossibly soft, practically melting into his hands. 

Oscar’s next step was unplanned—like this entire thing—and maybe a bit silly, but when he was down there, kissing your stomach, he couldn’t help but want to venture higher up. So, like any other unreasonable person with hormones clouding their judgement, he stuck his head under your shirt, starting by kissing your ribs. 

You let out something between a gasp and a giggle as your breathing picked up the higher up Oscar’s mouth wandered. Where your ribs connected in the middle of your chest, right where the skin was the thinnest, was where he started to gently suck and he earned his first moan. You could feel him start to smile as it escaped you. 

When you looked down at him, all you could see was how his head stretched the fabric, and it was simply just humorous. 

“I could just take my shirt off, y’know?” you teased, though you were out of breath.  

”No,” he mumbled, lips brushing against your skin, an audible mwah leaving his mouth as he moved higher, planting a soft kiss in the valley between your breasts. “It’s warm under here.” 

You let out a small laugh, your fingers resting on top of his head, the shirt still acting as a barrier as you felt his hair through it. “Wouldn’t have taken you for such a boob guy.” 

Oscar closed his eyes as he felt your quiet laugher vibrate through your chest against his lips. Your breasts were practically lodged against his cheeks and he was definitely flushed red all over so it was actually convenient for him to be hidden under your shirt. 

“Shut up,” was all he could manage to mutter. 

He couldn’t hide anymore when he felt you pull the shirt up by the hem, first over his head and then swiftly over your own, it landing somewhere on the floor. Oscar was left laying there, chin resting against your sternum, feeling totally exposed as your eyes met his again. He didn’t dare to take in the sight of you shirtless, even though he was literally on top of your breasts. 

And while he probably looked like a flustered mess, you looked totally unfazed. 

“You motorboated me,” you exclaimed, laughter in your voice, “and you haven’t even kissed me on the mouth! Feels a bit backwards, don’t you think?” 

Oscar chuckled, not having the time to think that he should be ashamed because of what you just insinuated. His hand moved to gently cup your cheek as he lifted himself to look at you.

“What I’m hearing is that you want to kiss me.”  

He hated to sound cocky. He promised he really did. But with your jaw slacked and disbelief plastered on your face, he felt like he had said the right thing. You weren’t pushing him away, weren’t closing off the moment like he half-expected.

Instead, you were pulling him in.

If he thought your chest had been soft, your lips were like fucking velvet. It was like he was scared to touch you with how delicate you felt; with how softly you met his own lips. The initial connection was quick before he pulled away an inch or two to gather your reaction. With pure lust in your eyes, you were back to kissing him again before he had the chance to overthink what had just happened. 

The kiss deepened slowly, a tender exploration of new territory, a silent acknowledgement that this—whatever this was—wasn’t just a one-off moment.

Oscar’s heart hammered in his chest as he shifted, his body now hovering over yours. His lips brushed against yours in a series of soft kisses. Then, before he knew it, your tongue was fighting his own. Your arms wrapped around his shoulders, pulling him in closer, and he let himself be totally absorbed by you. 

And oh my god, you were shirtless beneath him. He struggled with where to place his hands, feeling strange holding your face for too long but scared to grip your bare waist with his wandering hands. But when he felt you push up towards him—your nipples rubbing his shirt, the soft flesh of your breast squished against his chest—Oscar felt like he could indulge fully. 

With his forehead pressed against yours, Oscar pulled away and asked, “Do you want this to go further?” 

You nodded first, swallowing your breath, before verbally saying a low and desperate yes too. 

He wasn’t sure if he answered anything coherent or just let out a loud huff when he leant back down to kiss you. As his hands travelled up your body, you could feel goosebumps form under his fingertips. He stoked the underside of your breasts, taking in the way you reacted, before fully cupping them in his palms. 

You tipped your head back between the sofa cushions as his lips moved down your jaw and neck, littering you with open-mouthed kisses. He towered over you, his lower body fitting perfectly with how your legs spread for him. 

Oscar smiled as he grazed his teeth against your nipple, hearing you gasp at how he purposely teased you. And while he hadn’t thought about it like that before, you were definitely right with calling him a boob guy. Because fuck, could he spend his time adoring and fondling your soft tits, malleable in his hands and stimulating on his tongue. The way they perked up and became more sensitive with his touch was about to make him delirious. 

And the sounds you were making—the gentle breathy groans—were better than any sound he’d ever heard before, practically deafening to his ears by how much he was concentrating on it. God, was he glad to have to turned on the sequel because having sex to Phil Collins wasn’t really on any bucket list. Especially not with how overwhelming he found your noises.  

He released your nipple with a smacking sound, gazing at the attacked skin of your chest and neck. It would leave bruises, which made him feel even more like a horny teenager. 

“Can you take your shirt off?” Your voice felt airy and small. 

While your hands had already crept under to rake down his back as you were kissing, Oscar hadn’t exactly thought about the imbalance. He’d do just about anything to make you comfortable, meaning that his t-shirt soon joined yours on the floor. 

He was an athlete, yet he hadn’t personally ever thought he looked like one. He’d never been one of those guys to confidently parade around without a shirt on in summer or post pictures of himself flexing in the gym. He just couldn’t do it.

But your eyes on him, the way you nestled your lower lip between your teeth, and how your hands immediately reached out to touch him… yeah, that was maybe the closest thing he’d felt to confidence in a long time.

“Do you feel okay?”

He wasn’t sure how his own voice would sound when he spoke again—dry and muffled, distracted by a million different things. 

“Mhm,” you sighed out. “You wanna take off the rest of my clothes or should I do it myself?” 

Oscar gulped at your forwardness, but he guessed he already knew that you wanted to take this further. So did he, like insanely. With fumbling fingers, he untied the drawstring on your sweatpants and worked them down your hips, until you laid there in front of him in just your thong and fuzzy socks. 

He had sat up to take off his shirt, but he now nestled down between your legs again. There was no way in hell that he would last long inside of you, so he would need to please you beforehand. A gentleman, after all. 

Oscar felt like he was about to die at the thought of going down on you, his blushing cheeks almost hurting from how warm they were. His hair was messy, his lips were kissed raw, and his pupils had dilated until all you could see in his eyes was darkness. 

“Y’know you don’t have to—” you tried to tell him. 

“What if I really want to?” he questioned, almost rhetorically. You didn’t fight him on it. 

He kissed down your stomach until he came to the hem of your panties, absentmindedly rubbing soft circles on your hips and then down your thighs. There, his thoughts were simply reduced to the need to have you, in whatever way you allowed him. 

You were impatient, while Oscar took his time to enjoy you. He tortuously dragged his lips across your thighs; the faint pattern of your skin looked like thin, pale lines spreading like lightning strikes. Once he dared to touch you over the fabric and feel the wetness that had soaked through, he could hear your breath hitch. 

Slowly, he hooked his fingers in the sides of your thong and dragged them down your legs, leaving them discarded on the floor with the other clothes. Fully naked, except the socks, but those were staying on, Oscar decided. 

“Have I told you that you’re gorgeous yet?” 

You were looking down at him with an expression akin to frustration—mouth slightly open and heavy breaths spilling out, almost scoffing at his cliché words. He couldn’t help but feel a sense of pride as his own breaths hit your skin, blowing against your exposed heat. He pecked the stretched skin on your inner thigh to soothe you, stopping your writhing.

At a loss for what to do with your hands, they found their way down to his hair, weaving through his soft curls, tugging gently to get his attention. 

“Osc…” you said with a simple breath. 

That was really all Oscar needed—to hear you want him. That stupid little nickname was also something special. He hummed against you, feeling your reassurance as he kissed gently over your clit. And before you were able to complain for more, he latched his lips around it, suckling in a way that made your vision momentarily blank. His movements were tentative at first, unexperienced and lacking confidence. 

“Oh, you’re so good,” you exhaled, praising him. 

And there was something about the way you say it that just drove Oscar mad. It wasn’t that it felt good—it was that he was good. He got off on your reaction. It was as simple as that. It made him determined, building something with precise dramatics. 

You felt his left hand grasp at the skin of your thigh, slowly inching upwards before he carefully sank a finger into you. Your hips twitched and you moan out loud as he played with you. He worked you open before adding another finger, his mouth never leaving your clit in the process. Even when your thighs fought to stay open, caging him between them, he didn’t falter. And every once in a while, when his eyes looked up to meet yours, you only felt yourself falling apart quicker. 

His voice was low, the tone soft, when he mumbled something against your swollen cunt; something about how you tasted good. His free hand gently pressed down on your stomach to make you focus on the sensation—to feel his fingers ripping you apart from the inside out. 

“God, fuckfuckfuck—” You were barely making sense of your own words as you bucked up against his mouth, completely buried over you, nose bumping your clit with his repeated motions. 

Automatically, your hands grasped your breasts, fingers toying with your already sensitive nipples. Moving from your stomach, Oscar’s right hand was placed on your tits too, clasping his fingers over your own as he squeezed. 

When you inevitably fell apart, he didn’t stop—not until you were a complete mess beneath him. Arching, white-hot, and expanding with intensity before his very eyes as he continued to softly lick. The way he was making out with your soaked core and babying your clit with the tip of his tongue would make one believe that this was a man who had never been shy or embarrassed over a single thing in his life. 

And he wasn’t going to stop until you begged him.

With a pleasured and defeated “Oscar, please…” you were letting him know that he had done his job—that he had won you over in more ways than was necessary, that you were spent by him. 

“I know,” he cooed, kissing your stomach. “I know.” 

He moved to lay beside you, gently sliding his fingers out of you before tap, tap, tapping at your puffy clit, keeping his eyes steady at how you reacted. A slight hiss left your mouth before a hoarse laugher slipped out too. Your legs were still trembling from how intense your orgasm had been. 

“You’re a mess,” you chuckled, raising a hand to brush his hair back then wiping his mouth with the back of your hand to clean him. “And a menace.” 

“Well, so are you,” he smiled, kissing you on the mouth, neither of you caring about said mess. 

You took a moment to breathe, and Oscar took a moment to think. While he couldn’t think straight, he could still come to the conclusion that this was such a good feeling—an overwhelmingly good feeling that he hadn’t felt in a long time, maybe never before. 

By now, his cock was painfully hard beneath his sweatpants, definitely having leaked pre-cum through his boxers. If it had been bad before, it was so many times worse now with you heaving next to him, naked and looking at him through your eyelashes. He was practically seeing stars, and you hadn’t even touched him where he ached the most.

It was almost unjustifiable the way he was feeling—someone should just tape a sign to his forehead that said practically a raging virgin and call it a day. He wasn’t one, just to clarify, but you made him feel like one.  

Your hand trailed gently down his chest, your nails painted black like always. Oscar wasn’t sure he was breathing anymore. He wished he could react normally to your touch, but instead it was like his skin raised like a mountain range wherever your hand wandered, his eyes following your movements with a pitiful desperation. 

And when your hand moved below the waistband of his sweatpants, resting gently over his boxers, and therefore his erection too, he wasn’t sure what exactly would happen to his body—something new, a biological error, or a supernatural phenomenon. 

You were so close to him, pulling his trousers down in such a fashion that your legs almost clashed together while it happened. Then he was naked, and you turned quiet. 

Abashedly, he tried to think about what he looked like from your perspective. He wondered if he was too thick or too thin, if he should’ve groomed better, or if his upper body was disproportionate to his legs, or if he smelled bad, if he was just plain weird, or—

“Holy shit,” you whispered. 

“W-what?” Oscar stuttered. 

While Oscar was busy analysing himself, you were gawking. Maybe people on TikTok would call it a ’sleeper-build’, but there was nothing subtle about it. His pale skin looked pretty in a flushed pink tone, easily scratching under your sharp nails. Broad shoulders, toned stomach, thick thighs. Your eyes couldn’t help but look lower and lower. The pure size of him sank in a second later. 

“You’re… big,” you said like a matter of fact. “It’s been a while, so you’ll have to go slow.” 

“W-what?” Oscar stuttered, again. 

His eyes widened to the point where it strained them. Of all the things you could’ve said, that was probably the one he expected the least. He tried to read your face, waiting for more of an explanation. 

With your brows furrowed, all you asked were, “You’re surprised that I haven’t had sex in a while?” 

“No!” he hurried to say, not thinking about other implications his reaction could’ve had. He’d curse himself for eternity if you thought he meant to slut-shame you. “I’m surprised about the other… thing. No one’s ever said that before,” he gesticulated with his hand, unsure what to call the thing that had just happened. 

You glanced up at his face to see that he was now sporting a smirk, letting you know that your words had gone completely to his ego. Motherfucker, was he pretty. 

“I’m not sure I believe that,” you mumbled, kissing him again. Laying side to side next to each other on the sofa, both of your hands had grown eager to touch. It was waists and chests, up bare backs to tangle fingers in hair.  

“I promise you that it’s the first time I hear that,” he mumbled back. 

Your hand sneaked down between your bodies, and any cockiness that Oscar gained from his newfound ’big dick energy’ was washed away in seconds. A whimper. A fucking whimper was ripped from his throat as soon as your fingers were wrapped around him. He couldn’t stop himself. Your movements were slow and languid, spreading the beads of pre-cum around his tip with your thumb. Oscar closed his eyes as he tried to not fall apart instantly. 

“How’s your pull-out game?” you asked between placing kisses on his neck and jaw. He had beautiful freckles and birthmarks all over his skin. 

And, fuck, how Oscar couldn’t think when dirty words left your mouth. 

“I—, Uhh… Not good?” 

He let out a moan mid-sentence. He felt both pathetic and tortured as your delicate fingers kept stroking him up and down. 

“I’m on birth control anyway.” 

“I could go and get a condom,” he fought himself to say. 

“Do you have one?” you questioned, and Oscar’s lack of an answer told you what you already knew. “I thought so.”  

And while Oscar knew that he came across looser-like, he didn’t also need it to be so transparent to you. Even though he sort of liked the dynamic built between you. He had always liked that you were quick-witted and a little mean. 

Oscar exhaled, concealing another moan with a breathy chuckle. “You need to stop making fun of me when I’m naked. It’s going to affect my self-esteem.” 

“Can’t help it, you’re an easy target.” You quickly pecked his lips, a little laugher slipping out. “You’re also a very pretty target.” 

He wasn’t used to being called pretty. His mum called him handsome. His instagram comments called him a polite cat. Pretty was entirely new territory. But he liked it, and impossibly, he blushed even harder. 

“Are we really doing this?” 

He just had to be sure, still in a bit of disbelief. 

“Please,” you said. “Fuck me.” 

Oscar propped himself on his elbow, placing it beside your head, caging you beneath him. He took himself in his hand, giving his cock a few slow stokes. He looked tortured, the tip pink and engorged as it curved up towards his stomach, a thatch of hair connecting to his faint happy trail. 

The head of his cock sat heavy against your entrance as he aligned himself, and you felt yourself desperately clenching around nothing. His free hand rubbed circles on your hip comfortingly. He was hesitant, and maybe that was your fault for asking him to take it slow, but the last thing he wanted was to cause you pain. With an eager nod, you gave him the green light. 

“God, you’re tight,” Oscar murmured, his voice breathless as he pushed forward. 

“No,” you gasped, gripping his bicep for something to hold onto. “You are massive.” 

A low, strained laugh escaped him. “You really wanna argue right now?” 

No, you didn’t. Not when you felt him slide inside you completely. 

“I’m okay,” you whispered, breathing heavily, unable to help the way you tightened around him. “F-fuck, you can move,” you told him, voice muffled against his neck. 

Oscar inhaled sharply, softening to the touch by your reassurance, as he pulled his hips from yours before slowly moving back, tentatively creating a steady rhythm, stretching your around him. 

It was intoxicating, and warm. While he knew that he liked you, he had never imagined it to feel like free falling. You still smelled like a mixture of him and yourself, and your soft skin was touching him in ways and places he couldn’t describe. It was gratifying that you were just as desperate as he was.  

He lifted your leg up by gripping under your knee, thrusting at a deeper angle. The sounds of your bodies crashing together filled the room as your moments only got quicker and needier. 

Looking down at you, he saw your eyes struggling to stay open and your jaw dropping loose with the whimpers and moans you were letting out. Your tits bounced in pace every time he came to the hilt inside you. 

“Holy f-fuck, you feel good,” he stuttered right in your ear. “You feel like you were fucking made for me.” 

He was being lewd and you giggled. God, you giggled—like Oscar didn’t have enough of a hard time keeping it together. You were teasing him, but it was gentle and honeyed, like a beautiful song to his ears. 

He forcefully dug his fingers into the soft fat of your thigh, spilling out between his fingers, doing just about anything to ground himself, but it was impossible. Admittedly, Oscar had never felt this good before in his life. 

His living room was ablaze with your movements—an incoherent mess between two bodies, all skin and bone, at each other’s disposal to use. 

“Fuck…” Oscar moaned, grinding his cock into you. “I’m already so fucking close.” 

“Me too,” you whined out, voice strangled. “Let it all go.” 

Oscar buried his face in your neck to try and hide his desperation, moaning and biting down into the soft skin. He was moving frantically, feeling it all approaching rapidly. 

With a soft cry, Oscar was cumming, stuttering and needy, groaning everything from your name to all the curse words he could think of. He twitched inside of you, coating your walls with his cum. You moved one of your hands to his cheek and you held his face, staring intensely into his eyes, as he rode out his high. 

Damn you and your damn eye contact. 

He continued to slowly thrust, doing whatever he could to get you off while being totally spent. The hand on your hip drifted to your pubic bone before delving between your folds, his pointer and ring finger running steady halos over your clit. Thankfully, you weren’t long after. He wasn’t sure he could take the embarrassment of not making you cum when it had been so easy for him. You arched your back as it hit you, throwing your head back in blind pleasure. 

And then it all slowed. The moans disappeared, and all that was left were heavy breaths in an eerily quiet living room. He felt warm air hit his neck as he laid down and you cuddled up against him. Mindlessly, you ran your fingertips along his skin, soothing the marks your nails had left. He’d gone soft inside you, his release mixed with your own leaking out the sides. 

“I’m gonna slide out, okay?” 

“Mhm, slowly,” you whimpered as he did it, going from feeling full to achingly empty. A single tear ran down your cheek out of exhaustion and pleasure, and Oscar stopped to kiss it away, tasting the saline on his lips. 

“Talk to me,” he whispered. 

You let out a deep breath, your body feeling heavy but sated. “I’m good,” you murmured, your cheek pressed against his chest. “Can feel you dripping down my thighs though.” 

“We should probably clean up.” 

He didn’t move, and neither did you. You were perfectly content with the mess if it meant that you would stay cradled in his arms. He wrapped his arms tighter around you, legs intertwining. His pec was soft against you, and you could hear the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, a soothing backdrop to the quiet intimacy of the moment.

“I was going to let you wait annoyingly long before sleeping with you. I can’t believe I caved in so easily,” you said suddenly, your voice soft but teasing. The words hung in the air for a moment, light and playful, but you could feel the way his chest rumbled as he chuckled.

Oscar raised an eyebrow, his curiosity piqued. “Oh, really?”

You nodded, hiding your face in his chest. “Yeah. Like, painfully long. Months, at least.”

“What changed?” 

You hesitated for a moment, your face still pressed against him. But then you tilted your head slightly, sneaking a glance up at him through heavy lashes. “Can’t help the fact that I’m insanely attracted to you,” you admitted shyly. 

Oscar took in your smile before embarrassment made you hide it into his chest again. You were so… soft, like he couldn’t actually believe it.  

“Glad we’re on the same page,” he exhaled, sinking down further into the sofa cushions. He ran a hand through his hair, trying and failing to contain the pleased grin that spread across his face.

You kissed his chest gently, the steady rise and fall of his breathing lulling you into a sense of peace. For a while, neither of you spoke, the comfortable silence stretching between you. You were glad this hadn’t turned awkward. 

Then, his voice broke the quiet, low and soft. “Are you staying the night?”

You didn’t look up at him, sort of scared to say a right-out yes to his question. 

“If you want me to.”

His arms tightened around you slightly, and you could feel the smile on his lips as he pressed a soft kiss to the crown of your head. “I’d love that.”

______________________

Oscar wasn’t sure how long he spent starring at himself in the bathroom mirror afterward. He moved through his routine on autopilot—brushing his teeth, rinsing his mouth—only for his movements to slow as his reflection pulled him back in. His messy hair was still tousled. The love bites on his neck, faint but unmistakable, stood out against his pale skin. His fingertips grazed over the scratches on his shoulders, his cheeks warming as he recalled how they got there. He didn’t think he would ever stop blushing tonight. 

When he finally mustered the courage to step back into his bedroom, he found you there: bare feet on the hardwood floor, wearing only his maroon t-shirt. You stood in front of his dresser, looking intensely at something placed on it. 

The trophies.

You had fucked his brains out so good that he had forgotten about the intricate web of omissions and half-truths he had woven around you. And now, his lies were staring back at him, literally and metaphorically. 

This was about to be awful. 

“So, this is where you keep them?” Your voice was calm, deceptively so, as you turned to face him.

Oscar stood frozen in the doorway. He opened his mouth but no words left it, his body rigid as he grappled with the realisation: you already knew.  

He hadn’t wanted to keep these things out in the open. Unlike some drivers whose homes were practically shrines to their achievements, Oscar preferred subtlety. Most of his trophies were tucked away, gathering dust in storage. But these— mostly medals and pictures from his childhood, tokens of his early racing days—remained on his dresser. 

“I’ve known for a while,” you admitted, as if offering him a way out of the confession he hadn’t yet made. “Since I questioned you driving a McLaren to counselling.”

Oscar blinked, the pieces of the puzzle clicking into place with an awful, grinding clarity. It wasn’t like he had tried to be undercover or specifically careful about concealing his identity. 

“I thought you just worked for McLaren at first,” you continued, gesturing vaguely to the trophies. “But then I googled your name and the brand… My brother used to be a big Hamilton fan, so I made the connection.”

He exhaled slowly, his shoulders slumping slightly as the tension drained out of him. “Why didn’t you say something?” He didn’t mean for his voice to sound defeated, but it did. 

“Figured there was a reason as to why you didn’t tell me,” you shrugged, taking a seat on his bed. “I won’t force you to talk about things you don’t want to. We met in an unconventional way and I fully understand that you don’t want a stranger to know everything about you.” 

“Don’t say that,” Oscar interrupted, his voice sharper than he intended. He stepped further into the room, his hands flexing at his sides. “We’re not strangers, we know each other.” 

You tilted your head, your expression softening as you studied him. His sudden reaction surprised even himself, but he couldn’t let the word “strangers” hang in the air between you. Oscar guessed he was more emotionally involved than he had let himself believe, but that he now couldn’t deny it. He sat down beside you, the bed shifting under his weight, and your eyes searched his for something—an explanation, perhaps

“I know you,” he argued. “I know that you only smoke after counselling since it stresses you out and you think that because you smokeMarlboro Silvers, it won’t affect you as badly. know that immediately after, you chew strawberry gum to get rid of the taste, because you don’t actually like it.” 

He started at you intensely as he kept talking, finally not scared of your eye contact. But he could see that you were crumbling. 

“You only drink rooibos tea because it’s naturally sweeter than black tea. You carry white lighters to appear fearless, but in reality it’s because you’re sad and you don’t care if something bad happens to you.” 

“Oh, and you cry to Disney movies,” he lastly added, “because you are in fact not fearless. You’re scared shitless of the emotions you harbour inside and never tell anyone about. So, yeah, I know you. ” 

You blinked, his words hanging in the air between. “That doesn’t sound like you know me,” you said after a long pause. “That sounds like you’ve observed me.”

“We also quite literally just had sex,” he reminded you, a shy smile tugging at his lips. “And I think we’re alike in that sense—that we don’t casually do that with random people.” 

“Fair point,” you conceded, unable to suppress your own smile. 

And there it was again—the strange, undeniable truth between you. There was truth in what you had shared with each other, always. Even if he had skipped the specifics, his feelings had never been false. 

You exhaled loudly, your back hitting the mattress. It was like a balloon had popped, the tension in the taut latex having exploded into nothing. You were so tired. You always were. 

Oscar knew not to push further. Not right now at least. He fell back on the mattress too, hiking further up to rest his head on his pillow. He lifted the covers to invite you underneath, cuddling you closer as your arms and legs were now slightly cold to the touch. 

He also came back to the realisation that you knew him too. That you knew why he went to the group meetings. That you knew what he did all those weekends he spent working. That the car crash he blamed himself for wasn’t exactly average. 

“Did you see the crash?” he asked quietly after a moment, his voice murmuring between the sheets. 

He felt you shake your head. “No, I haven’t seen a race since Hamilton last won the championship.” 

“Right, because of your brother,” Oscar remembered. “Is he no longer a fan?” 

“I don’t know if he is. Haven’t talked to him in over a year.” 

Oscar nodded slowly, taking in the weight of your words. You hesitated for a moment, your fingers tracing the edge of the covers. “Do you want me to see the crash?” 

“No,” he answered quickly. “Not really.” 

“My first impression of you racing probably shouldn’t be a crash anyway.” 

The corners of his mouth lifted in a small, grateful smile, and he reached for your hand, lacing his fingers with yours. The weight of that topic seemed to drift away, and you found yourself sinking into the comfort of his embrace again, your head resting on his bare chest. He could feel your warmth tucked against his side, your breathing steady like a rhythm. You traced little patterns along his palm and fingers. 

For a moment, it felt easy again. Soporific, even.

He could’ve easily fallen asleep, for once without thinking about nightmares. Oscar also didn’t want this to end, for the night to be over and for him to have to say goodbye to you in the morning. Not that he imagined it to be a dramatic goodbye, you’d see each other soon enough again, but still, he didn’t want to. 

“You should come with me to a race,” he said softly, breaking the peaceful silence, looking at you almost succumbing to slumber. 

“I can’t—” you began and Oscar could immediately sense your hesitation. 

“I’d pay for everything. I just want to have you there,” he added quickly, tilting his head to gaze down at you. It wasn’t about the money. It wasn’t about showing off. He just needed you near him, in whatever way he could. 

Your body tensed up against him. “I can’t leave the country Oscar.” 

The words didn’t make sense at first. He frowned, confused. “I’m sure you can get time off from work,” he said, worrying that was the reason. 

You turned your gaze away, your cheek no longer resting against him, and the absence of your touch sent a quiet ache through him. You couldn’t meet his eyes, and the pause that followed felt agonisingly long. The words felt stuck in your throat, your chest tightening. 

“I mean—,” you paused, swallowing hard. “I’m not allowed to leave the country.” 

The room fell silent, save for your faint whisper. 

“I’m on probation.” 

Oscar’s mind went blank. Probation. That was for criminal offences. You’d done something deserving of a court sentence. Silence stretched between you, and Oscar pulled away slightly, just enough to look at you more closely. His brow furrowed, but he didn’t speak.

“So, I’m sorry for calling us strangers,” you said finally, “but you don’t know the half of what I’ve done.” 

You sat up fully now, a cold weight settling in the bed. “What are you doing?” he asked, his voice steady, watching as you untangled yourself from the sheets, kicking the comforter off your legs.

“I’m leaving.” 

“No. You’re not.” 

His voice was firm, almost commanding, as he reached out and grasped your arm before you could move further. His grip wasn’t harsh, but it was resolute. He wasn’t going to let you walk away—not like this.

“You’re going to stay and tell me about this. I feel like you owe me that after what we just did.” 

You froze, whole body going rigid, but Oscar didn’t let go. 

“I need to know if I’m falling for a serial killer or not,” he added with a half-smile, trying to lighten the mood, “because then I’ll seriously need to reconsider my life choices.”

Your heart ached at his attempt to make you laugh, but the knot in your chest didn’t loosen. The humour didn’t land, not fully, and the weight of what you were about to confess pressed down on you like a heavy stone.

 You bit your lip, your voice trembling as you said, “I c-can’t tell you.” 

“Why?” 

Your body trembled beneath his touch and he loosed his grip, thumb rubbing soft circles on your arm. 

“Because you’re a good person,” you whispered. “You’re going to find me repulsive and never want to see me again.” 

Oscar could see it in your eyes—the battle raging within you, the fear that once the words left your lips, he would be gone. But he wasn’t going anywhere. You cared about seeing him again. That alone gave him something to hold on to.

“Unless you’ve actually murdered someone—I don’t think that’s possible.” His voice was soft, almost coaxing.

“I don’t think you get probation for murder. I promise no one got hurt physically.” 

And even in this state, you still kept that sarcastic edge that he’d grown to adore. 

“Okay,” Oscar said softly. “Then tell me.”

You sighed, your hands trembling as you ran your fingers through your hair. Your eyes squeezed shut, as though blocking out his gaze would somehow make it easier to speak.

“When I was 19 I got into a relationship with a guy who was a lot older than me,” you began, your voice uneven. “He had a very… destructive lifestyle that I became a part of. I let him use me.” 

Oscar’s stomach twisted, but he stayed quiet, letting you continue. He could see how much it was costing you to admit this, and the last thing he wanted was to make it harder for you.

You slowly opened your eyes, not to look at him, but to look at the ceiling, blinking to fight tears from running down your cheeks. 

“The reason as to why I haven’t spoken to my brother in such a long time… ” Your voice broke, and you paused, taking a shaky breath. “…is because I committed fraud with his identity. I took out a loan using his name because I was desperate for money.” 

Oscar couldn’t hide his shock, but he didn’t pull away. You were laying it all out, raw and exposed, and he wasn’t going to judge you. He couldn’t. He stayed rooted in place, his hand still on your arm, grounding you.

“When he found out, he turned me in. I confessed to doing it and agreed on accepting help which is the only reason I’m not currently in prison.” 

“And the boyfriend?” Oscar managed to ask.

You laughed bitterly, shaking your head. “He took the money and fled the country. Haven’t seen him since. But I paid my brother back. Every penny.”  

Oscar nodded slowly. “What did you need the money for?” 

Your lips trembled as you looked down at your hands. “Don’t make me say it. I feel like you already know.” 

And he did. He’d known since he realised what those Sunday meetings were for. 

“Are you clean now?” 

“14 months,” you quickly said. “Ever since he turned me in. I have a badge on my keys if you—” 

“I’m proud of you,” Oscar said, cutting you off gently.

Your breath hitched as he said it. It had surprised you. “See?” he whispered. “You didn’t scare me away.” Oscar gathered his courage to hold you in his embrace again, laying you gently down on the mattress, letting your body relax on top of his. 

“Besides,” he added with a wry grin, “I’m in an industry where if you haven’t committed tax fraud, you’re probably the odd one out.”

You blinked in surprise, a startled laugh escaping your lips despite yourself. “What?” 

Oscar chuckled, the tension between you easing ever so slightly. “I know drivers who’ve had people go to prison on their behalf because of embezzlement,” he said, clearly exaggerating, but the humour in his voice was infectious. “You’re practically a saint compared to some of them.” 

“Fucking corrupt rich people,” you muttered. 

“Well,” Oscar said, his hand moving down to hold yours, “the point is… you can’t scare me away.”

He heard you exhale loudly. He even felt it against his shirtless skin. Your arms tightened around him, clutching both yours and his chest. It was adding pressure to stop you from panicking. 

And then you started crying. For real this time. It wasn’t you fighting the tears from falling or shyly getting watery eyes from Brother Bear. You were sobbing. He hadn’t thought he would ever see you cry. 

Oscar’s heart broke a little as he watched you finally let go, your body shaking with the weight of everything you’d been holding in. He immediately pulled you closer into his arms, holding you close, his hand gently stroking your hair as you cried against his chest.

“I’ve got you,” Oscar whispered softly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

You clung to him, your tears soaking into his skin, but he didn’t mind. You were essentially a stranger—even though he hated the word—crying in his arms, and he’d do anything in his power to never see you like this again. He had fallen for your softness, not the jagged edges you put up around yourself in protection. He’d accept you unconditionally if it meant you didn’t see him as something you needed to protect yourself from. 

As your sobs quieted and your breathing got steady, you remained tucked against Oscar’s chest, resting over his heartbeat. You could feel his hand tracing soothing circles on your back. He almost thought you had fallen asleep. 

“Thank you,” you whispered after a long silence, your voice hoarse from crying.

Oscar pressed a kiss to the top of your head. “For what?” 

“For making me stay.” 

______________________

A couple of weeks later, on a Tuesday at St. Anne’s Church, you did something you’d never expected yourself to do. You found yourself standing at the lectern in front of the room of strangers that you had spent the past year of your life with. And Oscar, but he had never really been a stranger. 

It felt stupid at first, when you walked up there and said your name, the people in the room saying it back to you like a choir. Some clichés from movies really were true. 

You started off by giving a brief background as to why you went to meetings. It was supposed to be a guilt-free environment, one where you wouldn’t be judged for anything. But opening up about betraying your own brother and getting probation because of it wasn’t guilt-free no matter how you twisted it. 

“Some of you might recognise me from NA meetings as well, but the drugs were never my main issue. I mean, I was— or am an addict, that’s how they want you to say it in NA at least. There is really no denying that, but the real problem was how it made me treat the people around me.” 

You didn’t like how your voice sounded in the echoing room, but it didn’t stop you from trying. You knew that the people listening had their own issues so present that yours wouldn’t bother them.

“I understand that my brother never wants to speak to me again,” you continued, your gaze falling to your hands, a cuticle bleeding from unconsciously picking at it. “I think I almost feel the same way. But then… I’ll go to Sainsbury’s and buy green apples, even though I hate them, but he loves them, and I used to buy them for him.” 

It was true. You’d have vivid flashbacks about apples every time you saw them. You’d get them from the store as if you were moving on autopilot and hate yourself for it when you got home and unpacked the groceries. Your aunt would always question why you bought them but never ate them, and you couldn’t put that into words. 

“I’ll have a mental breakdown over some stupid apples and realise that… we are connected in a way that can never be erased. That’s my fault, my guilt to carry—that I ruined it, that I get to argue with apples instead of arguing with him,” you said with an almost laugher. 

You fixed your gaze on Oscar, whose eyes had never left yours for as long as you spoke. He held a tight smile, like understanding the humour in how trauma tended to materialise. 

The facilitator asked you a question, like he normally did when he saw people trying to find the right words but struggling to get them into actual sentences. He asked you how time had changed the guilt you felt and if your probation still felt fair to you. 

“It’s just so… fucked up that you can convince yourself that you’re evil and unfixable,” you answered, your voice growing steadier. “But it turns out you’re just young. And you’ll make mistakes because of it. I’m paying for those mistakes, but I can’t let them define me.” 

You decided that you were done there. You could say more, and you could’ve said less, but you’d done it now. That was the important part. And even though you’d never admit it, it really did feel better to have said it out loud. 

As you stepped down and walked back to your seat, a small wave of applause followed you. You felt Oscar’s hand slip into yours as you sat down, his fingers squeezing gently, a wordless assurance.

It took a bit longer for Oscar to finally walk up to the front of the room, a month or so. But he did it in the end. You understood that he felt like his problems weren’t like everybody else’s, because no normal person could really understand his job. And feeling guilt over a car crash where no one was hurt wasn’t easily explainable either. 

Oscar’s movements were deliberate, almost stiff, as though he was trying to keep himself together with every step. He stood at the lectern, his hands gripping the edges tightly, and you could see the tension in his knuckles.

He talked about the crash in broad terms, but most of his focus was on Charles, and Oscar’s messed-up idea about how he had hurt Charles. When the facilitator asked him to base his guilt around something real, something factual, you saw the struggle in his expression.

“It’s just… guilt,” he said finally, his voice low. He paused, searching for the right words, but they didn’t come. “I’m not sure I can explain it or give it a likeness. Not everything feels like something else.”

Not everything felt like something else. Issues were allowed to be unique and entangled. It wasn’t about understanding them as much as it was about accepting them. You watched him closely, and you raised your arm to ask him a question, waiting for him to acknowledge you with a silent nod. 

“If Charles felt like he never needed to forgive you because he knew all along that this was an accident and no one was actually hurt—why can’t you forgive yourself?” 

Oscar’s gaze dropped, his shoulders slumping slightly. He stood there for a long moment, the words sinking in. 

He realised then and there that his main issue wasn’t the crash or the possibility of it happening again. It was that he blamed himself for hurting someone else—a hurt that granted hadn’t even happened, Charles was fine—but his mind hadn’t cared about that. He had the lives of others at risk with the turn of a wheel, and the crash had made him mentally unprepared for that risk. He guessed he knew now what to bring up the next time he met up with his therapist.  

After that meeting, Oscar talked for a moment with the facilitator, before he walked out to find you standing by the big doorway into the actual church, looking down the isle to the altar. He stood quietly behind you, placing his arm around your waist. The quiet of the church was profound, almost unsettling. The rows of pews stretched out before you, bathed in a soft glow of candlelight. 

“I don’t think I ever understood religion,” you said, whispering in the stillness. “Or God, for that matter. It’s too quiet. Too much about self-reflection and not enough about the old men in the Bible for me to grasp it.”

Oscar didn’t respond right away, his chin resting lightly on your shoulder as he followed your gaze to the altar.

“I see it as a last ditch effort for when you have no one else to talk to, but all you end up doing is talking to yourself,” he explained. 

“Sounds a lot like self-reflection to me,” you huffed a little. 

Maybe that was the thing people needed most—to get to know themselves. Bad people don’t wonder if they’re bad people. A truly evil person wouldn’t feel guilty for something bad they’ve done. You were both paralysed by guilt, but standing there with Oscar, it felt just a little less heavy.

“Oscar…” you began again, turning to meet his gaze. “Please don’t tell my secrets to anyone else.” 

“We literally had to sign an NDA to join the group, babe.” 

“You know what I mean,” you said, rolling your eyes but unable to suppress a small laugh.

“I promise.” 

When you left the church that evening, it was abnormally sunny. Early summer, colouring the nature around you green. You walked across the parking lot hand in hand, that silent show of affection a normal occurrence between you now. 

“Oh,” he said suddenly, stopping by his car. “I got you something.”

From his pocket, he pulled out a lighter, its surface bright orange. He held it out to you, his expression almost shy. You blinked, caught off guard. You hadn’t expected anything like this, the small, unspoken care behind the gesture. No more conscious bad luck. 

“It’s a myth, y’know?” you said, taking the lighter and looking at him softly. “Most of the 27 club died before Bic started making the white version.” 

Did Oscar feel a little stupid for not thinking to google the superstition before buying you—granted, a very cheap gift—but also something so laced with thoughtfulness? Maybe. Did he also deeply want you to stop being reliant on nicotine to feel calm? Definitely. But that was too late to say right now when you already had the lighter in your hand and he was blushing from how exposed he felt. 

“Well, I think orange suits you better anyway.” 

______________________

Oscar had insisted, of course—gently but persistently—until you’d finally agreed to come to a race. Silverstone wasn’t out of the country, which meant it didn’t violate any of your probation rules. A technical loophole, but a loophole nonetheless. Your 18 months were nearly over, but Oscar hadn’t been able to wait.

Now, standing among the sea of spectators in the garage, the weight of his world began to settle. The sheer scale of it all was overwhelming. You couldn’t deny it was exhilarating, but it also made you feel small, like an intruder. It was fucking Silverstone, after all—on a Sunday afternoon just minutes before the lights would go out. 

You glanced down at your phone, trying to distract yourself from the growing tension in your stomach. That’s when a message appeared.

Eli: “Are you at Silverstone?? I swear I just saw you on TV.”

Your breath caught in your throat and your fingers tightened around your phone. Eli. What happened to hello? What happened to how are you? You stared at the message for a long moment. Before you could even process how to respond, another message appeared.

Eli: “Are you with Piastri?? What the hell?” 

A startled laugh escaped your lips, nerves bubbling beneath the surface. You glanced around, as if half-expecting Eli to appear out of thin air. Of course, he wasn’t here. He’d gone once to Silverstone with your father when he was young, but nowadays it was cheaper to try and go to Hungary or another European race. 

So, right now you knew exactly where your brother was—in the living room at your parents’ place because even though he’d moved out a long time ago, he still went home every Sunday to watch F1 because he leached off of their streaming services. 

You took a deep breath and typed back.

You: “Yeah, I’m here with Oscar.”

For a moment, you stared at the screen, your thumb hovering over the send button. Then, with a rush of courage, you pressed it. The three dots indicating Eli was typing appeared, disappeared, and reappeared again.

Eli: “Why didn’t you tell me? You’re at an F1 race with a driver, and I have to find out on TV?” 

He definitely didn’t mean to guilt-trip you—you knew that. It was his way of breaking through the awkwardness. In a way, you supposed it was better to feel guilty about not telling him about Oscar than about the bigger things. The real things.

Before you could reply, you felt a tap on your shoulder. Turning around, you saw Oscar in his race suit, his face flushed from the adrenaline of pre-race preparations. He looked out of breath, but his smile was unmistakable, the sight of you clearly easing some of the tension in his own chest.

“Hey,” he said, leaning down to kiss your cheek. “You good?”

You nodded. “Yeah. My brother just texted me.”

Oscar’s eyebrows shot up in surprise. You bit your lip, holding up your phone so he could see the messages. Oscar leant in, glancing at the screen, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“He recognised you on TV?”

“Apparently,” you said with a soft laugh. “He’s freaking out.”

Oscar’s expression softened, his hand squeezing yours reassuringly. “That has to be good, right? That he’s talking to you?” 

“I hope so,” you whispered. 

Before either of you could say more, someone called Oscar’s name from across the paddock. He sighed, his thumb brushing lightly over your knuckles. “I have to go. National anthem and all that.”

You nodded, your fingers reluctantly slipping from his grasp as he stepped back. “Good luck,” you called after him.

He grinned over his shoulder, his confidence infectious. “Thought you didn’t believe in luck.” 

And while in the past you hadn’t minded your own bad luck and superstitions, you definitely didn’t want to spread that mindset to Oscar. You would start carrying wishbones, four-leaf clovers, and horseshoes if it meant that just a smidge of luck would be transferred to his life. 

As he disappeared into the crowd, the nervous energy around you seemed to intensify. The minutes ticked by, stretching into what felt like hours. Your phone buzzed again, pulling your attention back.

Eli: “I’ve missed you. We should talk whenever you can.”

Your breath caught, and for a moment, the chaos around you seemed to fade. You read the message twice, three times, the words sinking in slowly. For so long, you’d been afraid that you’d lost him for good, that the damage you’d done was irreparable—that you were irreparable. But here he was, reaching out.

You: “I’ve missed you too. I’m back in town tomorrow.” 

You hit send just as the formation lap started. You were not sure for how long you held your breath after that. 

Oscar was good—so good—and as you watched him race, you couldn’t help but feel a surge of pride. He was in his element, completely focused, completely in control. You were glad to not have seen the crash that still haunted him at times, because this proved that it was just a fluke, a temporary stumble rather than a career-defining event. 

As the checkered flag waved, you felt a sense of relief wash over you, knowing he had made it through safely. By the time the race was over, Oscar had finished in fourth place—a strong result considering weak qualifying. Most positions gained by anyone in the race. As the crowd erupted in cheers, you found yourself smiling, the tension in your chest finally easing.

Afterward, you found yourself standing in Oscar’s drivers room, waiting for him to return. Your phone buzzed in your hand, and you glanced down to see another message from your brother.

Eli: “That was an insane race. Piastri is a beast. Proud of you for being there.”

You smiled, feeling lighter than you had in months.

Moments later, Oscar appeared, his hair slightly damp from the helmet, his face flushed. He spotted you immediately, his eyes lighting up as he walked over, his smile wide despite exhaustion. 

“How’d I do?” he asked, his voice breathless. 

“You were amazing,” you grinned, stepping closer to him. “How are you so calm? That was nerve-wracking as hell.” 

“I’ve done this a couple of times before,” he teased. Oscar laughed, pulling you into a hug, his arms wrapping around you tightly. “I’m glad you’re here,” he whispered into your ear. 

You buried your face in his shoulder, holding him close, and felt the last remnants of tension melt away. “Me too.”

Pulling back slightly, he looked down at you, his smile soft. “You haven’t been sarcastic with me all day, y’know? Is there something wrong?” 

You smirked, tilting your head. “I can always start—” 

Before you could finish, he leant down and kissed you, cutting off your words. Smack dab on the mouth, messy and rushed. When he pulled back, his eyes were bright and his grin was infectious. You guessed you didn’t need to resort to sarcasm and snarky comments when you were happy. Simply happy. 

thank you for reading ★ please tell me what you think my asks are always open!

Maybe they were right. Maybe the devil had touched her. Maybe he'd worn a familiar face and a wedding ring and afterwards told her to pray for forgiveness for what she'd done.

The water was up to her waist now. Her ribs. Cold enough to stop her heart if she let it.

She wanted to be clean again.

She closed her eyes and let herself sink.

The river accepted her like an embrace, and for one perfect moment, everything went quiet. No more voices. No more prayers that felt like accusations. No more white dresses that might as well be shrouds.

Just the cold. Just the dark. Just—

A hand closed around her wrist and pulled.

She broke the surface gasping, choking on river water and shock and the terrible, burning realisation that she was still alive. Her lungs screamed. Her vision blurred.

And there was a man.

He hauled her toward the bank with a strength that didn't match his lean frame, and she fought him, of course she fought him, thrashing and clawing because she'd been so close to peace and he'd stolen it from her. But he didn't let go. Didn't flinch when her nails raked his forearm, drawing blood. Just kept pulling until they collapsed together on the muddy shore, both of them breathing hard.

"Let me go," she spat, scrambling backward. Her white dress clung to her like a second skin, transparent and ruined. She didn't care. "Let me go back—"

"No."

The word was firm but not unkind. He sat up slowly, pushing wet dark hair from his face, and she got her first real look at him.

He was beautiful in a way that made her think of fallen angels. Sharp features, pale skin, eyes so but but so dark they looked black in the moonlight. He wore a white shirt, now soaked and mud-stained, and fine trousers that marked him as wealthy. Someone from outside. Someone who didn't belong.

"You're not real," she whispered, because he couldn't be. Men didn't appear out of nowhere at rivers in the middle of the night. Men didn't look at her like that, like she was a person instead of a problem, a temptation, a cautionary tale.

He tilted his head, studying her with an intensity that should have frightened her but somehow didn't. "I assure you, I'm quite real."

"No." She shook her head, wrapping her arms around herself. She was shivering now, violent tremors that had nothing to do with the cold. "You're—you're a test. Or a punishment. Or—"

"I'm neither." He stood, offering her his hand. She stared at it like it might burn her. "My name is Charles. And you were drowning."

"I wanted to drown."

"I know." Something flickered across his face—not pity, which she would have hated, but understanding. "But you didn't, and now you're freezing. Come with me."

She laughed, sharp and brittle. "So you can finish what—" She stopped. Bit her tongue so hard she tasted blood. Couldn't say it. Couldn't name it, even now. Even here with this stranger who might not be a stranger at all but some demon sent to drag her the rest of the way to hell.

But Charles didn't move closer. Didn't try to grab her again. Just kept his hand extended, patient.

"I have a house not far from here," he said quietly. "It's warm. There's a fire. Clean clothes. No one will hurt you there. I give you my word."

"Your word." She wanted to spit the phrase back at him, remind him that men's words had gotten her here in the first place, cold and drowning and so broken she couldn't even die properly. But something in his voice made her pause.

He said it like a vow. Like it meant something.

"Why?" The question scraped out of her. "Why pull me out? You don't know me."

"No," Charles agreed. "But I know what it's like to be cast out by people who call themselves righteous. I know what it's like when the only peace you can imagine is the permanent kind." His hand didn't waver. "And I know that you deserve better than that river."

She looked at his hand. At his face. At the treeline behind him where she could just make out the shape of something massive, a house, maybe, or a cathedral, all sharp angles and impossible height.

The devil's house, the townspeople called it. The place where Charles lived alone with his money and his marble floors and whatever darkness had made the good Christians decide he didn't belong among them.

She should refuse. Should drag herself back to town, back to her narrow bed and her narrower life, back to the people who'd already decided what she was.

But the cold was in her bones now, and she was so tired of being good.

She took his hand.

His skin was warm.

The walk to his house was silent except for the squelch of her ruined shoes and the steady drip of water from her dress. Charles walked beside her, not touching, not hovering, just... there. Present in a way that felt strange. Most men either crowded too close or stayed too far away, like whatever had happened to her might be contagious.

The house emerged from the trees like something out of a fever dream.

It was massive. Three stories of pristine white stone that seemed to glow in the moonlight, columns flanking the entrance like sentries, windows tall and arched like the ones in St. Mary's Church where she used to pray before they'd barred the doors against her. She'd heard rumours about this place, about the man who lived here alone, about the excess, the extravagance, the way it looked like a monument to pride.

They said he'd built it to mock God.

Looking at it now, she thought maybe he'd built it to replace Him.

Charles led her up the front steps and through doors that were twice her height. The entrance hall opened before her, and she stopped dead.

Marble floors stretched in every direction, veined with gold that caught the light from a chandelier overhead, crystal and enormous, dripping with light like tears from heaven. The ceiling soared above them, painted with scenes she couldn't quite make out in the dimness. More columns. More arches. It looked like the inside of a cathedral, if cathedrals were built for comfort instead of guilt.

"Jesus," she whispered, then flinched at her own blasphemy.

"Not quite," Charles said dryly. He shrugged out of his ruined shirt. "Though I appreciate the comparison. Wait here."

He disappeared through a doorway, leaving her standing in a puddle of river water on his perfect floor. She wrapped her arms tighter around herself, suddenly aware of how small she was in this space. How out of place. A drowned thing in a white dress, tracking mud through a palace.

Charles returned, his upper half now clothed, with a thick blanket and what looked like women's clothing, a simple dress in deep blue, a shawl, undergarments that made her cheeks burn.

"The bathroom is through there," he said, pointing. "There's hot water. Take your time."

She didn't move. Couldn't. "Why do you have women's clothes?"

"My mother's." He said it without emotion. "She passed several years ago. Left behind more than any one person could wear in a lifetime." He draped the blanket over her shoulders. "They're doing no one any good in a closet."

She clutched the blanket, still staring at the opulence around them. The wealth. The space. "I didn't know you were—I mean, everyone said you had money, but this is..."

"Excessive?" Charles supplied. "Ostentatious? A sin of pride?"

"I was going to say 'beautiful.'"

Something flickered in his expression. "Go get warm. We can talk after."

She started toward the bathroom, then stopped. Turned back. "The river," she said quietly. "It runs through your property, doesn't it? That's... that's your land."

"It is."

"So when you said—" She swallowed. "When you pulled me out. That wasn't charity. That was—"

"A request that you not commit suicide on my property, yes." His voice was flat, almost businesslike. "I've had enough trouble with this town without them finding a body in my river."

The bluntness of it should have hurt. Should have made her feel like an inconvenience, a problem to be managed.

Instead, she almost laughed.

Because he wasn't treating her like she was made of glass. Wasn't speaking in those hushed, pitying tones everyone used now when they bothered to speak to her at all. He was treating her like someone who'd made a choice he found inconvenient.

It was the most human anyone had made her feel in months.

"I'll try to be more considerate next time," she said, and this time she did laugh, sharp and slightly hysterical.

Charles raised an eyebrow. "See that you are. Now go. You're dripping on the floor."

She went.

The bathroom was as excessive as the rest of the house, marble tub, golden fixtures, mirrors everywhere. She filled the tub with water so hot it turned her skin pink, and she sank into it still wearing her ruined white dress, watching the fabric balloon around her like a shroud.

Only when the water started to cool did she peel it off, wring it out, drape it over the edge of the tub like a flag of surrender.

She scrubbed herself raw. Washed her hair three times. Tried to wash away the river, the cold, the feeling of hands that had no right to touch her, prayers that had curdled into accusations.

When she finally emerged, dressed in the blue gown that hung slightly loose on her frame, she found Charles in what he called the sitting room. It was smaller than the entrance hall but still grand, floor-to-ceiling bookshelves, a fireplace large enough to stand in, furniture that looked like it belonged in a museum.

He'd changed too, was now fully in dry clothes and holding a cup of something that steamed. He gestured to a second cup on the table.

"Tea," he said. "Or there's brandy if you prefer."

She took the tea, cradling it between her palms. The warmth felt like a small miracle.

They sat in silence for a moment, and then Charles spoke.

"You know," he said conversationally, "suicide is a violation of the Fifth Commandment. 'Thou shalt not kill.' That includes yourself, according to the Church."

She stared at him. "Are you... are you really going to lecture me about sin right now?"

"No." He took a sip of his drink. "I'm curious if you care."

"If I care?" The laugh that escaped her was bitter. "The Church made it very clear what they think of my sins. I think I've earned a few more."

"Have you?" Charles leaned back, studying her with those dark, unreadable eyes. "Tell me, do you still believe in it? God, heaven, hell, all of it?"

The question hit her like a physical blow. Because she'd been asking herself the same thing for weeks now, months, ever since she'd stood in front of the congregation and told the truth and watched them decide she was the liar.

"I don't know," she whispered. "I want to say no. I want to say they ruined it for me, that I can't believe in a God who would let—" She stopped. Started again. "But I can't stop. I still cross myself when I'm scared. Still hear hymns in my head. Still feel like I'm being watched, judged, weighed and found wanting."

"So you're haunted by it."

"Yes." The word came out like a confession. "I'm haunted by it. By all of it. The prayers, the rules, the promise that if I was just good enough, pure enough, faithful enough, I'd be safe." She met his eyes. "I was good. I was all of those things. And it didn't matter."

Charles was quiet for a long moment. Then: "They're hypocrites, you know. Every last one of them."

"I know."

"They speak of love and mercy and forgiveness, and then they cast out anyone who threatens their comfortable lies."

"I know."

"They call me the devil," he said, and there was something dangerous in his smile now. "Because I don't pretend. Because I have wealth and I don't apologise for it. Because I don't bow to their provincial god or their provincial rules." He leaned forward. "But I've never harmed an innocent. Never forced myself on anyone. Never called a victim a liar to protect a monster."

The air left her lungs.

"How did you—"

"I didn't." His voice gentled slightly. "But I can read people. And you have the look of someone who told the truth and was punished for it."

She set down her tea before she could drop it. Her hands were shaking again. "They said I was mad. That I'd imagined it, or invited it, or—" Her voice cracked. "They said good girls don't get—that if I'd been pure enough, God would have protected me."

"And what do you think?"

"I think—" The words came out in a rush, angry and anguished. "I think God wasn't there. I think He looked away, or He didn't care, or He doesn't exist at all. I think the devil they warned me about wore a cross around his neck and quoted scripture while he—" She couldn't finish.

Charles didn't tell her it was okay. Didn't offer empty comfort or hollow prayers.

He just said, "Yes."

She looked up at him, her vision blurred with tears she refused to let fall. "You believe me."

"Of course I believe you." He said it like it was obvious, like there was no other possible response. "Why wouldn't I?"

"Because everyone else—" Her voice broke. She pressed her palms against her eyes, hard enough to hurt. "The pastor said I was touched by demons. That I was trying to destroy a good man's reputation. His wife called me a jezebel in front of the entire congregation. And my own mother—"

She couldn't say it. Couldn't voice the final betrayal, the way her mother had looked at her with something worse than anger. Disappointment. Shame. Like she'd failed some test of worthiness.

"Your mother chose their comfort over your truth," Charles finished quietly.

"She said I should pray for forgiveness. That I should ask God to cleanse me of whatever darkness made me speak such lies." The tears came now, hot and furious. "I wasn't lying. I wasn't."

"I know."

"How?" She dropped her hands, glaring at him through the blur. "How do you know? You don't know me. You don't know what happened. You don't—"

"Because liars don't try to drown themselves in rivers," Charles said simply. "Liars don't scrub their skin raw trying to feel clean again. Liars don't wear white dresses like armour and flinch when people get too close." He paused. "And liars don't have that look in their eyes. The one that says they've seen the true face of evil and it was wearing a familiar smile."

The words hung between them, heavy and true.

She wiped her face with shaking hands. "They said you were dangerous. That you were... wrong somehow. Unnatural. That good Christians should stay away from you."

"And yet here you are."

"I'm not a good Christian anymore." The admission felt like stepping off a cliff. "I don't think I can be. Not after—" She gestured vaguely, encompassing everything. The assault, the rejection, the drowning attempt. Her entire ruined life. "How do you go back to believing in goodness when the good people are the ones who hurt you?"

Charles stood and moved to the fireplace, staring into the flames. The light cast shadows across his face, made him look even more like the fallen angel she'd first thought him.

"You don't," he said finally. "You stop believing in their version of goodness. You stop letting them define what purity means, what righteousness means, what you mean." He turned back to her. "You build something new."

"I don't know how."

"Neither did I." He smiled, and it was sad and sharp all at once. "When I first came here, I thought I could be one of them. Thought if I attended church, donated generously, smiled at the right people, they'd accept me. But they could smell something on me. Something that didn't fit their narrow little world."

"What?" she asked. "What could they smell?"

"Difference. Independence. The audacity to exist outside their rules." He gestured around the room. "So I stopped trying. Built this place. Made it everything they fear, beautiful and excessive and unapologetic. Made myself into exactly what they accused me of being."

"The devil."

"Their devil," he corrected. "Not the real one, if such a thing exists. Just a man who refuses to kneel."

She looked at him, really looked at him, and saw someone who'd been cast out just like her. Someone who'd stopped begging for acceptance and made his own world instead.

"They were right about one thing," she said slowly. "You are dangerous."

Charles raised an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"You make me think I could do it too. Stop trying to be what they want. Stop carrying their god around like a stone in my chest." She stood on shaking legs. "You make me think I could be... free."

"You could be." He moved closer, but not too close. Still respecting the distance she needed. "But it's not easy. They'll hate you for it. Call you worse things than they already have. You'll lose whatever scraps of acceptance they might still offer."

"I've already lost everything."

"Not everything." His voice dropped. "You're still here. Still breathing. Still fighting, even if that fight looks like drowning." He paused. "And you still have a choice. You can go back to that town, put on another white dress, bow your head and pray for their forgiveness even though you've done nothing wrong. Maybe eventually they'll let you back in. Maybe they'll let you marry some farmer who'll overlook your 'past' in exchange for a obedient wife."

The thought made her want to vomit.

"Or?" she whispered.

"Or you stay here tonight. Rest. Recover. And in the morning, you decide who you want to be. Not who they say you are, who you choose to be." He held her gaze. "I'm not offering salvation. I'm not offering redemption. I'm just offering a choice."

She thought of the river. The cold. The peace she'd sought in oblivion.

Then she thought of this house, warm and bright and defiant. Thought of Charles, who'd pulled her from the water not with prayers but with action. Who'd spoken of her assault like it was a fact, not a sin. Who looked at her ruined white dress and offered her blue instead.

"I'll stay," she said. "Tonight, at least."

"Tonight is enough." Charles moved toward the doorway. "I'll show you to a room. You need sleep."

She followed him through corridors lined with paintings and mirrors, up a curved staircase that spiraled like a nautilus shell. Everything gleamed. Everything echoed. It was like walking through a church built for one.

He stopped at a door, opened it to reveal a bedroom larger than her entire house back in town. Four-poster bed. More windows. Moonlight streaming across polished floors.

"There's a lock on the inside," Charles said quietly. "Use it if it makes you feel safer."

The consideration in that simple statement nearly undid her.

"Charles," she said as he turned to leave. "Why did you really pull me out? The property thing was a lie, wasn't it?"

He looked back at her, and for just a moment, something raw crossed his face.

"Because I've stood at that river too," he said. "And no one pulled me out. I had to crawl back to shore alone." His jaw tightened. "I wouldn't wish that on anyone."

Then he was gone, his footsteps fading down the hall.

She stood in the doorway of her borrowed room, wearing her borrowed dress, in this borrowed sanctuary.

And for the first time in months, she didn't feel like she was drowning.

She felt like she might, possibly, impossibly, learn to breathe again.

She woke to sunlight streaming through windows she didn't recognise, in a bed too soft to be her own, wearing a blue dress that smelled faintly of lavender and time.

For a moment, she couldn't remember where she was. Then it came back in pieces, the river, the cold, the hand that had pulled her back. Charles. The house that looked like a church but felt like sanctuary.

She sat up slowly, half-expecting to find the whole thing had been a dream. Some fever vision her drowning brain had conjured. But no, there was the four-poster bed, the moonlight-pale walls, the door with its lock still turned from the inside.

She'd locked it. Had lain awake for hours waiting for footsteps that never came, for a knock that never sounded, for the moment when Charles would reveal himself to be just like all the others.

But there had been only silence. And eventually, impossibly, sleep.

Now she unlocked the door and stepped into the hallway, following the smell of coffee and something baking. The house looked different in daylight, less cathedral, more home. Still grand, still excessive, but warm somehow. Lived in, despite Charles living here alone.

She found him in the kitchen, and it was a kitchen, not some formal dining room, just a large bright space with copper pots hanging from hooks and bread cooling on the counter. He stood at the stove in shirtsleeves, his dark hair slightly mussed, flipping what looked like eggs.

He glanced up when she entered. "You're awake. Good. I wasn't sure if you'd sleep at all." He gestured to the table. "Sit. Coffee's fresh."

She sat, feeling strange and disoriented. Men didn't cook, not in her world. That was women's work. But here was Charles, completely at ease, plating eggs and bacon like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He set a plate in front of her and took the seat across, his own plate considerably smaller.

"I'm not much of a cook," he said. "But I've learned the basics out of necessity. Living alone has a way of forcing competence."

She picked up her fork, then set it down. "I don't understand you."

"Most people don't." He took a sip of coffee. "What specifically confuses you this morning?"

"All of it. This house. The way you talk. The fact that you..." She gestured vaguely. "You pulled a stranger from a river and brought her into your home and fed her and you're acting like this is... normal."

"Would you prefer I act like it's strange?"

"I'd prefer to understand why."

Charles was quiet for a moment, studying his coffee. "When I first came here," he said finally, "I was running from something. Or maybe toward something, I'm not sure which. I bought this land, built this house, tried to make a life. And the good people of this town took one look at me and decided I didn't belong." He met her eyes. "I know what it's like to be cast out for reasons that have nothing to do with who you actually are. So when I saw you in that river..." He shrugged. "I suppose I saw myself. If I'd been less stubborn. Less angry. If I'd let them win."

She absorbed this, pushing eggs around her plate. "I'm not like you. I'm not strong."

"You walked into a river in October. You're still here, eating breakfast, despite everything they did to you. That's not weakness."

"It feels like weakness." Her voice dropped. "I wanted to die. I wanted it so badly I could taste it."

"And now?"

She considered. "Now I want to burn my dress."

Charles blinked. Then slowly, a smile curved his lips, the first real smile she'd seen from him. "Your white dress?"

"Yes." The certainty surprised her. "I want to burn it. I want to watch it turn to ash. Is that, can I do that? Here?"

"You can do anything you want here." He stood, collecting their plates. "There's a fireplace in the library. We can burn it there. Make a ceremony of it, if you'd like."

"No ceremony." She shook her head. "Just fire. Just... gone."

They retrieved the dress from where she'd left it draped in the bathroom, still damp and stained with river mud. She carried it at arm's length like something contaminated. Which, she supposed, it was. Contaminated with everything she was supposed to be and could never be again.

Charles built up the fire in the library without comment. The room was lined floor to ceiling with books, thousands of them, more than she'd ever seen in one place. A life's worth of knowledge just sitting here, available. Not locked away or forbidden or deemed too dangerous for women's minds.

"Whenever you're ready," Charles said quietly, stepping back.

She stood before the fire, clutching the white fabric. It had been her armour. Her proof. See how pure I am? See how good? As if goodness were something you could wear. As if purity were a costume that would protect you from the ugliness of the world.

It hadn't protected her from anything.

She threw it into the flames.

The dress caught immediately, the white fabric blackening and curling, the lace trim disappearing in sparks. She watched it burn, feeling something tight in her chest begin to loosen. Not freedom yet, she wasn't naive enough to think one symbolic gesture could undo months of trauma. But something. A beginning, maybe. A small rebellion against everything they'd tried to make her.

"Good," Charles said from behind her. Not I'm proud of you or You're so brave or any of the condescending phrases people offered when they thought you were fragile. Just: good.

They watched until there was nothing left but ash.

"I should go home," she said eventually. "My mother will worry."

"Will she?" There was something sharp in Charles's tone. "Or will she pray?"

The accuracy of that stung. "Both, probably."

"You don't have to go back."

She turned to look at him. "Where else would I go?"

"Here." He gestured around the library, the house beyond. "God knows I have the space. And this place gets lonely. Hard to maintain alone. If you wanted to stay, help with the upkeep..." He trailed off. "I'm not suggesting anything improper. Separate rooms, separate lives. Just... company. And somewhere you don't have to pretend to be something you're not."

The offer hung between them, tempting and impossible.

"I can't," she whispered. "If I stayed here, if they saw me living in your house... they'd call me worse things than they already do. They'd say I was your—" She couldn't finish.

"They'll say it anyway." Charles's voice was matter-of-fact. "You've already committed the sin of surviving what they wanted you to quietly disappear from. There's no going back to their good graces. The only question is whether you'll waste your life trying."

He was right. She knew he was right. But the programming ran deep, honour thy mother, obey thy father, a woman's place, all of it still carved into her bones.

"I need time," she said. "To think."

"Of course." Charles walked her to the door. "The offer stands. Always."

She left through the front entrance, down those pristine white steps, into the autumn morning. The walk back seemed longer somehow. Or maybe she was just moving slower, reluctant to return to the narrow house, the narrower life.

She passed the river. Saw the place where she'd waded in, where Charles had pulled her out. In daylight it looked almost ordinary. Just water and stones and mud. Not the gateway to oblivion she'd imagined.

By the time she reached town, the sun was high. People stared as she passed, their eyes following her blue dress, where did she get that, whose is it, why isn't she in white? She kept her head up, her gaze forward. Didn't apologise. Didn't explain.

Her mother was in the kitchen when she opened the door, and the moment she saw her, she rushed forward with a cry.

"Oh my dear, you're safe! You're safe!" Her mother's arms wrapped around her, tight and desperate. "Margaret said she'd seen you walk past the river yesterday evening and we were all so worried, I prayed all night—"

She stood rigid in her mother's embrace, her mind catching on one word.

"Margaret saw me?"

"Yes, yes." Her mother pulled back, gripping her shoulders. "She was coming back from the Hendersons' and saw you by the water. She said you looked troubled. We've all been so worried—"

"She saw me by the river." The words came out flat. "And she didn't stop? Didn't call out? Didn't come get you?"

Her mother blinked. "Well, I—she came to tell me, dear. As soon as she could."

"When?"

"This morning. She stopped by on her way to church."

"This morning." Something cold settled in her stomach. "She saw me last night. At the river. Where people go when they—" She couldn't say it. "And she waited until morning to tell you?"

"She didn't want to spread rumours, dear. You know how people talk."

"People talk?" The laugh that escaped her was sharp enough to cut. "I could have been dead and she was worried about talk?"

"Don't be dramatic." Her mother's voice took on that tone, the one that meant she was being unreasonable, hysterical, touched by something dark. "You're fine. The Lord was watching over you."

"The Lord." She stepped back, out of her mother's reach. "Where was the Lord when I was drowning, Mother? Where was He when Margaret saw me and did nothing?"

"You weren't drowning—"

"I was." The words tore out of her. "I walked into that river to die. And your friend saw me and went home and said her prayers and waited until morning to mention it because she didn't want to gossip. That's your Lord's protection? That's His mercy?"

Her mother's face had gone pale. "You're not yourself. You're speaking madness—"

"I'm speaking truth." She was shaking now, months of silence finally breaking. "But you don't want truth. You want me to smile and nod and pretend everything is fine. Pretend I wasn't—" She stopped. Still couldn't say it. "Pretend your church didn't call me a liar. Pretend your God didn't abandon me when I needed Him most."

"He didn't abandon you! You're alive, aren't you?" Her mother reached for her again. "You're here, you're safe, that's His grace—"

"No." She backed toward the door. "Someone pulled me out. A person. A man. Not your God. Not your prayers. Just someone who saw me drowning and actually helped."

Her mother's eyes widened. "What man? Who—" Then understanding dawned, followed quickly by horror. "You were at his house. That's where you were. That's whose dress—"

"Charles saved my life."

"Charles?" Her mother's voice rose. "You let that man put his hands on you? After everything? After what happened with—"

"Don't." The word came out low and dangerous. "Don't you dare compare them. Charles pulled me from a river. He gave me dry clothes and asked nothing in return. He didn't touch me, didn't hurt me, didn't tell me it was my fault." She met her mother's eyes. "He did more for me in one night than this entire God-fearing town has done in months."

"He's dangerous—"

"No." She said it with absolute certainty. "The dangerous ones wear crosses and sit in your church and smile while they destroy people. Charles is just different. And you hate him for it."

Her mother was crying now, silent tears streaking her face. "I'm trying to protect you."

"You're trying to control me." She softened slightly. "I know you think it's the same thing. But it's not."

She turned toward the stairs, toward her small room with its white walls and its white curtains and all its suffocating purity.

"Where are you going?" her mother called after her.

She paused on the bottom step. "To pack."

"Pack? You can't—you can't go back there. People will think—"

"Let them think." She looked back at her mother, really looked at her, maybe for the first time. Saw a woman so trapped in her own cage she couldn't imagine anyone wanting to leave it. "I'm done living for their thoughts. Their prayers. Their version of God."

"And what will you live for instead?"

She thought of Charles's offer. The house that looked like a church but felt like freedom. The choice to build something new instead of begging for acceptance from people who'd already decided what she was worth.

"Myself," she said simply. "I'm going to live for myself."

And she climbed the stairs, leaving her mother's prayers and protests behind her like ash.

She returned to Charles's house that night with a single bag.

Everything she owned fit into one worn carpetbag, a few dresses (none of them white), her mother's Bible (she couldn't bring herself to leave it, even now), a photograph of her father from before he died, and the silver cross necklace her grandmother had given her. She'd stood in her bedroom debating that necklace for twenty minutes before finally clasping it around her neck. Not for God. For her grandmother, who'd been kind.

Charles opened the door before she could knock, as if he'd been watching the road.

"I accept," she said simply. "Your offer. If it still stands."

Something flickered across his face, relief, maybe, or satisfaction. "It stands." He took her bag without asking if she needed help. "I've prepared a room. Better than the one you stayed in before. More... permanent."

He led her upstairs to a room in the east wing. Larger than her entire house back in town, with windows overlooking the gardens and its own small sitting area. A writing desk stood in one corner. Bookshelves lined one wall, empty and waiting.

"You can fill them however you'd like," Charles said. "The library downstairs is yours to explore. Take what interests you."

She set her bag on the bed, running her hand over the deep green coverlet. Not white. Never white again.

"Thank you," she whispered.

"Don't thank me yet." His tone was wry. "This house is enormous and I've been maintaining it poorly. You'll earn your keep."

And she did.

Three weeks later

The routine settled over her like a second skin, strange at first, then increasingly comfortable.

She woke with the sun and helped Charles prepare breakfast, he taught her to make coffee the way he liked it, strong and bitter. She learned he took his eggs scrambled, that he ate mostly in silence, reading while he chewed. She found it peaceful, the lack of forced conversation. No one asking her to smile, to be pleasant, to perform femininity like a trained dog.

After breakfast, she worked. There was always work, dusting the endless rooms, beating rugs, polishing silver that had tarnished from neglect. Charles had been right; the house was too much for one person. But for two, working in companionable silence or easy conversation, it became manageable.

She discovered he was terrible at laundry. Shrank his own shirts, turned whites gray. She took it over and he didn't protest, just looked vaguely relieved.

He discovered she'd never learned basic arithmetic beyond counting change. Sat her down at the kitchen table and taught her with the patience of a saint, never making her feel stupid when she struggled.

They painted the east parlor together, a project Charles had been putting off for months. Got more paint on themselves than the walls. She laughed, actually laughed, when he smeared ivory across his own face by accident. The sound startled them both.

"You should do that more," Charles said quietly.

"What?"

"Laugh. It suits you."

She didn't know what to say to that, so she flicked paint at him instead. He retaliated. They ended the day covered in ivory and cream, the parlor only half-finished, and she felt something close to happy.

At night, they sat in the library. She was slowly working her way through his collection, had started with poetry, moved to philosophy, was now deep into a novel about a woman in London society that would have been deemed inappropriate back home. Charles read too, or sometimes just watched the fire, lost in thoughts he didn't share.

Sometimes she caught him looking at her with an expression she couldn't decipher. Not hunger, she knew what that looked like, had learned to recognise it in the split second before she needed to run. This was something else. Curiosity, maybe. Or concern.

"What?" she asked one evening, catching his gaze.

"You're different than when you arrived."

"How?"

"Less haunted." He paused. "Or maybe just differently haunted. You don't flinch as much when I enter a room."

She considered this. It was true. The constant vigilance had eased, replaced by something that almost felt like trust. "You haven't given me reason to flinch."

"I won't." He said it like a vow. "But I need you to know, if I ever do anything that makes you uncomfortable, anything at all, you tell me. Immediately. This is your home too now. You shouldn't have to be afraid in it."

The sincerity in his voice made her throat tight. "Okay."

"I mean it."

"I know." And she did. That was the strange part. She believed him.

Five weeks later

The first sign of trouble came on a Sunday.

She was in the garden, pulling weeds from the rose beds Charles had neglected, when she heard the whispers. Turned to see three women from town standing at the edge of the property, staring.

She recognized them, Mrs. Henderson, Mrs. Clark, and Sarah Mitchell, who'd been in her Sunday school class years ago. They weren't trying to hide their presence. Wanted her to know they were watching.

She stood slowly, wiping dirt from her hands, and met their gazes.

Mrs. Henderson made the sign of the cross. Sarah looked away, shame or disgust colouring her face. Mrs. Clark just smiled, cold and knowing.

Then they left, their whispers carrying on the wind.

She told Charles about it over dinner.

"It'll get worse," he said matter-of-factly. "They've probably been watching for weeks, gathering evidence of your 'fall.' Soon they'll feel justified in acting on their righteous anger."

"What do you mean, acting?"

He was quiet for a moment, pushing food around his plate. "When I first moved here, they tried to... encourage me to leave. Notes at first. Then damaged property. Nothing they could be arrested for, but enough to make the message clear."

"What kind of notes?"

"Bible verses, mostly. Threats disguised as salvation. 'Flee from evil,' that sort of thing." He looked up at her. "I'm telling you this not to frighten you, but so you're prepared. They see you living here, unmarried, unchaperoned. In their minds, you've confirmed every suspicion they had."

"That I'm a whore."

He flinched at the word. "That you've rejected their protection. Their rules. It's the same thing to them."

She thought of the women's faces, the cold certainty in their eyes. "I'm not going back."

"I'm not asking you to." His voice was firm. "I'm just warning you. It's going to get ugly."

Seven weeks later

The first note appeared on a Tuesday, pinned to the front door with a nail.

"Jezebl, painted and vile. The wages of sin is death. Romans 6:23"

Charles tore it down before she could read the whole thing, crumpled it in his fist.

"Don't," she said. "Don't hide it from me."

He handed it over reluctantly. She read it twice, feeling that old familiar shame try to resurface. But underneath it, something new: anger.

"They spelled Jezebel wrong," she said.

Charles blinked. Then, impossibly, he laughed. "So they did."

Three days later, another note. This one shoved under the door.

"She who lies with a man outside of marriage shall be cast out. Repent before it's too late."

"We're not even—" she started, then stopped. It didn't matter. In their minds, she was already damned. Living under the same roof as a man was evidence enough.

The notes came more frequently after that. One every few days, each more vitriolic than the last. Charles started checking the property each morning, finding them tucked in the garden, tied to tree branches, once even thrown through an open window.

He stopped showing them to her after she found one that made her cry, not from shame but from rage at the injustice of it all. At the fact that her attacker walked free while she was the one receiving death threats for daring to survive.

Then came the Sunday when they found the dead bird.

It was nailed to the door, wings spread in grotesque mockery of crucifixion. Blood had dried black on the white wood. Above it, painted in what looked like the same blood: WHORE.

She stared at it, feeling nothing. No fear, no shock. Just a cold, settling certainty.

"They want me gone," she said quietly.

"Yes." Charles had gone very still beside her. "But you're not going anywhere. Not unless you choose to."

"And if they escalate?"

"Then I escalate too." There was something dangerous in his voice now, something that reminded her why the town feared him. "I've been playing nice. Being the polite outsider who ignores their hatred. But if they think they can terrorise you into leaving..." He looked at her, and his eyes were dark. "They'll learn why I'm not afraid of them."

She should have been frightened by the intensity in his voice. Should have worried about what he might do.

Instead, she felt protected. Maybe for the first time in her life, she felt like someone was truly on her side.

"What do we do?" she asked.

"We keep living." He pulled the bird down carefully, his jaw tight with controlled fury. "We keep existing exactly as we are. We show them that their threats and their prayers and their righteous anger have no power here." He met her eyes. "Unless you want to leave. I would understand—"

"No." She said it firmly. "I'm not leaving. This is my home now."

"Yes," Charles said softly. "It is."

They buried the bird in the garden. She said a prayer over it, not to the God of her childhood, but to something older, kinder. A god that might care about small dead things and women with nowhere else to go.

That night, Charles installed locks on all the doors. Heavy ones, the kind that would take force to break. She heard him moving through the house long after she'd gone to bed, checking windows, reinforcing entrances.

Making their sanctuary a fortress.

She lay awake listening to his footsteps, clutching her grandmother's cross, and wondered how much worse it would get before it got better.

Or if it would get better at all.

Eleven weeks later

She woke to the smell of smoke.

For a moment, still caught in the space between sleep and waking, she thought she was dreaming. Then she heard Charles shouting her name and the fog of sleep vanished in an instant.

She ran to her window. The garden shed was burning, flames licking up the walls, sparks dancing into the night sky.

By the time she got downstairs, Charles was already outside with buckets, trying to contain the blaze. She joined him, both of them working in grim silence, hauling water from the well until their arms ached and their lungs burned from smoke.

The shed was a loss, but they kept the fire from spreading to the house.

They sat on the front steps as dawn broke, covered in soot and ash, watching the smoldering remains.

"They could have killed us," she said quietly.

"Yes." Charles's voice was flat. Exhausted. "They could have."

"We should go to the sheriff."

He laughed, bitter and sharp. "The sheriff's son attends their church. His wife is on the women's auxiliary. You think he'll help us?"

She knew he was right. Knew that in the eyes of the law, she and Charles were the problem. Not the people terrorising them, but the ones refusing to conform.

"So what do we do?"

Charles turned to look at her, and there was something fierce in his expression despite the exhaustion. "We survive. We endure. We refuse to let them win." He paused. "And we become what they've always accused us of being."

"What do you mean?"

"They think we're sinners?" His smile was sharp as glass. "Then let's sin. Let's live so freely, so unapologetically, that our very existence becomes a rebellion against everything they stand for." He stood, offering her his hand. "Let's build something here that they can't touch with their hatred. Something beautiful and strange and entirely ours."

She took his hand, let him pull her to her feet.

"Okay," she said. "Let's burn it all down."

He smiled. "Metaphorically, I hope. We've had enough literal fires for one night."

Despite everything, the exhaustion, the fear, the smoking ruins, she laughed.

And standing there in the ashes, covered in soot, she realised something:

She wasn't afraid anymore.

She was angry.

And anger, she was learning, was so much more useful than fear.

part two...

It started with some offhand comment to Kimi. He was fixing your car up, as he does, while you were practically announcing to the whole garage how it was difficult to memorize the tracks before a race, and how you’d prefer if you could just have live updates while you’re on the go. 

When you return the next day, there’s a large, fancy neon orange button on your dashboard. You complain that it doesn’t match the vibes of your green and blue Y2K vehicle, but Kimi just shrugs and tells you to give it a try. So you slide into the driver’s seat and slam your index finger into the button.

Your music, loud and vibrant much like your personality, switches off with some loud static, as if it’s changing frequencies on its own. “Hey-”

“Hello. This is Oscar, your live race assistant.” The voice is monotone and clear. Very Australian, too. You have to wonder if Kimi had intentionally made him accented in such a way, or if it was just the first voice he downloaded off the internet.

“Really? Glorified street-racing Siri?” You give Kimi a deadpan expression. He sighs, pocketing his wrench and crossing his arms with a light shrug. “Great. Cool.”

“I’m not Siri,” Oscar says as if stating the obvious, much like Siri would do. 

“Yeah, yeah. Just shut the hell up and do your job.” You hit the button again, changing the frequency back to your favorite station.

“How can he do his job if you’ve turned him off?” Kimi asks, running a hand through his messy, curly hair.

“I don’t need this. Tell it to find a new car to hijack.”

Oscar, however, proves to be useful on track. You drive your car out of the garage, waiting patiently on the driveway for the rest of your competitors to pull up beside you. Out of sheer boredom, you hit the button, and Oscar comes to life.

“Evening, Y/N.”

“Alright, Osc. Talk dirty to me— How’s the car look?”

It’s oddly quiet as he processes your question. 

“I will not do such a thing. The car looks to be in optimal condition. Based on your previous performances you can be expected to come in first or second.”

“You don’t know shit about my precious performances.”

“Actually, Kimi gave me access to your past racing results. I see that a few days ago you crashed on—”

“Okay! Fine. I get it… Moving on.” You huff, gripping the wheel tight. You’re anxious to get out there and get to racing, but you still have a few minutes before you all drive out onto the street. “What’s your fuckin’ purpose anyway? To annoy me all night.”

“To provide you with accurate, live data and guide you through the track. You’ll be exiting the driveway in two minutes now.”

“Thanks, genius. I could have figured that shit out on my own.”

“Just trying to help.”

You follow the basic step by step process, and soon enough you’re off racing alongside the other circle members. You speed ahead of everyone, making deliberate and intricate overtakes in order to position yourself in first. You’re heavily regarded as an impressive competitor, known for your instantaneous strategies that land you in the top five majority of the time. 

On the off chance you fuck up, you fuck up big time. That’s the downside. It’s not a small scratch that Kimi can easily buff out in minutes, but large crashes that land your car in his auto shop for weeks at a time. He scolds you constantly, but you still make those same mistakes.

“Alright, Y/N,” Oscar begins. “You’re doing good, but I need you to not overrev for this next turn. Your engine is showing signs of early failure if not properly cared for.”

You bite your tongue. You want to spew out some shit about not being told what to do, but considering he’s been right about everything else, you decide to trust his programming and follow his instructions. He tells you how to properly downshift, making for a smooth turn that you keep noted for future references. 

Later, you radio in once more. “Alright, babe, give me your worst. What’s the gap looking like?”

“Doriane’s right on your tail, so do your best to optimize your speed here.”

“You’re so obsessed with me that it’s almost sickening.”

“Just… Trying to do my job.” You find it somewhat unsettling how real he sounds. There’s so much conviction in his tone, and for a second you almost believe he finds your statement funny. It’s like you forget he’s not real.

“Yeah, yeah. I’ll finish first, Romeo. Don’t you worry your pretty little head over it.”

You hold true to your promise. Doriane crosses the line mere seconds after you do, all thanks to a good mixture of defensive driving and some guidance from your new built in companion, who you absentmindedly thank before turning your car off.

“No way I just thanked an AI program…” Despite feeling silly, you leave to celebrate your win with the others.

You’re sprawled out in your car, enjoying some off time by wallowing in your own boredom. You have your feet on the dash with your seat pushed back as far as it will go. 

There’s a knock on your window, and you’re quick to roll it down just as Charles’ face pops in. He leans his arms on your door, peeking into your car, which is sporadically messy in a way that you’re fond of. “What’s up?”

He shrugs at your question. “Bored, that’s all.”

“Wanna race?” You try to hide the way your eyes light up. Charles was someone you had a lot of respect for as he introduced you to the group— You had known him for a while, and to say he always made you starry eyed was a bit of an understatement.

“Can’t.” But your heart is, once again, shattered. “I gotta help Max with his car.” You huff, crossing your arms. 

“Lame.” He smiles, the cutest dimples highlighted. “Why even tell me you’re bored when you have plans?”

“I don’t know.” He stands up straight, but not before reaching in to ruffle your hair affectionately. “See you around.”

“Yeah. See ya.” You roll the window back up, and immediately sigh with disappointment. There was no affection there, at least not from his end. Even the hair ruffling felt unbearably platonic in that sibling-like way. Your emotions were a mixture of confusion that you just couldn’t seem to decipher, because on some days Charles just felt like another member of the circle, and on other days you wanted nothing more than for him to hold you in your arms.

That said a lot, because you weren’t always big on affection. The occasional side hug and high five was plenty to keep you satisfied, but with Charles? It was hard to describe.

You feel defeated when you hit the orange button, the loud pop music transitioning to initial silence. You wait a moment, and then decide to call out for him. “Hellooo? Oscar?”

“Good morning, Y/N,” he eventually responds, that annoying accent present once again. You recline your seat, resting your hands behind your head while looking up at the ceiling. “Did you need something? I see you’re still parked in the garage.”

“Play me some music. Like, some depressing shit.” You hum. “But not too depressing. Like, sexy depressing where I feel sad but I’m still jamming out.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Can you play me some music?”

“I’m not connected with any music platforms.” 

“Alright, whatever.” You close your eyes. 

“Are you not going to shut the radio off?”

It’s weird, the way you’re feeling. It’s like your heart is empty— You have no reason to be sad, but as you sit there alone in your car, talking to artificial intelligence to pass the time, you feel extra lonely. So you sigh, and you shake your head. Mostly to yourself. “No,” you trail off quietly, fingers tapping against the center console. “I enjoy the company.” You make a bored lip trill. “Say something.”

“What do you want me to say?”

You mull over the question for a minute. What do you ask an AI to tell you? Normally you might have said something in a teasing way, like call me beautiful just to see how far it would go before deciding your orders were outside of its parameters. Maybe ask it how you make a guy fall for you. But this time you don’t feel up for it. “Just…”

“Would you like to hear about your performance lately?”

“Yes.” Perfect.

You swore that if you listened close enough, you could hear the tapping of a keyboard. You brush it off as your mind tricking you and nothing more. “Your car looks to be in good shape. You’ve been stacking up to be the garage’s number three driver, placing just ahead of Lando and Doriane.”

“Only number three? Who’s ahead of me then?”

“Max and Charles are currently ahead of you in terms of overall performance.”

You groan. “Don’t talk to me about Charles.”

“Okay.” That was easy. “Max and he who shall not be named are currently ahead of you in terms of overall performance.” 

“How can I improve? I want to be number one.” Everyone wants to be number one, but currently it’s your main goal in life. You were hotheaded and a total try hard, so the fact you were only third was really taking a blow to your ego. 

It didn’t help that Charles was a step above you. Honestly, it really hurts your soul. “How about some practice laps? You have some free time, right? I can evaluate your data from there and tell you how to approach your racing. Just radio me in when you’re ready.”

“Sounds good.”

Oscar instructs you through a couple practice tracks in the city, fluctuating based on police activities from his radar and how populated each area is. Eventually he tells you to relocate to the garage while he assesses the data to give you your proper information. So you switch back to your music as you make your way back, pulling into the garage with extra care. To be frank, you were somewhat exhausted.

“Alright, babes, what’s up?” You hit the button before you ask your question, drumming your fingertips against your wheel.

“That was certainly some impressive maneuvering. As I mentioned halfway through, your main problem was over-revving in corners. I think I’ve said it before but if you continue to do that, your engine will eventually have some significant damage.” Again. You swear you hear typing. “But you fixed that after I mentioned it. Now I just need you to work on maintaining confidence and speed in those corners.”

“And then I’ll become number one?”

“Potentially, yes.”

“Thanks, Oscar. Talk to you tomorrow.”

After a rather tantalizing race, you return back to the garage with your second place victory. It still wasn’t number one, but you were glad for one primary reason: You had finished ahead of Charles. You park in your designated spot, rolling the window down when the man in question approaches your vehicle from the side. “How ‘bout that?” You wear a dorky grin, unable to contain yourself.

“That was good.”

That’s it? Just… Good?

“That was incredible,” you correct, biting your cheek and squinting your eyes. He chuckles and rolls his eyes. “Do you-” Deep breaths. Be confident. “Do you wanna get dinner?”

It was a normal question to ask a friend, especially after such a feat. It seemed more like a victory celebration, so surely he wouldn’t assume the worst. The worst happened to be him knowing you liked him. Just terrible. Because of course you couldn’t face your feelings head on. Who does that?!

“I can’t.” You try to hide your disappointment, but you’re sure the deep frown you wear gives you away. “I have a date.”

Even. Worse.

Quick. Think of a witty reply— Say what you usually would to anyone else. Why is nothing coming out? Just silence. Shock. “Oh, have fun then.” 

You sounded like a sopping wet, pathetic cat.

He bids you farewell, and as soon as he’s out of the garage you grab the wheel tight, and then smack your head against it, the horn sounding through the garage. “Fuck!” You yell inside your car.

“Why are you honking?”

Oh.

Whoops.

“Oscar.” You clear your throat. “I thought I turned you off.”

“You did not.”

“So you heard that entire thing?”

It’s quiet for a moment. “Um-”

“That’s so embarrassing. How do I wipe your memory? Don’t tell anyone. Was it obvious I like him? Can’t you like… Run a diagnostics thing.”

But then… He laughs. 

Like genuinely laughs. Like a human— It’s not a glitch, or a sound error, but a human man laughing.

“WHAT THE FUCK!”

“What?!” His voice, which sounds a lot more real at your sudden realization, sounds very much concerned.

“Are you a REAL man?”

Silence.

“Yes?” He sounds obnoxiously confused. Your jaw is dropped, a hand running through your hair anxiously. “You didn’t know?”

“No?!” You laugh. It’s nervous, not charming. “I thought you were like… I don’t know, some AI shit that Kimi made. Why did you never tell me?”

“You know, I kind of just figured you knew!” He sounds just as frantic as you do.

“Oh my God. So all those nights I stayed up talking to, what I thought was a robot, I was talking to a real man! With a human body! And brain!”

“Yes.”

“Fuck my life.” You hit your head against the steering wheel again. This time you’re gentle, resting it against the horn like your life depends on it. “And now you know my secret. Great. Just great!”

“I won’t tell anyone about your tragic love life.” He says tragic sarcastically, which instantly sets you off. Because of course it does.

“It is tragic! I like him, and he doesn’t like me! What’s not tragic about that?!” You give an exasperated sigh and lean back in your seat. “I liked you more when I thought you weren’t real.”

“That’s rude.”

“Yeah, well… So is you making fun of me.”

His voice softens, and you can hear him sigh so gently. “I’m sorry.” You never expected a man to apologize to you. Let alone one so professional and monotone. “For what it’s worth, I think he’s missing out.”

“Thanks, Oscar.” The car is too quiet, so you quickly add, “If that’s even your real name.”

He laughs, and it’s so drastically human that you feel stupid for never noticing before. Just a soft chuckle that makes your tense shoulders relax, and your hands fall from the wheel that they had been gripping previously. “It is. I never lied to you, you know.”

“May as well have.”

“No, you just thought wrong for the entire time I was helping you.” He sighs again. “I hope you’re not weirded out.”

“No, actually. I’m a little relieved. I was starting to worry that I was actually bonding with a robot, so knowing you’re a real person makes me feel a bit better.”

“I’m glad.”

The one downside is that the silence is a lot more awkward this way. Having an AI be quiet was normal, because they were only expected to reply when you do, but now, knowing he was human, it felt a little unsettling. So you sit up, finger hovering over the button. “Well, goodnight, Oscar.”

“Goodnight. And good luck—”

You feel bad, but you’re overwhelmed by the events of tonight and shut his radio off and then murmur to yourself, “It’s only 6 p.m… Why’d I say goodnight?” You feel like honking your horn again. “I’m such an idiot!”

The next morning you’re running on pure energy drinks and two hours of sleep. You had spent the night driving around the city. Not racing, not speeding, but just driving. Radio off. You did that until you felt tired enough to go back home and go to bed. 

This time you pull into the garage, hitting your button on instinct. You’ve nearly forgotten that it’s currently 6 a.m., and that your little robot friend is not a robot and is probably trying to sleep. Which is why you’re surprised when nobody greets you initially.

“Hello?”

His voice is groggy and low, a painful reminder that this man is running on human energy much like yourself. You bite your tongue, wanting to apologize but being too stubborn to do it.

“Sorry. Forgot.”

“Is something up?”

“Why are you up so early?” You answer his question with a question. Although it’s more like you ignore him to ask your own.

“I heard you ring in.”

You’re confused now. “Are you… Sleeping?”

“…” You can hear his disappointment. “Well obviously not.”

“I mean like—”

“I’m in bed, yes. Is this important?”

“No. Sorry. Go back to sleep.”

He groans. “Alright.” And then a yawn. It’s strange. You’re used to the quiet, monotone Oscar. He didn't make all these noises- or maybe he did, and you just never noticed. “If you want to talk, try again in like… Two hours.”

“Alright.” You turn the radio off.

Just as he instructed, you wait two hours before hitting the button again, hoping and praying that this time he’s actually up and running because you’re desperate to catch up with him already. You have a lot of questions. 

“Morning, Y/N.” He greets, sounding much more lively than before. 

“There you are!” 

“What can I do for you this morning?”

“I just have some questions.”

“Sure.” The typing is clearer today. A reminder that you feel silly for not noticing before. “Just let me load up some statistics—”

“Not about that,” you interrupt. 

He hums, clearly confused. “Okay… What do you want to know, then?”

You tap your fingers against the center console. “What are you wearing?”

He snorts, and you feel your cheeks flush. “That’s a little perverted, don’t you think?”

“Not like that!” You pinch the bridge of your nose, shaking your head. “I just wanna know. What do you look like? Are you like a fifty year old grease covered mechanic, or..?”

“I’m twenty four.” You can hear the smile in his voice. 

“I’m noticing that you didn’t answer my initial question.”

His laugh is a little shy this time. He takes a moment, a noise leaving him that makes it seem like he’s debating what to say. “I’m wearing a t-shirt and shorts.”

“Well that’s boring.” You wait for a moment, and he says nothing. “Well, aren’t you gonna ask me what I’m wearing?”

“No.”

“Ah.”

“What are you wearing?” He asks after a moment of hesitation.

“A t-shirt and shorts.”

“Very funny.”

“Thank you.” You realize you’re grinning like an idiot, and you make a foolishly desperate attempt to stop, but you can’t. He’s a lot more fun to talk to now. That’s evident. “Do you know what I look like?”

“Is it creepy if I say yes?”

“Depends on how you know.” You lean back. “Like, if it’s because you follow me home or something then… Duh.”

“No. Definitely not.” He chuckles again. You feel like his laugh alone reveals enough about him. He’s a little shy, it would seem. “I have access to the security cameras in the garage as a secondary level of safety. I’ve seen you before, but only in black and white. Plus, you’re like… Made of five pixels.”

“Well?”

“Well what?”

“Do I look pretty?”

“Um…” You’re worried you’ve made him uncomfortable, but then he gives a breathy laugh from his nose before answering, “From what I can see… Yes.” It’s a gentle whisper.

Oh he’s really shy.

“Thanks.” You actually feel a bit giddy at his compliment. Though, you’re sure he would have said yes whether he believed it or not. “What about you? Are you smoking hot— Is that why you hide your identity?”

“It’s not hidden.” He, again, avoids the question. But you wait, and he takes the hint. “I wouldn’t say so.”

Men were always liars about their looks. True or not, most would have said yes in response to your question. But Oscar said no. Which is somewhat reassuring, because at least he’s a humble assistant. “Your turn.”

“For what?”

“Ask me a question. Duh.”

He thinks for a moment. In fact, he thinks for a long moment. So long that you’re worried he got up and left— That he was sick of you. “What’s your… Biggest fear?” He settles on that.

You scoff. “That’s lame. You should’ve asked me something hot, like… What’s your wildest sexual fantasy? Or even What’s your type?”

“Those feel like very different levels of questions. Plus, I already know your type and who would be featured in your fantasy.”

…

“Sorry. Too far?”

“No, I just can’t believe you’d say something so low, Oscar…” You shake your head. “I’m smiling, don’t worry. I wish you could see.”

“Would you like me to check the cameras?”

“No, I look like shit.” You both laugh. It’s easygoing and refreshing. “For the record, my type isn’t just Charles. And I’m not gonna say a thing about my fantasy, because I don’t think you deserve to know. To be honest, I don’t even know why I like him— Or if I still do.”

“Then what’s your type? I won’t tell anyone.”

“I like… A guy with a cute smile, and… He has to be smart. And funny!” It’s basic, really. “Why, you interested?”

“You told me to ask-”

“Relax. I’m kidding.”

“I don’t fit that description anyway.” He adds on after a second. “Any more questions?”

“Can I see you? Face to face?”

He hesitates. “Are you asking me out?”

“Oscar.” You say it in a scolding tone. “Are you seriously teasing me?”

“No—”

“Why would I ask you out if you claim to not be my type?”

“I was teasing.” You can just tell he’s flustered.

“Fine,” you say with faux begrudge. “It can be a date, but you better make it worth my time.”

He’s picking up what you’re putting down with this playful vibe. “Alright, alright… Do you like Cipriani?”

“I’ve never been.” You’ve heard of it. Fancy, and way out of your budget. 

“Then it’ll be a treat. Meet me there at six.”

“It’s a date.”

You go through multiple outfits, worried each time that you’re either under or overdressed for the occasion. It was a date, and it was at a fancy restaurant, but if you went all out then maybe he’d think you were trying too hard. You just wanted to get to know the guy face to face— To see who you’ve been talking to all this time.

You land on something simple. It’s a black off-the-shoulder, long sleeve dress that ends mid-thigh. It highlights your figure without being overly tight. Beneath that is a pair of tights and boots that end just below your knee. You feel awfully done up in comparison to your typical outfits, which really are just the most basic things you can find in your closet, but you don’t want to show up to a fancy restaurant looking like a slob.

You do your best to radiate confidence when you walk into the building, a bag slung over your shoulder as you tell the hostess the name of the reservation. She tells you that you’re the first to arrive as you sit down, menus laying on both sides of the small, circular table. You anxiously bounce your leg, looking over the menu, heart thundering at the high prices.

You’re so caught up in worrying about how you’re going to pay for a drink that you don’t notice someone sit down across from you. It’s only when he clears his throat that you look up, an apology on the tip of your tongue.

It’s lost the second you see him.

His face is soft and sweet, almost innocent. His fair skin is littered with moles, and his deep brown eyes sparkle like a doe’s in the gentle restaurant candlelight. His hair is terribly soft, reaching his nape. It swoops off to the side. He looks effortless in a charming way. He’s in a white button up with a suit jacket, the top button undone and lacking a tie— That would have been too fancy. You’re sure that’s what he was thinking.

“Wow.” That’s all you can get out. You think back to earlier that day when you had asked him if he was smoking hot, to which he answered no.

That liar.

“I’m sorry?” He smiles, laughing at your single syllable.

Goodness. His smile was adorable. ‘I don’t fit that description’ my ass! He had bunny teeth that were just a bit longer than the rest, but it was one of the cutest things you had ever seen. He was undeniably handsome. 

“You’re too humble, Oscar.” You look back down at your menu. “I, for one, find you to be very handsome.” Why are you blushing? Why do you feel shy? Never before had you felt this way before— A warm, fuzzy feeling in your stomach. You were supposed to be brash and disagreeable. That was your thing. You were hotheaded with the mouth of a sailor, but right now you felt like you could melt into a puddle right in front of him. 

“Thanks.” He smiles for real this time. It’s close mouthed, like he’s trying to hide his teeth, but it’s still heartbreakingly cute. “You’re much prettier in person. Not that you weren’t pretty before, I just couldn’t see you that well and—”

“It’s okay, I know what you meant.” 

He’s very much relieved. 

“Can I be honest with you?” You set the menu down. “This place is way too expensive.”

He laughs, and it sounds so easy. “It’s okay, I’m paying.”

“What? Are you sure? I can afford it, I just don’t know if I really want to blow my money on—”

“I promise. Order whatever sounds good.”

Your heart flutters at that. Something about a man being a gentleman in such a natural way really gets you going. You swallow nervously and nod. “Yeah, okay. Thanks.” Keep it cool, man.

It’s hard to be nonchalant.

The dinner went exceptionally well. You feel like you were blushing like a schoolgirl the entire night, and by the end of it you were walking on a dream. He walks you back to your car, offering you his jacket without you even having to complain about being cold. It’s like he could just tell.

“Thank you for the lovely dinner, Oscar.”

“Of course. Goodnight, Y/N.”

“Goodnight.” 

You watch him walk away before getting back into your car and heading home. As you pull into your driveway, you make the bold decision to hit the radio button once more. Like always, he answers in a flash.

“Couldn’t get enough of me?” Does he have to be a tease? Right now? When you’re losing your mind already.

“Guess not.”

“What’s up?”

“Just wanted to say, you know… Because I think it’s worth mentioning…” You’re nervous. So nervous that your heart is pounding out of your chest. You’re entering heart attack levels. “You’re totally my type, you liar.” You try to be jokingly defensive because your statement feels all too embarrassing. Before he can even get a second to respond, you shut the radio off and lean back in your seat. 

Now, of course, you sit in your car and regret every decision you’ve made in life.

You feel humiliated. So you do the only logical thing after that.

You avoid him.

Yep.

You actually avoid the garage as a whole, because it feels like if you show up, they’re all gonna know. They’ll all know you moved on so quickly from a life long crush and are in love with your engineer, which seems absurd but the thought haunts you nonetheless. You felt bad. Terrible, actually, but you just couldn’t bring yourself to do it. 

But today you decide to face your fears and head into the garage with a clear, open mind. You don’t dare hit the button, because the idea of talking to him right now feels absurd, but you pull into the garage and park in your normal spot. You wait, taking deep breaths to work yourself up before stepping out.

And of course,

he’s there.

Waiting.

His face was stern and stoic.

“Oscar,” you breathe out softly. He steps closer, until you feel like you can’t breathe. His cologne is sickly sweet, and you desperately want to just bury your face against him and inhale it, but you’re frozen.

“Did I do something wrong?” He asks quietly, looking down at you. His face transitions from scarily serious to soft and tender. Genuine concern is etched in his pretty boy features, and you sincerely feel guilt. “I thought our dinner was good. Great, even. And what you said—”

“I know.” You cut him off because you’re embarrassed by the reminder, and then you instantly feel bad because his expression knits together in sadness. “I’m sorry, I freaked out. It did go well, really well.”

“So then why’d you disappear?”

“I’m… Nervous.” He doesn’t say anything because he wants to give you the freedom to speak for yourself. You huff, your leg tapping anxiously again. “This is— I don’t know. This is all new to me. I like you, a lot actually. I think you’re funny and charming, and I got all of that from just one date.” You’re rambling and he’s not stopping you. “You’re humble and sweet, too. You said you weren’t hot, and holy shit you are. Even right now when you’re just in sweats and a hoodie I feel like I can’t breathe just looking at you. God, it’s actually a little annoying because it’s so unfair—”

“Y/N.” Now he stops you, and you’re thankful because it was starting to reach an embarrassing point. He wears a smile. Empathetic.

“I’m really sorry.”

“It’s okay.” He reaches for your hand, and you don’t pull away. You just stare at him like a total dunce, unable to move. “I like you too. I think you’re witty, and you’re hilarious even when you don’t know what to say.” You smile because you can’t stop yourself from doing so. “If it helps, we can take it slow.”

“Yes. That would help a lot.”

He chuckles under his breath. “And to think you thought I was AI…”

“Oh shut up.”

“You’re doing great, love.”

“Quit distracting me with your cute bullshit, Oscar!”

You’re racing against Max. It’s a silent challenge for the number one spot, which you had been working and training for day after day for weeks now. Oscar was confident in your abilities, and you were finally confident in yourself, so you asked him if you could race one and one and he happily agreed. He loved a good challenge, after all. 

“Upcoming turn. Remember, easy on the engine, but be confident in your speed.”

“Got it.”

Confident you are.

Because you cross the line first.

Oscar’s the first to hear about it, your car an echo chamber of your own shouting. “Number one, baby!” You pull into the garage, stepping out to shake Max’s hand in a moment of good sportsmanship. He congratulates you on your win, not fully understanding just how much this means to you.

You don’t want to look foolish celebrating such a seemingly small victory, so you keep your excitement to yourself until Oscar gets there, eagerly pulling you into a hug. He knows this means a lot to you— He’s been there from the beginning of this endeavor.

“I’m so proud,” he murmurs before giving you quite the dramatic kiss on the lips. You grin uncontrollably, squeezing him tight.

“All thanks to you.” He shakes his head, and you laugh. “Okay. Maybe not all.”

“Definitely not.” Another cheesy peck. “That was all you.”

He presses up on his elbows, tilting his head slightly like he’s registering the temperature for the first time. “Yeah, actually. Weird.” He tosses his laptop on the coffee table, exchanges it for the air conditioner remote. When he points it at the unit and presses a button, nothing happens. 

Your eyes flick to the AC unit. There’s no air moving above it. No breeze blowing through the leaves of the plants you’ve stacked across the windowsill.  

Oscar tries again, pressing the buttons more frantically as you’ve ever seen him (which is to say, slightly harder than he did before). “It’s not working.”

“Shit,” you say, dread rising in your stomach. “You’re kidding.”

He raises an eyebrow at you, deadpan. “Do I look like I’m kidding?”

He doesn’t. He looks mildly concerned at best, cheeks flushed and sweat starting to dampen the hair at his temples, brow furrowing in that calm, clinical way of his. You can tell he’s already cycling through possible fixes in his mind; to him, this situation is just another puzzle to be solved, an amusing diversion to take up his afternoon.

You, on the other hand, are spiraling. 

“Oscar,” you say, words dripping off your tongue, “it’s nearly a hundred degrees outside. There’s been an extreme heat warning this entire week. I saw someone on TikTok this morning fry an egg on the sidewalk. And you’re telling me our AC is out?”

He points the clicker at the unit one more time for good measure. Nothing. Your chest tightens, as you glance down at your phone. 98º, the weather preview reads, next to a bright little sunshine icon. 98 degrees, and it’s barely 9 AM. 

“Oh god,” you whine, pressing the heel of your hand to your forehead. It comes away damp. “Oh god, we’re gonna get heatstroke and die in this tiny shitty apartment.”

“Whoa. Okay. Don’t panic,” Oscar says softly, eyes wide, like he’s not quite sure what to do with the freaked-out version of you. He walks past you into the kitchen, filling a glass with water and handing it to you. “Drink this. I’m gonna check the breakers, yeah?”

He disappears down the hall to the fuse box, and you collapse onto the couch where he’d been laying. It’s still warm from his body heat, which somehow makes everything worse. You can already feel your hair sticking sweatily to the back of your neck. The water is lukewarm, but it helps a little.

Oscar’s back a few minutes later. “Did it work?” you ask hopefully, but he’s already shaking his head, holding his phone out to you. You can read the giant, size 128 font your super always uses in his emails from across the room: Building-wide HVAC outage. No ETA for repair. 

“Okay,” you say slowly as you sit up, trying to channel some of his calmness. “Okay, we can figure this out. Ice packs. Cold showers. We can handle this. It’s gonna be fine.”

He nods uncertainly. There’s sweat starting to bead at his hairline. “I think there’s a fan in the closet that the people who lived here before us left. I’ll grab it.”

When he returns, he’s carrying the fan under one arm, biceps flexed around the frame. It’s an old thing — white plastic going yellow at the edges, wide square cage locked around three dusty blades, power cable frayed from use.

“That thing looks like it’s going to electrocute you,” you say, eyebrows raised. 

He grins, plugging the cord into the wall. “C’mon, it adds character. Ready for sweet, sweet circulation?”

You scramble to the floor, sitting cross-legged directly in front of the fan. “Hit me, Piastri,” you say decidedly, and he flips the switch. 

The fan wheezes to life, sort of. The blades creak into motion like they’ve woken up from a decade-long nap, and it only takes a moment before the first gust of air hits your waiting face. 

Hot air.

“No,” you moan, and Oscar crouches next to you, hand in the corner of the frame like he’s trying to run his fingers through the breeze. “I thought this was gonna help. It feels like sitting in front of a fucking hair dryer.”

“Maybe it just needs a second to warm up?” he tries, but you’re already shaking your head. 

“It is warm. That’s the problem.”

He sighs and sits on the floor next to you, knee brushing against yours. The fan keeps pushing the stifling air at your faces, like it’s mocking you. “Verdict: the fan is shit.”

“The fan is worse than shit,” you groan, letting your head loll against his shoulder. You can feel his skin even through his shirt, warm beneath your cheek. “The fan is actively taunting us. The fan is betraying us.”

“Okay, drama queen,” he says fondly, pulling the cord out of the wall. The fan stutters to a stop and silence falls again, the air feeling even swampier than before. 

“We’ve got other ways to beat the heat,” he says, like he’s trying to convince himself and you. “It’ll be fine.”

It’s absolutely, completely, one hundred percent not fine.

“This is hell,” you moan, fanning yourself with an old takeout menu. “Actual hell.”

Oscar swipes lazily at the menu, pulling it out of your hand. “Give me that.” He fans it at himself a few times, before letting it drop out of his hand with a groan. 

For a while, it had kind of felt like an adventure. The two of you had dragged your stuff into the living room, worked side by side with bags of frozen peas pressed to your heads, cold beers sweating on the coffee table. The day dragged on, temperature climbing higher, and you’d been forced to get creative. On one trip to the kitchen, you’d figured out it was the shadiest place in the entire apartment, and promptly moved to lay out on the floor, tiles cool beneath your skin. The two of you took turns sticking your head in the freezer, too hot to be self-conscious about how stupid you looked. At least you’d gotten an ancient, frostbitten box of Bomb Pops out of it, long forgotten behind your ice tray. You’d spotted it, pulled it out and split the entire box between the two of you, rationing them like wartime supplies. 

But now the popsicles are gone, the last of the beers going lukewarm, and you’re both pleasantly tipsy and running out of ways to keep yourself entertained. Judging from the way the sun is slanting golden through the window, you’re guessing it’s late afternoon, but you don’t dare get up and check your phone. That would mean expending energy and leaving the cold tiles behind, two things you are very much not prepared to do.

“This is such an undignified way to die,” you mumble instead, cheek flat against the cool floor. Your bottle is dripping with condensation, pressed into the skin of your neck. 

“We’re not going to die,” Oscar says automatically, sliding down the cabinets until he’s on his back next to you. His hair is plastered to his forehead, cheeks flushed. 

You roll your head to the side to look at him. “I’m pretty sure this is how we go out. I’m wilting. I can feel my brain literally melting. Dripping out my ears.” 

“Nah, I think that’s just sweat,” he grins, eyes sparkling. 

“Ew, Osc.” You wrinkle your nose. “Gross. And also not helping.”

He lets out a laugh, lazy and breathless, forearm thrown over his eyes. “At least we’re going out together.”

“Yeah, put that on the tombstone,” you snort. “‘Here lies two idiots who died because they were too cheap to rent in a building with a competent super.’”

“We’re not cheap,” he protests weakly. “We’re… financially responsible.”

“Yeah, ‘cause it’s so financially responsible to just die of heatstroke.”

Oscar sighs, taking a long swig and then setting his beer down. The glass clinks against the tiles. “Okay. Well, we’re definitely not gonna survive if we keep wearing this much.”

You blink, propping yourself up on your elbows. “What?”

But he’s already shimmying his shorts down his legs, kicking them across the floor to the corner of the kitchen. “It’s basic heat management. Less layers means our skin’ll cool off faster.” He pulls his shirt over his head next, one clean, graceful movement. 

And — okay. Okay. You weren’t prepared for Oscar to be shirtless. 

You’ve lived together for almost two years. You’ve seen him before, on laundry day in a ratty muscle tank, on the way into the gym, even one particularly embarrassing moment when you walked into the bathroom before he’d gotten dressed, towel slung dangerously low on his hips. But you’d filed the moments away in your head as normal roommate occurrences, nothing to think twice about. 

Clearly, you hadn’t been paying enough attention. Because now you don’t know what to do when he’s sitting on the kitchen floor in a pair of grey Calvins, skin flushed golden and peppered with moles, covered in a sheen of sweat. There’s a drop trailing down his chest, catching in the grooves of what look like very defined abs. 

You know you’re staring. It’s shameless. You feel a little bit insane, actually. Oscar is… hot?

“You okay?” your roommate says, a little too casually. 

“I —” you stammer, forcing your eyes up to his face. “What the hell, Osc. You have muscles.”

“Humans tend to have those,” he replies dryly. 

“No, but like, I thought you had programmer muscles. Slouch over a computer all day and code muscles,” you try to explain. “But you look like you could be in like, a sexy sunscreen ad or something. When did you get so jacked?”

He laughs, a little breathless, rubbing the back of his neck. His ears look a little pinker than they were before. You’re not sure if it’s the heat or something else entirely. “I’ve always been like this. You just never noticed.”

You shake your head. “No way. I would have noticed that.”

“Apparently not,” he says, voice a little rough in a way that makes your stomach twist. “Your turn.”

“My turn for what?”

He gestures at your sweat-soaked tank top. “Heat management, remember?”

“Right, yeah. Makes sense. Equal opportunity stripping,” you breathe, trying very hard to sound casual even though your pulse is racing under your skin. You take a breath, averting your eyes to the floor, and tug your tank top over your head. 

The air hits your skin first, surprisingly cool. And then, unmistakably, Oscar’s eyes next, trailing down your body, heavy and lingering. 

“You’re staring,” you note, and his gaze snaps back to your face. 

He swallows hard, rakes a hand through his hair. “Yeah, sorry, I —” His eyes flick back to your chest, like he can’t help himself, then quickly back up to your face. “Jesus.”

You raise an eyebrow, tiny smile on your face. “Humans tend to have those,” you echo him, gesturing vaguely at your bralette, and Oscar makes a strangled noise like he’s choked on his own tongue. 

He rolls toward you on the floor slightly, one arm falling lazily over his waist as he looks up at you with those big brown eyes. “You can’t just do that.”

“Hey. You were the one who told me to take my shirt off,” you say, suddenly defensive.

He sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Well, I didn’t think you’d do it and look like that.”

“Like what?”

“Hot,” he says lowly, and now it’s your turn to sputter around your own breath.

“I mean — it is the middle of a heatwave,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. 

His eyes find yours. Hold them with an intensity that makes you shiver even in the heat. “You know that’s not the type of hot I meant.”

The air doesn’t feel stagnant anymore. It feels alive between you, some kind of simmering tension that’s using the heat as an excuse to finally, finally boil over. 

“Don’t look at me like that,” you say, voice pitching high and unsteady. 

His brows knit together. “What do you mean?”

“You’re looking at me like you want to kiss me or something,” you say, breathless. 

A beat. Oscar’s lip catches in between his teeth as he looks at you, and you can feel your traitorous eyes drop to his mouth. His grin spreads slowly across his face, like he’s won something he didn’t know was up for grabs. 

“I do want to kiss you,” he says. And then he leans in, slow, like he’s giving you the chance to stop all of it in its tracks, until there’s no space left between you. 

When his mouth finally finds yours, it’s careful. He tastes like cherry popsicle, lips sticky with the leftover sugar and a salty twinge of sweat. One hand cups your cheek, the other resting tentatively on your waist, thumb skimming at the hem of your bralette like he’s still trying to figure out how far he’s allowed to go. 

You don’t want him to be careful anymore. 

You swing a leg over his lap, straddling him, knees knocking against the tile. His breath hitches as you settle against him, muscles tense beneath you. “You’re allowed to touch me, you know,” you murmur against his mouth. 

He pulls back, chest rising and falling unevenly as he looks up at you. “Just — trying to be respectful,” he says roughly, fingers digging into the skin at your waist. 

You smirk, rolling your hips against the obvious bulge in his briefs, hard and thick and throbbing. The groan he lets out is nothing short of filthy. “Osc, I’m literally half-naked on top of you. I think we’re way past the point of respectful.”

It’s like the permission flips a switch inside him. His mouth attaches to your neck, sucking little bruises into the soft skin, and suddenly, his hands are all over you. One sliding down your back, splaying over your hip and rocking you against him, cock rutting against your wet heat through your shorts. The other palming at your chest through your bra, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide the way your nipples pearl under his touch. 

“So fucking hot,” he breathes into your skin, pausing between words to suck another mark at the swell of your breast. “Driving me insane, you know that? All fucking day with those shorts and that little tank top.”

You don’t respond. Just reach behind you, fingers nimbly unhooking your bralette, clasp damp against your back. The fabric falls away easily, straps slipping down your arms until you’re bare on top of him.

For a second, you think Oscar might have stopped breathing, hands frozen on your hips, eyes fixed on your tits.

“Oscar?” you say, breathless, rutting your hips against his in a shameless attempt to bring him back down from whatever planet he’s on. He blinks hard, shakes his head slightly like his brain is an Etch-a-Sketch he’s trying to reset. His pupils are blown, eyes wide as he stares up at you.

“Sorry, yeah, I —” he mumbles, and then his head is ducking down, mouth closing around your nipple, warm and wet. His tongue flicks sharp over the nub of it, his other hand coming up to palm at your other breast, rolling the nipple between his fingers. 

It feels like he’s everywhere, all hands and lips and tongue, and you gasp, arch your back like you’re trying to get more of your tits into his mouth. He groans around you, teeth grazing against the sensitive area gently. The vibrations go straight to your core. “Osc — fuck — ”

“Good?” he mutters against you, and you nod frantically. His free hand wraps under you, fingers splaying against the curve of your ass, and he picks you up and presses you into the kitchen tile without taking his mouth off you. The move is so absurdly, unfairly hot that the only thought in your mind is why you didn’t let him do it sooner.

He pulls back, and you’re about to whine at the loss of contact until you feel his mouth against you again, pressing messy open-mouthed kisses in a trail down your stomach, tongue dragging against your skin like he needs to taste you. Your fingers weave easily into his hair, tugging loosely at the roots, and he whines.

“Can I —” he breathes when he gets to the waistband of your shorts, looking up at you through his lashes, and you’re lifting your hips in reply before he can even really get the question out of his mouth.

“Please,” you gasp, like he needs any extra confirmation. Like he’s not already hooking his fingers into the elastic and tugging your shorts and panties down your legs. 

“Fuck,” he rasps once you’re laid bare in front of him, hand sliding slick up your thigh to your center. “You’re unreal.”

He kisses the inside of your thigh gently, then again. Higher and higher he goes, mouth dragging just shy of where you need him most. “Taste so fucking good already f’me,” he mumbles to himself, almost reverent. “Can’t believe I get to do this.” 

Your hips kick involuntarily at the vibration from his words, his breath teasing at your cunt. “Then do it, Osc,” you whimper, fingers tightening in his hair. “Please.”

Apparently your begging does the trick. He plants one hand on your thigh, uses it to pull you towards him, spreading your thighs wide enough to keep them apart with his shoulders, and then presses the flat of his tongue to you, licking a long, hot stripe up your center. 

He eats you out like he’s been dying to do it, like he’s trying to figure out exactly what makes you tick, what will make you fall apart the fastest under him. It’s a little sloppy, hot and wet and reckless, but it works — tongue circling around your clit in a way that makes you moan high and breathless. The sound only seems to spur him on, fingers slipping into you a second after that. 

Your back arches off the tile at the feeling of his fingers, fucking you open slowly. Not that it’s doing a thing to cool you down anymore. With his mouth and his hands on you, you feel like you’re burning up from the inside out. 

When he sucks your clit into his mouth, crooking his fingers inside you, the sensation is nearly too much to bear. “Osc, don’t stop — I’m gonna —” you pant brokenly, hips rocking against his face, his hand.

“Let go. Come on, baby, let me taste it,” he murmurs directly into your core, and your orgasm rips through you, thighs shaking around Oscar’s shoulders. He works you through it, tongue lapping at you like he wants to devour you as you writhe beneath him. 

When you finally come back down to earth, you tug him back up your body until you’re face to face. “You good?” he asks breathlessly, looking down at you. He’s so pretty like this — wild-eyed, flushed and panting, hair mussed, mouth shining. 

“Yeah. Yes,” you nod, dazed. “So fucking good.” He grins down at you, obviously pleased, if the way his hips twitch into yours is anything to go by. 

You reach up for him instinctively, suddenly desperate to taste yourself on his tongue. The resulting kiss is hot and sticky and perfect, even better when you let your hand slip between the two of you to palm at his cock through his briefs. He hisses, jerks his hips forward as you work your fingers beneath the waistband, pulling them down just enough for his length to spring free, hard against his stomach. 

He breaks the kiss just enough to shove the briefs down, past his ankles, kicking them to the rapidly growing pile of clothes in the corner of the kitchen. When your hand wraps around him, thumbing across the tip and spreading the wetness gathering there down his length with one experimental pump, he gasps, hips canting against your hand. 

“Fuck, you can’t — I’m not gonna last if you do that,” he admits, eyes closed and breathing uneven. 

Maybe it’s the heat that makes you bold, or maybe it’s his honesty, saying straight out how badly you affect him. But something makes you grin up at him and say it: “Maybe you should hurry up and get inside me, then.”

His eyes snap open, and he makes a wrecked little noise at that, something between a whimper and a growl. “Fuck. Okay. Condom. In my room, I think —”

You laugh, breathless, hooking one leg around his waist and pulling him down to press his forehead against yours. “I’m on the pill. And I trust you, Osc.”

His eyes flutter shut like that might legitimately be his undoing, cockhead pushing at your slick folds, barely holding himself back. “Jesus fucking Christ. Okay.”

He lines himself up, sinks into you so slowly that it’s torture. The feeling is overwhelming, the stretch, the heat of it. He’s thick, perfect, pressed so deep into you when he finally bottoms out that it nearly steals the breath from your lungs. 

“Shit,” Oscar chokes out, helpless. “You feel — fuck, you feel insane.”

You dig your heels into his back, nails dragging over his shoulders. “Probably feel better if you move,” you breathe, and his eyes go dark, pulling out just to slam back into you with a long moan.

He finds a rhythm fast. Messy, desperate thrusts that echo filthily against the tile every time his hips snap into yours, skin sliding against skin. He’s bracing one hand beside your head, the other gripping under your thigh to keep you spread open, flushed and panting beneath him.

“You’re so —” he starts, voice breaking into a moan as you rock your hips to meet him with each thrust, your cunt gripping him warm and tight and ready. “Fuck. Wanted this so bad.”

“You thought about this?” you manage between gasps, and he nods. 

“All the fucking time. Jesus, you feel so good,” he groans, voice rough and hot against your ear. “So fucking tight, baby — m’not gonna last.”

You’re a mess beneath him already, gasping and clawing at his back as he fucks into you. “Don’t have to,” you whine as he hikes your leg up his waist, opening you up even more for him. The angle has your vision blurring, seeing stars every time his length scrapes that one spot inside you. “Want you to come, Osc, please, need to feel you.” You clench around him on instinct, and he shudders, hips stuttering.

“Fuckfuckfuck, don’t do that, I’m so close,” he grits out, hand sliding between your bodies to your clit, rubbing tight little circles against you. “Need to make you come first.”

You let out a moan, almost incoherent. You can already feel it building, coiling low and tight in your stomach, sparked by the heat and his voice and the frantic way he’s moving inside you. “Osc, I’m gonna —”

“Yeah?” he breathes, eyes fluttering shut as you pulse around him, so close to falling over the edge. “Do it then. Want to feel it on my cock.”

You come with a yelp, back arching and cunt fluttering around him. A moment later, Oscar’s rhythm falters inside you, and then he’s gasping your name, spilling into you with a groan that vibrates against your skin.

He stays like that for a moment, shivering in the aftermath, pressed fully against you, skin slick and sticky, chest rising and falling in uneven bursts.

“...So,” he breathes, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “That definitely didn’t help us cool down.” 

You laugh, breathless. Fucked out. “Not even a little bit.”

“Cold shower together next?” he grins, dazed, cheeks flushed as he waggles an eyebrow at you. You smack him on the arm lazily in response, no real heat behind it. 

One little kiss on the broadcast after the last race. One soft, blink-and-you-miss-it moment in parc fermé. The internet did not blink.

Your follower count doubled overnight. Every second comment was either “She’s gorgeous!!” or “Who is she??” or, occasionally, “She’s clearly distracting him from winning”—which you told yourself was hilarious, because Lando had just finished on the podium.

By the time you landed at the next circuit, your phone was a warzone. You’d shown Lando a few of the comments, half-laughing, half-concerned.

He’d only shrugged. “Take the internet with a grain of salt. They’ll find something else to talk about in a week.”

You were trying to believe him.

⸻

It was warm in the paddock, sunlight bouncing off the asphalt as you walked from hospitality toward the garage. Your pass swung lightly from your lanyard, the papaya accents on your dress catching the eye of more than one camera.

Halfway down the lane, you noticed him.

Standing by the outer fence, just beyond the designated fan zone. No team colors, no obvious camera. Just… watching.

Your steps slowed for a fraction of a second. His eyes followed yours, unreadable. You couldn’t place his age—somewhere late thirties, maybe. A little too still in the chaos around him.

Before you could think more about it, someone from the team called your name from up ahead. You turned toward them, breaking the moment. When you glanced back, the man was still there. Still looking.

⸻

That night, your phone buzzed with a DM request.

Unknown: That dress looked better in person. The cameras don’t do you justice.

Your heart skipped, pulse jumping in your throat.

You sat back, staring at the screen. Your profile wasn’t private—plenty of strangers could have sent that. The paddock had hundreds of people milling around at any given time. Could be a random fan who’d seen the broadcast.

You locked your phone and set it face-down on the table.

By the next day, you’d convinced yourself to let it go. The man by the fence slipped from your mind as you sipped coffee in hospitality, teasing Lando about his hair under the helmet. You posted a few race-day selfies. Normal. Easy. Like nothing had happened at all.

⸻

The off weeks were supposed to be calm.

Sleep in, no airports, no cameras in your face the second you left the hotel.

Monaco was bright and glittering that week, warm enough that you and Lando walked almost everywhere—coffee runs in the morning, late dinners with friends, quick stops at the marina just to sit and watch the yachts.

Everything felt normal… mostly.

Except the DMs hadn’t stopped.

On Instagram:

Unknown: You always look best in papaya.

On Twitter, buried in your mentions:

@somethingrandom: Saw you today. That skirt. Good god.

You’d blocked every account as they came in, but more just popped up—different usernames, same tone.

⸻

The first time you thought you saw him again, you told yourself it was nothing.

You and Lando were leaving a café, and across the street, just by the shadow of a building, was a man with the same stillness you remembered from the paddock.

It was only a few seconds before a bus rolled by and blocked your view.

When it passed, he was gone.

⸻

The second time, you were with Lando at the market, him trying to decide between two jars of pasta sauce like it was the most important choice of his life. You caught sight of him—tall, dark jacket, leaning casually near a stall but not really shopping.

Your stomach tightened.

You must’ve looked off, because Lando glanced over, eyebrows knitting. “You good?”

“Yeah,” you lied quickly. “Just… distracted.”

He smirked. “From the thrilling world of marinara selection? Fair.”

⸻

By the third time—passing a side street as you and Lando headed toward the marina—your pulse was already picking up. The silhouette at the end of the alley looked too familiar. You kept walking, forcing yourself not to look again.

That night, curled on the couch with Lando, you flinched at every creak outside the balcony. He noticed, of course.

“You’re jumpy,” he said, arm pulling you closer. “Is this ‘cause of that horror film we watched last night? Knew I shouldn’t have let you pick.”

You let out a weak laugh, leaning into him. “Yeah. Guess I’m just on edge.”

“Don’t worry,” he said, pressing a kiss to your temple. “If anyone tries to break in, I’ll fight ‘em. Unless they’re bigger than me, in which case… I’ll verbally fight ‘em.”

You laughed for real that time, but you didn’t tell him he was wrong.

⸻

Race weekends had their own rhythm—noise, chaos, heat. You’d learned to navigate the paddock with a kind of muscle memory, slipping from hospitality to the garage like you belonged there.

This time, the man broke the pattern.

You spotted him before you even reached McLaren’s side of the paddock.

Different jacket, different spot, but unmistakable. Leaning against a barrier, posture easy, like he had all the time in the world.

Your steps faltered.

He didn’t move toward you. Didn’t speak.

But his gaze found yours and held it.

It wasn’t curiosity—it was knowing.

You ducked your head quickly and slipped inside hospitality, forcing a laugh when one of the team’s media girls nearly bumped into you.

⸻

The rest of the day, you stayed out of sight. No hanging by the garage entry, no chatting with the engineers between sessions. Even when the checkered flag fell and Lando crossed the line, you lingered back instead of weaving your way to the front for the post-race photos.

From the stage, Lando was grinning, arms raised, but when he caught sight of you in the back, something in his smile flickered.

⸻

He found you in the motorhome later, hair still damp from the champagne spray.

“You okay?” he asked, towel slung around his neck.

You nodded quickly. “Yeah. Just… bit of a headache. I’m fine.”

First lie.

He gave you a searching look, then stepped closer, brushing his knuckles gently against your temple. “Guess the noise doesn’t help. Come on, let’s get you back to the hotel before you turn into a zombie.”

⸻

That night, the tension crawled under your skin.

You locked the door when you came in.

Then checked it again before bed.

Hours later, you slipped out from under the covers to check it a third time. The lock clicked softly as you tested it, and when you turned back, Lando was half-awake, squinting at you in the dim light.

“What’re you doing?”

“Bathroom,” you whispered.

He grunted, rolling over, already drifting off again.

You stared at the ceiling for what felt like hours, sleep a stranger, the faint echo of that man’s eyes on you still threading through your thoughts.

⸻

Monaco nights always felt a little unreal—bass bleeding into the streets, lights bouncing off the water, laughter spilling out of doorways.

You were sandwiched between Charles and Lando as they wove through the crowd toward one of the clubs Charles swore by. It should’ve been fun. It used to be fun.

Inside, it was pure chaos—music pounding, bodies pressed shoulder to shoulder, and the haze of perfume and spilled drinks hanging in the air.

Lando handed you a glass, ice clinking. “Just one sip,” he said with a grin.

You shook your head. “Not tonight.”

“Why not?”

Your eyes flickered past him. The other side of the club was a blur of movement and light, but—just for a second—you thought you saw him. The set of his shoulders, the tilt of his head.

“Just… don’t feel like it,” you mumbled.

Lando shrugged, turning back toward Charles, but your attention stayed locked across the room. Too far to be sure. Too many people moving in the way. But the longer you tried to track him, the more your chest tightened.

Someone jostled past you, shoulder slamming into yours. Another brushed your arm. A third leaned in, laughing too close. The air felt thick and hot, your pulse skipping.

“Hey—” you tugged on Lando’s sleeve, your voice sharp with urgency, “I need to get out. Please.”

His head snapped toward you instantly. “Okay—yeah—come on.”

He didn’t hesitate, weaving you through the crush of people, one hand firm at your back until the night air hit you like a shock.

Outside, you braced your hands on your knees, trying to breathe.

“Hey, hey…” He crouched a little to catch your gaze. “What’s wrong? Are you sick? Was it too crowded?”

You shook your head, swallowing hard. “I don’t know. Just… needed air.”

He frowned, searching your face. “You’ve been… jumpy lately. Maybe you should—” He hesitated, as if weighing the words. “Maybe talk to someone? A doctor? Just to see if there’s… I don’t know, something to help?”

You wanted to tell him. Wanted to explain that it wasn’t just some vague anxiety, that there was a reason. But the words stuck in your throat, tangled up with the pounding in your ears.

“Yeah,” you said instead, voice small. “Maybe.”

⸻

The next morning, you sat in your PCP’s office, hands folded tightly in your lap. You heard yourself admit it out loud—that it was getting harder to function normally, that you couldn’t shake the constant edge in your chest.

By the time you left, there was a small orange bottle in your bag, a low-dose anxiety med to try.

The first night, it made you nauseous.

The second night, worse.

You didn’t tell Lando. You didn’t want him to think you were giving up.

When he saw the bottle on your counter, his smile was soft, proud. “Good for you. Seriously. That’s a big step.”

You smiled back, even though the queasiness was still gnawing at you, and told yourself you could push through.

Because if you admitted the pills were making things worse, you’d have to admit why you needed them in the first place.

And that was still a truth you weren’t ready to hand over.

⸻

The email landed in your inbox like a rock in your stomach.

Subject: McLaren Accreditation — [July 2025]

Your eyes traced over the words, the official tone, the attached PDF with your pass details. Normally, this was the kind of thing you’d text to Lando with a dozen orange heart emojis. Normally, it was exciting.

Today, your cursor hovered over the Reply button.

You could just… say something came up. Family emergency, work obligation—anything that meant you wouldn’t have to step into the paddock and risk seeing him again.

The mental image flashed unbidden: the way he’d stood by the barrier, not smiling, not speaking—just watching.

Your finger twitched toward the mouse.

Then you exhaled sharply, hitting the laptop shut instead. No. You weren’t going to let some creep ruin your time with Lando. You weren’t going to hand him the power to keep you away from the place you’d been so happy.

⸻

When you arrived at the next race, you were ready—or at least, you told yourself you were.

Sunglasses on, hoodie up despite the warmth, you walked the paddock like you were just another person avoiding the midday glare. But your eyes were constantly scanning. Every shadow, every figure standing still, every shape that seemed too familiar.

You laughed when Lando teased you for looking like you were in disguise. “Just keeping the sun off,” you said, tugging your hood lower.

He squinted at you, but didn’t push. Not then.

⸻

Later, while he was strapped into the car, he caught himself glancing toward the garage entrance between radio calls. You hadn’t been hanging around the front row like usual.

He pinged one of the guys in the garage—half-joking, half-serious. “Hey, keep an eye on her for me, yeah?”

“On it,” the guy replied with a grin, though Lando didn’t find it particularly funny.

Because something was up. You’d been off for weeks now—more distant, more careful, always wrapped in that damn hoodie.

A small, ugly thought wormed its way in while he was waiting for the lights to go out. What if she’s pulling away because she’s about to end it?

He shook it off, gripping the wheel tighter. He’d figure it out after the race.

Right now, he just had to trust someone was watching your back.

⸻

The fan zone was loud with music and chatter, a sea of merch and waving hands. Normally, you’d linger—take a few pictures for your Instagram story, chat with McLaren fans, maybe snag a coffee from the vendor at the far end.

Not today.

Today, you spotted him within seconds.

He wasn’t in any sort of team gear. No camera slung over his shoulder. Just… standing. Watching. That same unreadable expression.

Your stomach clenched.

You kept your head down and moved quickly, weaving between the crowd until you found the side entrance to McLaren hospitality. The door clicked shut behind you, and you let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding.

Inside, surrounded by familiar papaya shirts, you felt marginally safer. But your phone buzzed in your pocket, and that fragile calm cracked.

Instagram DM — Unknown:You can’t hide behind him forever.

Your chest tightened.

You didn’t reply. You didn’t block him—because that meant losing the ability to see if he messaged again. You just… left it there, sitting like a splinter under your skin.

⸻

Hours later, you were in the corner of the hospitality lounge, scrolling idly between Instagram and Twitter. Same man. Same cryptic comments.

You must have gone still, because suddenly Lando’s voice broke through. “Hey.”

You looked up, startled. He was standing over you, hair damp from the post-session shower, brows drawn together. “What’s with that face?”

“What face?”

“The… I-just-read-something-bad-and-I’m-pretending-I-didn’t face.” He gestured vaguely at your phone.

You forced a shrug. “It’s just trolls. I’m used to it.”

He didn’t look convinced. “Not the good kind of trolls, I’m guessing.”

You smiled weakly. “There’s a good kind?”

He smirked, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. After a moment, he reached out and ruffled your hair lightly. “Don’t give them the satisfaction, yeah? They’re not worth it.”

“I know,” you said, tucking your phone away.

He hesitated—like he wanted to push further—but finally nodded and walked off toward the garage.

You watched him go, guilt curling in your chest.

Because the truth was, if it was just trolls, you wouldn’t feel like you were constantly being followed.

⸻

The garage was loud with post-race chaos — clanging tools, chatter between engineers, the occasional shout over a laptop’s whine. It was the kind of noise that usually made you smile, a soundtrack to Lando’s world.

Not today.

Your skin felt too tight, the air too warm, so you slipped out the side door, telling yourself you’d just get a few breaths of fresh air before anyone noticed you were gone.

The back walkway behind hospitality was quiet. The hum of distant generators, the faint scent of rubber and fuel in the air. You let yourself relax—

“Finally.”

You froze.

He stepped out from the shadow of the fence like he’d been waiting. That same man. Same flat, fixed stare. Only this time, he was close enough that you could smell the sour tang of his breath.

Your mouth went dry. “I—”

His hand shot out, curling around your upper arm in a grip that made you flinch instantly.

“It’s time you came with me,” he murmured, voice low but firm, like it was already decided. His other hand came up, brushing your side as he leaned closer, his chest almost touching yours.

The heat of his breath hit your ear and bile rose in your throat.

You jerked hard, panic flooding your limbs. “Let go!”

For a split second, his fingers dug in tighter. Then you wrenched free, stumbling backward before spinning on your heel.

And then you ran.

Adrenaline roared in your ears. Your chest ached, lungs burning, but you didn’t stop until you found the first unlocked door — a storage room stacked with spare signage and boxes of bottled water.

You slammed it shut, failing to twist the lock with shaking hands before sliding down the wall, breath coming in ragged, shallow bursts.

Your palms pressed over your mouth to muffle the sobs threatening to spill out. Your heart felt like it was trying to punch its way through your ribs.

In the dim light, crouched behind a stack of boxes, you hugged your knees to your chest.

Your whole body trembled.

You wished you’d never come. Never gotten that stupid accreditation email. Never walked into the paddock thinking you’d be safe just because you were with Lando.

A tear slid down your cheek, then another. You pressed your forehead to your knees and tried to breathe, but the images replayed — his face, his grip, the smell of his breath right against your skin.

And somewhere beyond the locked door, the race weekend carried on like nothing had happened.

⸻

Lando was pacing the length of the McLaren garage, scanning every face that walked past.

“She was just here,” he said for the third time, voice tight. “I told her I’d only be a few minutes—”

One of the garage guys glanced up from packing away equipment. “She was, mate. We were cleaning up and she must’ve slipped out the back.”

Lando’s head snapped toward him, anger flashing. “You were supposed to keep an eye on her.”

The guy held his hands up defensively. “I was. I swear, one second she was right there—”

Lando didn’t wait for the rest, already grabbing his headset off the counter. “If something’s happened—” His voice cut off, the words too sharp to finish.

Oscar caught his eye, reading the worry there. “I’ll take the back side,” he said, already heading out before Lando could argue.

The storage corridor was dim, the air cooler than outside. Oscar moved slowly, scanning open doors and shadowed corners—until he caught it. A sound. Small, broken.

He stopped outside a closed storage room. “…Hello?” he called, but softer than usual. No response—just the muffled hitch of a breath.

He tried again, voice steady. “It’s Oscar. I’m gonna open the door, alright?”

The door was unlocked, and it creaked slightly as it swung open. His eyes adjusted to the dim light, finding you crouched on the floor behind a stack of boxes, knees tucked tight to your chest.

When he stepped inside, you flinched — hard — scooting back until your shoulder hit the wall.

Oscar froze where he was, hands up slightly like he was approaching a skittish animal. “Okay, okay… I’m not gonna hurt you,” he murmured. “It’s just me. You know me.”

Your breaths came fast and shallow. You didn’t speak.

He knelt slowly, staying a good few feet away. “You’re safe here. No one’s gonna get to you in here.” His tone was quiet, almost conversational. “I’m gonna sit right here, and when you’re ready… we can go find Lando.”

Your eyes darted to the doorway, then back to him.

“Did something happen?” he asked gently. “You don’t have to tell me now. Just… nod if you want to get out of here.”

You didn’t nod. But your breathing hitched again, and you wiped at your face with the back of your sleeve.

Oscar’s voice stayed soft, patient. “It’s noisy out there. Too many people. If we walk slow, we can go the quiet way back. You can stay on my left so no one bumps into you.”

A long silence. Then you shifted — just barely — in his direction.

“That’s it,” he said quietly, encouraging. “Just me here. No rush.”

It took another moment before you finally reached for the hand he offered. Even then, your grip was shaky, like you might pull back at any second.

He didn’t push. Just kept his pace slow, body angled slightly to block anyone from getting close, guiding you down the corridor.

Halfway there, he slid his phone from his pocket and typed without breaking stride:

Oscar: Something happened. She’s with me. Don’t panic but come to hospitality now.

By the time you turned the corner, Lando was already there — eyes wide, every line of him coiled tight — and Oscar gently stepped aside, letting you decide whether to go to him or not.

⸻

The garage was quieter now, most of the team still huddled in debrief. But Lando wasn’t listening to anything except the pounding in his chest when he finally saw you.

He was across the floor in seconds.

“Where the hell were you? Do you have any idea—”

Your body jerked like he’d struck you. Eyes wide. Shoulders curling inward.

The sharpness in his voice vanished. “Oh, love…” He reached for you, slow and steady this time, and when you didn’t pull away, he pulled you into his arms. You were trembling so hard it rattled through him.

It took a moment before your voice came — shaky, almost too quiet to hear. “He was here again.”

Lando pulled back just enough to see your face. “Who?”

“The man… from the fence in Australia. The one I kept seeing in Monaco.” You swallowed hard. “The one who’s been DMing me.”

His brows drew together, the tension in his jaw sharpening. “DMing you?”

You nodded. “At first it was just comments about what I was wearing. Then it turned into… threats. I thought if I ignored them, it would stop. I didn’t want to make it your problem.”

The muscles in his forearms flexed where his hands cupped your shoulders. “You didn’t want to make it my problem? You are my problem. My responsibility. My—” He broke off, voice tight with frustration. “Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?”

“I didn’t want you to think I couldn’t handle it.”

“Handle it?” His voice was quieter now, but no less intense. “It’s not your job to handle some creep following you around the world. It’s mine to keep you safe.” He shook his head like he was trying to reel it all in, then softened. “God, I wish you’d told me sooner.”

You bit your lip, guilt creeping up your throat. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry,” he murmured, tugging you back into his chest. “You’re safe now. I promise you that.”

⸻

Ten minutes later, you were sitting in hospitality with a police officer across the table. Lando hadn’t let go of your hand once, thumb tracing steady circles into your skin as you told the officer everything — from the first message to the bruises now forming on your arm.

After your statement was done, he guided you to the security office, where the two of you sat with the track’s head of security watching grainy CCTV footage from behind the garage.

“That’s him,” you said the moment you saw him step out from behind a transport truck.

Lando’s grip on your chair tightened, but his voice stayed calm. “Get his photo circulated to every marshal, every team. He’s not getting within fifty feet of her again.”

They promised to flag his accreditation and ban him from future events.

⸻

By the time you reached the hotel, the adrenaline had worn off and exhaustion had set in. But Lando didn’t stop moving.

He went room to room, locking every window, double-latching the doors, even sliding the chain across. “Just so you know you’re safe,” he said quietly.

When you were finally in bed, he climbed in beside you, pulling you against his chest. His arm stayed wrapped around you like an anchor.

You stared at the ceiling for what felt like forever. Eventually, you whispered, “I can’t sleep.”

He shifted to look at you. “Still wired?”

“My chest…” Your voice broke a little. “It physically hurts. Like someone’s sitting on me. I just… I can’t get the weight of today off me.”

Lando sat up, thoughtful for a second, then slipped out of bed. He returned with a small hotel ice bag wrapped in a thin towel. “Here,” he murmured, nudging you to sit up slightly.

You frowned. “What are you—”

“Trust me. My mum used to do this when I’d get all wound up after a bad day.” He gently pressed the cool bag to the space between your boobs, right over your sternum. “Something about it makes your body think you’re safe. Lowers your heart rate.”

You sucked in a sharp breath at the cold, but after a few seconds, the pressure in your chest began to ease. Your breaths came slower. The knot in your stomach loosened.

“Better?” he asked softly.

You nodded, leaning into him. “Yeah. A little.”

“Good. That’s all we need tonight—a little better.” He settled back, keeping the ice in place with one hand while the other stroked your hair.

You fell asleep in his arms like that, the heaviness still there but muted, softened under the steady thump of his heartbeat and the cool press of his makeshift remedy.

For the first time all day, you felt like maybe — just maybe — you could breathe again.

⸻

You woke to the smell of toast.

Blinking in the soft morning light, you found the other side of the bed empty, the sheets still warm where Lando had been. A rustle from the corner drew your attention—he was standing by the tiny kitchenette, hair still messy from sleep, wearing one of his hoodies and your favorite smug little half-smile.

“Morning,” he said, sliding a plate onto the desk. Two pieces of toast, scrambled eggs, a few slices of fruit arranged in a slightly lopsided heart.

You sat up slowly, rubbing your eyes. “You… made breakfast?”

“Hotel breakfast is boring,” he shrugged. “Plus, I didn’t want to let you out of the room yet. I had a few groceries delivered and picked them up in the lobby”

The casual way he said it made something warm settle in your chest.

“Did you sleep at all?” you asked.

He shook his head like it didn’t matter. “I wasn’t going to until I was sure you were okay. Besides…” He gestured toward the locked balcony door. “Every door, every window—still locked. You’re safe.”

You pushed the blanket back and padded over to him, stealing a bite of toast before he could hand you a fork. “You’re really not going to let me out of your sight, are you?”

“Nope.” He popped the ‘p’ for emphasis. “Not after last night. You can complain if you want, but tough luck.”

You laughed softly, leaning into his side. “Not complaining. I like my personal security guard.”

“Good, because you’ve got me until further notice.”

When you finally sat down to eat, he pulled up a chair beside you, keeping one arm draped loosely along the back of your seat. Every so often, you caught him glancing at you like he was still making sure you were really there, really okay.

It was protective and grounding all at once—the kind of morning that made the nightmare of the day before feel like something you might actually get past.

⸻

Lando’s phone buzzed against the hotel nightstand, Zak Brown’s name flashing on the screen.

“Hang on,” Lando said, answering. “Hey, Zak—”

“Put her on speaker,” Zak’s voice came through immediately, no preamble.

Lando glanced at you, brow raised, then tapped the speaker icon and set the phone between you on the bed.

“Hi, it’s Zak,” came the firm, warm American accent. “First off, I need to say how deeply sorry I am for what happened this weekend. It’s unacceptable. We’ve worked with race directors, and the man has been identified and flagged—he will not be allowed into any races moving forward. Period.”

Your throat tightened. “Oh—Zak, that’s… you didn’t have to call—”

“I’m not finished,” he cut in gently but firmly. “You will follow up with legal about pressing charges. I know you’re about to tell me it’s not necessary, and I don’t want to hear it.”

“But I—”

“Zip it,” he said, the way only a dad could. “I’m a girl dad. This has me absolutely furious. This is not something you sweep under the rug, and it is not something you should handle on your own. Understood?”

You blinked, taken aback but a little grateful for his stubbornness. “…Understood.”

“Good,” Zak continued. “In the meantime, McLaren is assigning a dedicated staff member for security—specifically for you and the other WAGs—anytime you’re outside hospitality. You’ll get a proper introduction so you don’t have a stranger lurking in your peripheral vision. That way you can enjoy being here without looking over your shoulder.”

You let out a shaky sigh, leaning into Lando. “Thank you, Zak. Really. I appreciate it.”

“You’ve got nothing to thank me for. I just want you to feel safe,” Zak said firmly. “Now, you go get some rest, and we’ll make sure you’ve got the right support in place before the next race.”

When the call ended, you exhaled and sank further against Lando, wrapping your arms around him. “I’m sorry for being a problem.”

His arms tightened instantly around you. “You’re not a problem. Don’t ever say that again.”

You hesitated. “…I think I might go back to my doctor. See if I can get an anxiety med that actually works for me. At least for now.”

His hand smoothed over your hair. “If that’s what helps, then do it. I only want what’s best for you. I want you to want to be in the paddock with me—not spend the whole time bracing for something bad to happen.”

You let his words settle, letting the steady beat of his heart under your ear anchor you.

“Okay,” you murmured, finally letting yourself believe that maybe things could be fun again.

⸻

You adjusted the strap of your McLaren lanyard as you stepped through the paddock gates, the familiar hum of engines in the background. This time, though, you weren’t alone for long.

A tall man in a McLaren polo stepped forward with an easy grin. “Y/N, right? I’m Callum. Officially, I’m your security liaison. Unofficially…” he tilted his head with a smirk, “…I’m your shadow for the weekend.”

You blinked. “Shadow?”

“Yep. Always somewhere in the background, occasionally in the foreground, making sure you don’t get lost, stolen, or fed terrible coffee,” he said, falling into step beside you. “The last one’s my personal mission.”

You laughed despite yourself. “That sounds way less intense than it probably is.”

Callum just shrugged. “Well, it’s my job to make sure you don’t notice me doing my job. And, you know, if you get bored while Lando’s in the car, I’m not bad at small talk.”

It turned out he wasn’t kidding. By the time you reached hospitality, you’d already been roped into a passionate debate about the best street food in every race city, and Callum had offered a dramatic retelling of the time he’d been soaked head-to-toe in a rain delay.

When Lando spotted you from across the lounge, his brow lifted briefly—like he wasn’t expecting you to already be mid-laugh with someone else—but his expression softened into a smile as he walked over.

“You’ve met Callum then,” Lando said, slipping his hand to the small of your back.

“Yeah,” you said, still smiling. “Apparently he’s my shadow now.”

Lando’s lips twitched. “Good. I can actually get some laps in without worrying.”

Callum saluted lazily. “Don’t worry, boss. She’s in good hands.”

You rolled your eyes playfully. “Alright, Shadow, first mission—coffee.”

“On it,” Callum said, leading the way like it was the most important task in the paddock.

And for the first time in weeks, you realized you weren’t scanning the crowd over your shoulder.

⸻

You’d found a quiet stretch of pit wall just outside hospitality where the view of the track was perfect. Callum leaned beside you, one elbow propped up casually, McLaren cap pulled low against the sun.

“So,” he said, nodding toward the first corner, “this track’s claim to fame is the chaos right there. First lap, someone’s almost always in the runoff.”

You grinned. “And I’m guessing you have a list of the most dramatic crashes committed to memory?”

“Obviously,” he said without missing a beat. “Also a ranking system based on driver theatrics when they get out of the car. Top score’s for dramatic arm waving. Zero points for just trudging away.”

You laughed, clutching your coffee. “You’re ridiculous.”

While you were mid-laugh, Callum’s eyes flicked briefly to the left—subtle, scanning a pair of fans edging a little too close to the restricted zone. Without missing a beat in the conversation, he shifted slightly so he was between you and them, his body language easy and relaxed.

You didn’t notice a thing. “So who’s number one on your drama scale?”

“Oh, can’t tell you,” he said, lips twitching. “Confidential shadow business.”

From across the garage, Lando had just finished a run on mediums and was stripping off his gloves when he spotted you. You were leaning against the wall, laughing again, hair catching the light, completely at ease with Callum beside you.

His chest loosened. For the first time since that night in Monaco, he didn’t feel that tight, gnawing edge of worry. Callum caught his eye over your head, gave a tiny nod, and Lando returned it before glancing back to the monitors.

Every so often, he’d steal another glance out toward you—smiling faintly when you’d gesture wildly mid-story, or throw your head back laughing at something Callum said.

"Coffee's fresh if you want some," he offered, because he couldn't help himself. Lando Norris, eternally friendly, pathologically optimistic, even at 6am on a Tuesday when any reasonable person would have the decency to be as miserable as she was.

"I'll make my own, thanks."

"It's literally the same coffee maker—"

"I don't want your coffee, Norris."

From the doorway, she heard her brother's footsteps pause. Listening. Always listening to their daily Cold War, like it was entertainment instead of exhausting.

Lando was quiet for a moment, and she could feel him looking at her. She knew that look, confused, a little hurt, mostly annoyed. Good. He should be annoyed. She'd been annoyed for two years.

"You know what," he said finally, his voice losing that friendly edge, "I genuinely don't understand what I did to you."

"You exist. In my space. Loudly."

"Our space. I pay rent."

"Of course you do." She couldn't help the bite in her voice. "Spending daddy’s money is so easy, isn't it?"

The kitchen went cold. She'd crossed a line, she knew it immediately, but she wouldn't take it back. Wouldn't look up. Wouldn't acknowledge the way the air had changed.

"Right," Lando said quietly. His chair scraped back. "Fuck this, actually."

He left his coffee on the table, grabbed his bag, and walked out. The front door closed with a controlled softness that was somehow worse than a slam.

Oscar appeared in the doorway, hockey hoodie and disappointment. "Really?"

"Don't start."

"He's up at 5am every day studying because law school is kicking his ass even with the accommodations, and you just—"

"I have a midterm—"

"You always have a midterm. And he always makes coffee. And you're always mean about it." Her brother grabbed an apple from the counter. "Logan and Franco are betting on you two, you know. I told them they're idiots."

"They are idiots."

"Yeah, but I'm starting to think they see something I don't want to see." He paused at the doorway. "Or maybe something you don't want to admit."

She finally looked up. "What's that supposed to mean?"

But he was already gone, and she was alone with Lando's abandoned coffee and the creeping feeling that she was the asshole here.

She hated that feeling almost as much as she hated him.

She could hear them downstairs. The particular chaos of four hockey players trying to figure out the TV, Logan’s laugh that carried through walls, the smell of whatever overly ambitious pasta dish her brother was attempting.

She stayed in her room.

Her linear algebra textbook was open on her lap, but she'd read the same problem three times without absorbing a single word. The coffee comment kept replaying in her head. Spending daddy’s money is so easy, isn't it?

She wasn't wrong, but—

A knock on her door.

"Go away."

"It's Love Island night!" Franco’s voice, way too cheerful. "You can't miss Love Island night!"

"I have an exam."

"You always have an exam," Logan chimed in from the hallway. She could picture them both out there, probably grinning like idiots. "Come on, we got the good snacks. The ones you like."

"Those spicy chips—" Logan started.

"I'm studying."

A pause. Then Franco, quieter: "Is this about this morning?"

Yes. No. She didn't know.

"I'm fine. Just—tell them I'm studying."

"Lando's not even down here," Logan said, and she could hear the careful way he said it. Like they'd discussed this. Like they knew. "He went to the library after practice."

Of course he did. Because Lando Norris was at Harvard Law, studying his ass off despite his dyslexia, probably on track for some ridiculous honour she'd never admit impressed her, and she'd thrown his family's money in his face like it negated all of that.

"Have fun," she managed. "I'll be down later."

She wouldn't be down later.

Downstairs, Logan dropped onto the couch next to Oscar with a heavy sigh.

"She's really staying up there?"

"Yep." Oscar didn't look away from his phone.

"Dude, aren't you gonna—"

"Nope."

"But they're both miserable—"

"Not my circus." He finally looked up. "You two made your bets. You deal with it."

Franco came back from the kitchen with loaded nachos. "Lando texted. He's staying at the library until close."

"So we have both of them sulking in separate locations," Logan said. "Great. This is great."

"This is what happens," Oscar said, grabbing the remote, "when two stubborn people who are clearly into each other decide to die on hills nobody asked them to die on."

"You think she's into him?" Logan asked.

Oscar just looked at him.

"Okay, yeah, stupid question," Logan admitted. "The real question is when one of them is gonna crack."

"My money's on him," Franco said. "He's got that golden retriever thing. He'll apologise first."

"Nah, she will. She knows she went too far this morning." Logan crunched a chip thoughtfully. "Give it two days."

Oscar finally smiled, just a little. "You're both wrong."

"Oh yeah?"

"Yeah. They're both too stubborn to apologise. Something's gonna have to force it." He unmuted the TV as the Love Island theme started. "And honestly? I'm gonna enjoy watching it happen."

She gave up on studying around 9pm.

Her brain wouldn't cooperate, and she'd just been staring at the same equation, thinking about Lando at the library, alone, probably exhausted, definitely still pissed at her.

Good. He should be pissed. She was pissed.

Except she was also hungry, and the house was quiet now, everyone probably in their rooms or out. Safe.

She crept downstairs in her Harvard CS hoodie and sleep shorts, heading for the kitchen. The light over the stove was on, casting everything in soft yellow.

And Lando was at the table.

Of course he was.

His laptop was open, about fifteen color-coded tabs spread across the screen, and he had that particular exhausted focus that meant he'd been working for hours. His hair was a mess, like he'd been running his hands through it. There was a cold cup of coffee at his elbow and highlighters everywhere.

He looked up when she stopped in the doorway.

For a second, neither of them said anything.

"Thought you were at the library," she said finally.

"Came back an hour ago." His voice was flat. Tired. "Thought you were studying."

"I was."

"Cool."

He looked back at his laptop. Dismissal.

She should go back upstairs. She should definitely go back upstairs.

Instead, she walked to the fridge.

The silence was oppressive as she grabbed the orange juice, poured a glass. She could feel him not looking at her. Could feel the weight of this morning sitting between them like a third person.

"I'm—" she started.

"Don't." He still wasn't looking at her. "If you're about to apologise because you feel bad, don't. We both know you meant it."

Her hand tightened on the glass. "You don't know what I meant."

"Spending daddy's money is so easy?'" Now he did look at her, and his eyes were harder than she'd ever seen them. "Yeah, I think I got the message pretty clear."

"You don't—you don't know anything about me. About why—"

"Because you won't tell me!" His voice rose, just a little, and she saw him force it back down. Saw him choose control. "You've hated me since the day I moved in, and I have never understood why. I've tried to be nice. I've tried to give you space. I've tried to figure out what I did, and you just—" He laughed, sharp and humorless. "You know what, forget it. Study your linear algebra. I've got Con Law."

He turned back to his laptop, and she stood there with her orange juice, feeling like she was losing something she'd never had in the first place.

"For what it's worth," she said quietly, "I am sorry. About the money thing."

He didn't respond.

She went back upstairs, and she didn't sleep at all.

Thursday evening she came home from her algorithms study group to find a stranger in their living room.

Not a stranger, one of those girls. The type who wore Alo like a uniform and had that effortless Harvard glow that came from never having worked a service job in their life. She was perched on the arm of the couch, leaning toward where Lando sat with his Contracts textbook, her hand on his shoulder.

"Oh my god, you're so funny," the girl was saying, her laugh like wind chimes. Delicate. Practised.

Lando looked up as she walked in, and something flickered across his face. Something she couldn't read.

"Hey," he said.

She didn't respond. Just headed for the kitchen, but she could still hear them.

"Is that your roommate?" Wind Chime Girl asked, not quite quiet enough.

"Yeah. Oscar’s sister."

"Oh, she seems... intense."

She gripped the refrigerator door handle hard enough to hurt.

"She's fine," Lando said, and she hated how diplomatic he sounded. How careful. "We're just—it's complicated."

"I bet," Wind Chime Girl purred, and oh, she was definitely touching him again. "You're so patient. I could never live with someone that negative."

She slammed the fridge shut.

Walked back through the living room without looking at either of them, heard Wind Chime Girl's intake of breath like she'd committed some crime by existing in her own house.

"Sorry about her," Lando said quietly.

Sorry about her.

She took the stairs two at a time.

An hour later Logan found her rage-studying at her desk, Spotify blasting through her headphones.

He knocked on her doorframe until she looked up.

"You good?"

"Why wouldn't I be good?"

"Because Lando's study buddy just left and you looked like you wanted to commit murder when you walked through earlier."

"I don't care who Lando studies with."

"Uh huh." Logan leaned against the doorframe, entirely too knowing. "For the record, he wasn't into her."

"I literally don't care."

"She was definitely into him though. Very into him. Very—"

"Loga—"

"Touching his arm, playing with her hair, the whole thing." He was grinning now. "And he kept glancing at the stairs like he was waiting for something."

"Get out of my room."

"Just saying. Boy's got options. Smart, pretty law student who thinks he's funny? That's like, a catch."

She threw a pen at him. He dodged, laughing.

"You're the worst."

"And you're jealous."

"I'm not—I don't—" She couldn't even finish the sentence. "He can date whoever he wants."

"So can you."

"I'm not interested in dating."

"Didn't say date," Logan said, eyebrows raised. "But hey, keep telling yourself whatever you need to."

He left before she could throw something heavier.

She wasn't eavesdropping.

She'd come downstairs for her laptop charger, left it in the living room last night like an idiot, and the guys were in the kitchen. She heard Lando's voice and stopped.

Not eavesdropping. Just... pausing.

"I don't know what else to do, man." Lando sounded exhausted. Frustrated. "I've tried being nice. I've tried giving her space. I've tried ignoring it. Nothing works."

"She's just protective of her space," Oscar said. Diplomatic as always.

"It's been two years." Franco’s voice. "At some point it stops being about space and starts being about something else."

"Yeah, well, whatever it is, I'm done trying to figure it out." Lando again. "I'm tired of walking on eggshells in my own house. I pay rent. I do my share. I'm not the asshole here."

Silence. Then Logan: "You think she's the asshole?"

"I think—" Lando paused. She could picture him running his hand through his hair, that thing he did when he was thinking. "I think she decided who I was the day I moved in, and nothing I do is ever gonna change her mind. So yeah. Maybe I'm done caring."

"Bro, you so clearly still care—" Franco started.

"I don't." Sharp. Final. "Isla asked me out yesterday. From my Contracts class. I'm thinking about saying yes."

Isla. Wind Chime Girl.

"Oh, you're doing the rebound thing," Franco said. "Classic."

"It's not a rebound if there was never anything to bounce from," Lando shot back. "She hates me. Fine. I'll stay out of her way, she can stay out of mine, and maybe I'll actually have a normal senior year."

"Good luck with that," Oscar muttered.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Means you're both idiots, but sure. Date Isla. See how that goes."

She didn't wait to hear more. Grabbed her charger from behind the couch cushion as quietly as possible and went back upstairs.

I'm done caring.

Good. She was done too.

She wasn't done. She was the opposite of done, and that made her even angrier.

That night the group chat was blowing up.

Logan: party at theta tonight. everyones going. NO EXCUSES.

Franco: especially you, Oscar 👀

Oscar: i'll be there

Logan: bringing the whole house??

Oscar: lando's bringing isla 

Franco: OH SHIT

Logan: lol

Franco: im gonna win this bet aren't i

Logan: absolutely not. my money's still on them hooking up by thanksgiving

Oscar: you're both delusional

She stared at her phone.

Lando was bringing Isla. Of course he was. Because he was "done caring" and she was just his teammates’ annoying sister and nothing about this should bother her.

It bothered her.

She opened her closet.

If Lando Norris wanted to move on, then fine. She could move on too. She could go to this party, look hot, ignore him completely, and prove that she didn't care either.

She cared. God, she cared so much it was making her insane.

The party was already packed when they arrived and it was only 11pm.

She'd worn the black dress, the one that her friend from freshman year had called "devastating", and fought her hair into submission. Franco had wolf-whistled when she came downstairs. Logan had immediately started taking bets on how long before "something happened."

Oscar had just looked tired.

Lando had already arrived with Isla an hour earlier.

The house smelled like cheap beer and expensive cologne. Bass rattled the windows. She accepted a drink from someone she half-recognised from her Data Structures class and tried to look like she was having fun.

Then she saw them.

Lando and Isla, near the makeshift bar in the kitchen. Isla was laughing again, that wind chime laugh, her hand on his chest. He was smiling, not the bright, genuine smile she'd seen him give her brother or the guys, but a polite one. A going-through-the-motions one.

Their eyes met across the room.

His smile faltered.

Isla said something and he looked back at her, nodded, but his jaw was tight.

"You gonna stare at him all night or actually enjoy yourself?" Logan appeared at her elbow with two shots.

"I'm not staring."

"You're literally staring."

"He brought a date."

"You noticed."

"I don't care."

"Sure." Logan handed her a shot. "To not caring."

She took it. Then another.

She'd lost count of drinks around midnight.

The party had gotten louder, hotter, more chaotic. She'd danced with some guy from her linear algebra class, nice, boring, kept trying to talk about derivatives. She'd taken more shots with Franco and Logan. She'd successfully avoided Lando for over an hour.

Until she couldn't anymore.

She was coming out of the bathroom when she saw them on the stairs. Isla pressed against the wall, Lando's hand beside her head, leaning in close. They weren't kissing, not yet, but it was clearly heading there.

Something in her chest cracked.

She walked past them, deliberately bumping Lando's shoulder.

"Excuse you," Isla said, all fake-sweet venom.

She stopped. Turned.

"Oh, I'm sorry. Am I in your way? In this hallway? In this house that neither of you live in?"

"What's your problem?" Isla’s eyes narrowed.

"I don't have a problem." She looked at Lando. "Must be nice."

"Must be nice what?" His voice was low. Dangerous.

"Having girls throw themselves at you. Having everything be so easy. Law school, hockey, random hookups at parties—"

"Are you serious right now?" He stepped away from Isla, toward her. "You're seriously doing this here?"

"Doing what? Observing reality?"

"You're drunk."

"I'm fine."

"You're not—" He reached for her arm and she jerked back.

"Don't touch me."

"Lando, what's going on?" Isla’s voice, uncertain now.

"Give us a minute," Lando said, not looking away.

"Are you kidding—"

"Isla. Please."

The girl huffed, pushed past both of them down the stairs.

They were alone in the hallway, music pounding below them, and everything was too hot, too loud, too much.

"What is your deal?" Lando's voice was rough. "You've been avoiding me all week, you look at me like I killed your dog, and now you're—what, jealous?"

"I'm not jealous."

"Then what is this?"

"This is me pointing out that some of us have to actually work for things!" The words exploded out of her. "Some of us don't have trust funds and connections and girls lining up to—"

"Oh, here we go again—"

"You don't get it! You've never had to get it! Everything is just handed to you, like you, like Oscar, and you act like—"

"Like what?" He stepped closer. "Like I don't spend every night until 2am studying because my dyslexia means I have to read everything three times? Like I didn't have to fight for my spot on this team? Like my parents didn't make it very clear that if I don't graduate summa cum laude, I'm a disappointment?"

She faltered. "I didn't—"

"You don't know anything about me. You decided who I was two years ago and you've never bothered to question it."

"That's not—"

"My friends hate you." His voice was quiet now. Lethal. "The guys are tired of this. Your brother's tired of this. And yeah, I'm tired of this too. You want to make everything a competition but nobody's playing your game."

"Fuck you—"

"You don't actually hate me." He was so close now she could smell his cologne, see the gold flecks in his eyes. "You just like having someone to be angry at. It's easier than dealing with whatever's actually going on with you."

"You don't know what you're talking about."

"Don't I?"

The air between them was electric. Charged. His eyes dropped to her mouth and her breath caught and for one impossible second she thought he might—

"This is–," she whispered.

"Yeah," he breathed, not letting her finish. "It is."

They were inches apart. The music faded to background noise. She could feel the heat coming off him, could see his chest rising and falling, could feel her own heart hammering—

His phone buzzed.

They both jumped back like they'd been burned.

He pulled it out, glanced at the screen. Isla’s name. She saw it.

Everything came crashing back.

"You know what," she said, her voice shaking. "Just fuck off."

She pushed past him, down the stairs, through the crowd, out into the cold November air.

Behind her, she heard him say her name, but she didn't stop.

She didn't stop until she was three blocks away, and by then she was crying, and she didn't even know why. Why did she fuck things up. Why was she like this.

It took Oscar three days to realise the house was suspiciously quiet.

Not the normal quiet, the kind punctuated by his sister's music bleeding through her door or Lando's late-night stress-pacing. This was a different quiet. A strategic quiet.

The kind of quiet that came from two people actively avoiding each other.

She'd started leaving for class twenty minutes earlier than necessary. Came home after dinner. Studied at the library until close. When she was home, she stayed in her room with her headphones in.

Lando had switched his entire routine. Suddenly he was a morning gym person instead of an evening one. Ate breakfast on campus. Studied in the law library. When he was home, he wore his headphones like armour and never looked up from his laptop.

They moved through the house like ghosts who'd signed a non-haunting agreement.

Oscar watched them not-watch each other over his cereal on Monday morning. His sister came down, saw Lando at the table, turned around and went back upstairs. Five minutes later, Lando left without finishing his coffee.

"Okay," Oscar said to the empty kitchen. "This is getting ridiculous."

That evening, Oscar had an announced an "Emergency house meeting," blocking the doorway to the living room where Logan and Franco were playing FIFA.

"Can't, I'm winning," Franco said, not looking away from the screen.

"Now."

Something in his voice made them both pause the game.

"What happened?" Logan asked.

"What happened is that our two favorite idiots had some kind of nuclear meltdown at Theta on Friday and now they're doing this—" he gestured vaguely, "—avoidance Olympics thing, and I need intel."

"Oh." Logan and Franco exchanged looks. "Yeah, we noticed."

"Care to elaborate?"

"They had a fight," Franco said. "Big one. Hallway outside the bathroom."

"Isla left crying," Logan added. "Well, annoyed-crying. That angry-girl cry."

"And Lando?"

"Came back downstairs looking like someone had just told him hockey was cancelled forever," Franco said. "Took three shots in a row and didn't talk to anyone the rest of the night."

"And my sister?"

"Left. Just walked out." Franco finally looked away from the TV. "Logan tried to follow her but she texted that she was fine and going home."

Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose. "What did they fight about?"

"No idea. But it was intense." Franco leaned forward. "Like, we-almost-kissed-but-then-didn't intense."

"How do you know they almost—"

"Dude, everyone saw it. They were like, magnetically pulled together and then she just... ran."

Oscar was quiet for a moment. Then: "I'm going to kill them both."

"Or," Logan said slowly, "we could help."

"Help how?"

"Force proximity," Franco said, grinning. "They can't avoid each other if they're stuck in the same place."

"That seems like a terrible idea."

"All of our ideas are terrible ideas," Logan pointed out. "That's what makes them fun."

Oscar looked between them. "What did you have in mind?"

She was in the kitchen making tea, strategic timing, Lando should've been asleep by now, when she heard his door open upstairs.

Shit.

She moved faster, grabbing her mug, but he was already on the stairs. They stopped at the same moment, locked eyes, and the air went sharp.

"I'm just—" she started.

"Yeah," he said. "Me too."

They moved around each other with the precision of people who'd studied each other's patterns. She went left, he went right. She reached for the honey at the exact moment he turned for the fridge. Their hands didn't touch.

The kettle whistled.

She poured water over her tea bag, hyper-aware of him behind her, the sound of him getting water, the careful way he was also not-looking at her.

"How's Isla?" The words came out before she could stop them.

She felt him go still.

"Don't."

"Don't what?"

"Don't do this. Don't—" He set his water glass down hard enough that it clicked against the counter. "We're not doing this."

"Doing what?"

"This. Whatever this is." He finally looked at her, and his eyes were tired. So tired. "I'm done. You wanted me to fuck off? Congrats. I've fucked off."

"Lando—"

"No." He grabbed his water. "You don't get to, we're not friends. We're roommates. That's it. I'll stay out of your way, you stay out of mine."

He left.

She stood there with her tea, watching the steam rise, and felt something crack wider in her chest.

On Wednesday Oscar found Lando in the garage at 1 AM, stickhandling in the dark.

"You're gonna wake the neighbors."

"Can't sleep." Lando didn't stop moving. The puck clicked rhythmically against his stick.

"Want to talk about it?"

"Nope."

"Want to talk about the fact that you and my sister are doing this weird cold war thing that's making everyone uncomfortable?"

"Also nope."

Oscar leaned against the doorframe, watching. Lando's form was perfect, it always was, but there was an aggression to it tonight. Like he was trying to outskate something.

"Isla texted me," Oscar said finally.

That made Lando stop.

"Why would Isla text you?"

"Wanted to know if you were okay. Said you've been weird since the party."

"I'm fine."

"You're practicing in the dark at 1 AM."

"I'm fine."

"You're also lying." Oscar crossed his arms. "Look, I stay out of this. You know I stay out of this. But you're my teammate, she's my sister, and whatever happened on Friday is clearly eating both of you alive."

Lando was quiet for a long moment. Then: "She hates me."

"She doesn't—"

"She does." He turned, and in the dim light from the street, Oscar could see how exhausted he looked. "And I'm tired of trying to figure out why. I'm tired of walking on eggshells. I'm tired of—" He stopped. "I'm just tired."

"Did something happen? At the party?"

"We fought. Like always." Lando's jaw tightened. "And then we almost—and then she told me to fuck off. So I am. Fucking off."

"Lando—"

"I'm gonna finish up here. See you at practice."

Dismissal. Oscar recognised it.

He went back inside, climbed the stairs, and stopped outside his sister's door. Light was still on underneath.

He knocked softly.

"Go away, Oscar."

"Can I come in?"

Silence. Then: "Fine."

She was at her desk, laptop open, but he could tell she wasn't actually working. Her eyes were red.

"You've been crying."

"I have allergies."

"It's November."

"Indoor allergies."

Oscar sat on her bed. "What happened with Lando?"

Her hands stilled on her keyboard. "Nothing."

"That's not what Logan and Franco said."

"Franco and Logan should mind their business."

"They said you two almost kissed."

She spun around in her chair. "We didn't, it wasn't, there was no almost anything."

"But there could have been."

"Oscar—"

"I'm not stupid," he said quietly. "I've watched you two dance around each other for two years. And yeah, most of that time you've been at each other's throats, but Friday something changed."

"Nothing changed."

"Then why are you crying over a guy you supposedly hate?"

She opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again.

"I don't know," she whispered finally. "I don't know and that's the problem."

Oscar stood up, walked over, hugged her even though she tried to wave him off.

"You're allowed to like him, you know," he said into her hair. "I won't be weird about it."

"There's nothing to be weird about."

"Okay." He didn't believe her. "But if there was... he's a good guy. Even if he drives you crazy."

She didn't respond.

He left her there, went back to his room, and texted a new group chat:

Oscar: operation force proximity is a go. but we're doing this MY way.

Logan: FINALLY

Franco: what's the plan boss

Oscar: thanksgiving break. logan’s cabin. all of us. they can't avoid each other if they're trapped in the woods.

Franco: GENIUS

Logan: your sister's gonna kill you

Oscar: probably. but at this point i'll risk it.

The cabin was absurdly nice, because of course it was. Three floors of wood and windows overlooking the lake, a hot tub on the back deck, a dock stretching into water so clear you could see the rocks below.

"Your 'cabin' has a wine fridge," she said flatly, dragging her bag through the door.

"And a sauna," Logan said proudly. "And the hot tub fits eight."

"Of course it does."

Oscar appeared behind her with his duffel. "Okay, so. Rooms. There's four bedrooms upstairs—"

"I call the one with the balcony!" Franco yelled from somewhere above them.

"Already claimed it, asshole!" Logan yelled back.

"—so we'll figure it out," Oscar finished. "Lando's not here yet. He's driving up with the beer run."

Her stomach dropped. "Lando's coming?"

"Did I not mention that?" Oscar's face was too innocent. "Weird. Must've slipped my mind. I’m sure I told you.”

"Oscar—"

"It's Thanksgiving weekend! The whole house goes on Thanksgiving weekend. That's the tradition."

"We’ve never done that. You're doing this on purpose."

"Doing what?" He smiled. "Come on, I'll show you your room. It's got a great view of the lake."

She was unpacking when she heard the car pull up. Heard Logan and Franco greeting Lando downstairs. Heard his laugh, the real one, not the polite one he'd been using lately, and something in her chest twisted.

She looked at herself in the mirror. Oversized hoodie, leggings, no makeup. Safe. Invisible. Out of his path hopefully.

Her suitcase sat open on the bed. On top: the red bikini her friend had convinced her to pack. "You're going to a lake house," she'd said. "Live a little."

She shoved it under her other clothes.

Dinner was a chaotic affair, Logan grilling steaks, Franco on music duty, Oscar making his famous garlic bread. She'd volunteered for salad prep, which kept her in the kitchen and away from the deck where Lando was helping with the grill.

Except then Logan needed more beer from inside.

And Oscar needed to check on the bread.

And suddenly she was alone on the deck with Lando and two steaks.

"They're not subtle," Lando said without looking at her.

"Not even a little bit."

Silence. The sun was setting over the lake, painting everything gold and pink. It was objectively beautiful. It was also objectively awkward.

"How's Isla?" she asked, because apparently she was a masochist.

"We're not—that's not happening."

"Oh."

"Didn't feel right." He flipped a steak. "How's... anyone you're seeing?"

"I'm not seeing anyone."

"Oh."

More silence. A bird called across the water.

"Look," Lando started, then stopped. "This weekend. We don't have to be weird. We can just... coexist. Like adults."

"We are adults."

"You know what I mean."

She did. She hated that she did.

"Okay," she said. "Coexist. Sure."

He finally looked at her, and she made herself hold his gaze even though it hurt.

"Truce?" he offered.

"Truce."

He held out his hand. She stared at it for a moment too long, then shook it. His hand was warm, calloused from hockey sticks and law textbooks, and she pulled away as soon as she could.

"Steaks are done! Lando move them!” Logan called from inside, timing impeccable as always.

They carried the food in together, and she tried not to notice how careful they were not to touch.

Later that night, she couldn't sleep.

The cabin was too quiet, her thoughts too loud. She kept replaying the handshake. The way he'd looked at her on the deck. Didn't feel right.

What did that mean?

She gave up around 11, pulled on her swimsuit, the black one-piece, not the red bikini, and a cover-up, and snuck downstairs.

The hot tub was on the back deck, steam rising into the cold November air. She'd have it to herself, could clear her head, maybe actually relax for once—

"Can't sleep either?"

She nearly jumped out of her skin.

Lando was already in the hot tub, arms spread along the edge, head tilted back. The underwater lights cast shadows across his face, his bare chest, his chain. She very deliberately did not look at his chest.

"I can go—"

"Don't." He opened his eyes. "Truce, remember? There's room."

There was room. There was a lot of room. The hot tub was huge and he was on one side and she could easily stay on the other side and this was fine. This was totally fine.

She dropped her cover-up and climbed in.

The water was perfect, hot enough to sting, cold air on her face. She sank in up to her shoulders and tried to pretend this was normal. Just two people who lived together, in a hot tub, at night, alone.

Completely normal.

"Stars are insane out here," Lando said, still looking up.

She followed his gaze. He wasn't wrong. The sky was dense with them, no light pollution for miles.

"Yeah," she managed.

"I forgot how quiet it gets. Away from the city."

"Mmm."

Another silence, but this one felt different. Softer. The water bubbled between them.

"Can I ask you something?" Lando's voice was careful.

"Okay."

"Why do you hate me?"

Her breath caught. "Lando—"

"I'm not—I'm not trying to start a fight. I genuinely want to know." He looked at her now, and in the low light his eyes were unguarded. Vulnerable. "Because I've spent two years trying to figure it out and I still don't understand."

She could deflect. Make a joke. Get out and go to bed.

Instead, she heard herself say: "I don't hate you."

"Could've fooled me."

"I thought I did. When you first moved in." She stared at the water. "You were just, you were everything I wasn't. Confident and charming and everyone loved you instantly. You made friends in five minutes. You made my brother laugh. You had this easy way about you, like the world was just... welcoming you."

"That's not—"

"And I was jealous." The words tumbled out. "I'd worked so hard to get here. To prove I deserved to be at Harvard. My dad isn’t as cool as Oscar makes him sound, not to me at least. And you just... existed, and it was enough. Or that's what I thought."

Lando was very quiet.

"I know that's not fair," she continued. "I know you work hard. I know about the dyslexia, the pressure from your family, all of it. But by the time I figured that out, we were already..." She gestured helplessly. "This."

"Enemies."

"Yeah."

"Except we're not really enemies."

"No," she whispered. "We're not."

The air between them changed. Charged. She could feel him looking at her, could feel the weight of two years of unspoken things pressing down.

"I never hated you either," Lando said quietly. "I was confused. And frustrated. And yeah, sometimes you made me so angry I couldn't think straight. But I never—" He stopped. "You terrify me, actually."

"What?"

"You're brilliant. And stubborn. And you don't take anyone's shit. You've never once been impressed by me, and I think—" He laughed, short and self-deprecating. "I think that's why I couldn't stop thinking about you."

Her heart was hammering. "Lando—"

"I know. Trust me, I know how fucked up that is. You can't stand me, and I can't stop—" He cut himself off. Ran a wet hand through his hair. "Forget it. Forget I said anything."

"I don't—" She had to force the words out. "I don't want to forget it."

He looked at her. Really looked at her.

And then he was moving through the water.

And then he was right there.

And then his hand was on her jaw and—

"We shouldn't," she breathed, even as she leaned into his touch.

"Probably not."

"This is a terrible idea."

"Definitely."

But neither of them moved away.

His thumb brushed her cheekbone. Her hand found his chest, she was touching his chest, she was touching him, and she could feel his heartbeat, fast and hard.

"If we do this—" Lando started.

"I know."

"It changes everything."

"I know."

His forehead touched hers. The world narrowed to just this: his breath on her lips, his hand in her hair, the heat of him that had nothing to do with the hot tub.

"Tell me to stop," he whispered.

She kissed him instead.

It was, god, it was everything and too much and not enough. He made a sound low in his throat and pulled her closer, her legs wrapping around him without thinking. His other hand found her waist, her back, her hair, like he couldn't choose where to touch her, like he wanted to touch all of her at once.

She'd thought about this. Late at night when she hated herself for it, she'd wondered what kissing Lando Norris would be like.

It was better. It was so much better.

"We should—" she gasped when they broke apart. "We should stop."

"Okay." He kissed her again, deep and slow.

"Lando—"

"I'm stopping." He kissed down her jaw, her neck. "I'm definitely stopping."

She laughed, breathless, and tugged his hair to make him look at her.

"Inside. Now."

His eyes went dark. "Yeah?"

"Yeah."

They barely remembered to grab their towels.

They were halfway up the stairs to the main floor, his hand in hers, when they heard it.

The kitchen light flicked on.

They froze.

"Shit," Lando breathed.

"Back door?" she whispered.

"Too late."

They could hear footsteps. The fridge opening. They were still dripping wet, clearly just came from the hot tub, her lips were swollen and his hair was a mess from her hands and—

"Oh hey," Franco said, appearing at the bottom of the stairs with a water bottle. "You guys were in the hot tub?"

"Couldn't sleep," Lando said, too quickly.

"Yeah, me neither." Franco looked between them, taking in their wet hair, the towels, the way they were standing just slightly too close. "Weird that you were both out there."

"Not that weird," she said. "It's a big hot tub."

"Right. Yeah." Franco grinned. "Did you guys, like... talk? Work stuff out?"

"Something like that," Lando muttered.

"Cool. That's cool." Franco was still grinning. "I'm gonna, yeah, I'm gonna go back to bed. You guys have a good night. Or morning. Whatever."

He left, but the damage was done.

She could feel the moment slipping away. The heat replaced by awkwardness, by the reality of what they'd almost done.

"I should—" she started.

"Yeah." Lando's voice was rough. "Me too."

They stood there for another second, not touching, not looking at each other.

"Goodnight," she finally said.

"Goodnight."

She went to her room. Closed the door. Pressed her back against it and tried to calm her racing heart.

In the hallway, Lando did the same thing.

part two

“Oh my God. Ohmygodohmygod.” Lando’s already halfway off the scooter, scrambling to his feet with hands out like he can rewind time by sheer panic. “Are you — are you okay? I didn’t — I mean, it’s not like, that fast, right? It’s — okay, yeah, no, you’re very much on the ground, cool cool cool-”

You’re lying there, halfway on your side, propped up by one elbow, blinking. Your oversized sunglasses are askew. One of your heels has flown halfway under a stack of Pirellis.

And the guy looming above you is grinning like he’s not sure if he should laugh or throw himself into the Mediterranean out of shame.

"Hi," he says. "Sorry for, uh. Running you over."

You tilt your head, still stunned. “Are you seriously racing a scooter through the paddock?”

“It’s not racing if no one’s timing it,” Lando says brightly, offering you a hand. “… But yes. And that was reckless. And stupid. And really fun. But mostly stupid.”

You stare at his hand. His cap’s pushed up on his head, curly hair spilling out in sweaty tangles. His eyes are impossibly bright. He looks like he just crash-landed from a cartoon.

You take his hand.

He pulls you up with an exaggerated grunt. “Wow. Okay. You’re stronger than you look.”

“You’re more of a menace than you look.”

He grins. "Thank you. Wait, was that a compliment?"

“Not even remotely.”

You dust yourself off, lifting your sunglasses onto your head. Lando watches, then lets out a short laugh.

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“You’re — yeah, wow, okay. You’re very pretty. Like, really pretty. You’re probably important, huh?”

You narrow your eyes.

“Are you asking if I’m important because I’m pretty?”

“No! No no no,” he says, horrified. “God, no. I mean — you look like the kind of person who has a security detail and a Wikipedia page. Which is not the only reason you’re important. It’s just … I feel like I’m gonna get sued.”

You smirk. “You might.”

He’s staring at you like you just told him he ran over Taylor Swift.

“Okay. What’s your name? I’ll write you a very panicked apology letter. Maybe flowers? Wait, do you even like flowers? Maybe chocolate. Wait — nut allergy?”

You blink. “Are you always like this?”

He considers that. “Yeah. But sometimes I tone it down for the elderly or if I’m at a funeral.”

You should be irritated. You’re not. Somehow, all this flailing panic is … disarming. He’s like a golden retriever who just knocked over a vase and is now waiting to see if you’ll still pet him.

“I’m Y/N,” you say finally.

“Y/N,” he repeats. “That’s a lovely name.”

“And you are Lando Norris.”

He pauses. “… So you do know who I am. That feels unfair.”

“You ran me over.”

“Right. Nevermind.”

You retrieve your shoe from under the tires with a little sigh. He watches you with a sort of guilty awe. Like he can’t quite believe he survived the collision.

Then, after a beat, “You here for the race?”

You arch a brow. “What gave it away?”

“Could be the Monaco sun,” he says, walking backward beside you now. “But also the outfit. You look too … elegant to be someone’s PR handler. You’re not a driver’s girlfriend either, or I’d have seen you on Insta by now.”

You snort. “What a deduction.”

“I know, right? Sherlock Norris. So … what do you do?”

You stop walking. He stops too. Tilts his head.

You smile. “I would tell you …”

“Oh, you would?” He says, eyebrows bouncing.

“-but I think I want to see if you can guess my job correctly.”

He grins. “Love a challenge.”

You lean in slightly, like you’re sharing a secret. “You only get one guess.”

“Only one?”

“One.”

“Okay, okay. No pressure.” He pinches the bridge of his nose like it’ll help summon divine clarity. “Let’s see. You’re well-dressed, clearly clever, somehow not screaming at me despite the vehicular assault … so you’re either incredibly powerful or completely unbothered by earthly consequences.”

“Very astute.”

He squints. “You’re … a fashion CEO.”

You blink. “That’s your guess?”

He nods, proud. “Big time. Like, quietly running a billion-euro empire from a Parisian penthouse. You look like you boss people around in three languages.”

You purse your lips. “Close.”

“Seriously?”

“No. Not even remotely.”

He looks personally offended. “Okay, then who are you?”

You just start walking again.

“Oh, come on! That’s mean,” he whines, trailing after you. “I guessed. You said I get to know!”

“No,” you say over your shoulder. “I said I want to hear if you can guess it. You didn’t.”

“Unbelievable,” he mutters. “Is this what heartbreak feels like? Are you — are you a spy? A secret agent? Do you know Daniel Craig? Please tell me you’re MI6.”

You’re laughing now, which only makes him more dramatic.

“Oh, you’re loving this,” he accuses. “You’re totally enjoying watching me flail.”

“You flail very naturally.”

“Thank you — wait, no. That’s not a compliment.”

“Isn’t it?”

He squints suspiciously. “You’ve got the same energy as my trainer when he says I’m doing a good job but makes the workouts harder.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Okay, mysterious beautiful stranger who may or may not be royalty-”

You freeze for a split second.

He catches it.

“Oh my God,” he says slowly. “Wait. Wait. Are you actually — wait. Like, real royalty? Is that — no. That’s not a thing. That’s a thing in Netflix movies.”

You raise a brow.

“Oh shit,” he whispers.

You don’t confirm. Don’t deny.

He stares at you like you just turned into a unicorn. “I ran over a princess.”

You tilt your head. “Technically, Grand Duchess. Hereditary Grand Duchess, if we’re being precise.”

He’s silent.

For about three whole seconds.

Then, “I’m going to jail.”

You burst out laughing.

“No, seriously,” he says, mouth falling open. “That’s like treason? Assault on a noble? Is that a law? Is there a dungeon? Oh my god-”

You reach for his sleeve, tug it gently. “Relax. You’re not going to prison.”

“But I could be,” he says, stunned. “You’re actual royalty. I think I saw you once, like a year ago! You were on the cover of Vogue or something-”

You glance sideways. “So you have seen me before.”

“I thought you looked familiar! But I just assumed I’d dreamed you.”

You roll your eyes.

He stares at you for another second, then breaks into a wide, sheepish grin. “This is insane.”

“You’re telling me.”

He scratches the back of his neck. “So … you coming to the motorhome, Your Highness?”

You pretend to consider it. “Only if you stop calling me that.”

“Deal,” he says immediately. “But I’m still going to make you guess what my job is, just to even the playing field.”

You glance at his McLaren shirt. “You sell scooters.”

He gasps. “Correct. Wow. Nailed it in one.”

You both laugh.

***

The McLaren motorhome hums with life, all sharp lines and bright orange accents, but it feels like a bubble. A refuge tucked between the chaos of the paddock and the roaring engines beyond. You follow Lando inside, still unsure how you got here — still vaguely amused that he hasn’t stopped talking since the crash.

“You know, I don’t normally just run over people,” he says, leading you past a security guy who gives you both a baffled look. “You’re actually my first. Well. That I know of. I might’ve clipped a Ferrari engineer once, but he was dramatic about it and threw a clipboard.”

You smile, trailing after him. “Is this your version of flirting?”

“Oh no, no, this is panic,” he says quickly. “My flirting is marginally smoother.”

“Marginally.”

“On a good day.”

The motorhome is bustling. Engineers tap away on laptops. There’s a spread of snacks someone’s half-raided. You notice a few people double-taking as they see you walk in, but no one says anything. It’s like they’re used to Lando bringing in strays.

“Do they always stare like that?” You ask under your breath.

He glances around. “What, that? Nah. That’s just them wondering if you’re a Netflix producer, or my cousin, or a very lost model.”

You roll your eyes. “You’re so annoyingly casual about this.”

“It’s my greatest skill,” he says proudly, then spins around suddenly. “Wait … here.”

He pulls off his McLaren cap and steps forward, holding it out to you. “Sun’s brutal today. You’ll need this if you’re hanging out here.”

You blink at the hat in his hand. “You’re giving me your hat?”

“Lending it,” he corrects, but he’s already stepping closer.

And then — without really thinking — he lifts it over your head and places it gently on top of your hair, adjusting it with exaggerated care.

“There,” he says, grinning. “Now you look fast.”

You snort. “That doesn’t even make sense.”

“Doesn’t have to,” he says. “You feel fast.”

You adjust the cap slightly, not thinking much of it. It’s warm from his head. Smells faintly like his shampoo and sun.

And somewhere across the paddock, at least four camera lenses catch it. The exact moment Lando Norris — a nonchalant, grinning mess of curls and chaotic charm — places his own hat gently on your head with all the care of someone proposing a life together.

Of course, neither of you notices.

“You look good in papaya,” he says, stuffing his hands in his pockets.

You raise an eyebrow. “You just like seeing people wear your merch.”

“True,” he admits. “It’s excellent branding.”

There’s a pause, and then you both start laughing at the same time. Loud and open, like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

Somewhere in the background, a McLaren comms staffer walks by, glancing between the two of you and immediately pulling out her phone.

“Right,” Lando says, flopping onto the couch and patting the space next to him. “Come on. Sit. Tell me everything.”

You lower yourself carefully onto the cushion, still unsure how your diplomatic morning turned into … whatever this is. “Everything?”

“Everything. Like what’s your actual day-to-day like? Are you doing royal things all the time? Are there, like, scrolls? Do you own a sceptre?”

“No scrolls,” you say. “And sadly, no sceptre. But I’m working on it.”

He nods solemnly. “You deserve a sceptre.”

“Thank you.”

“But seriously. Do you have meetings with … I don’t know, other royals? Do you sit in a big room and talk about treaties and wear sashes?”

You laugh. “Sometimes. Though most of my meetings are just government-adjacent. I do a lot of international work. Cultural diplomacy. Economic initiatives. Tourism stuff.”

“So … not just tea parties and ribbon cutting?”

“Shockingly, no.”

He whistles. “That actually sounds important.”

“It is.”

“And exhausting.”

You tilt your head. “It can be. There’s pressure. Constantly being watched. Expectations. Every gesture means something.”

He raises a brow. “Even hats?”

You don’t even flinch.

But internally, you do hesitate. The old Luxembourgish tradition flashes through your mind — one your grandmother once explained with a warm smile and a twinkle in her eye.

“If a man offers you something of his, something worn, something marked by him — especially a hat — and places it on your head, it means he offers you protection. Partnership. In the old days, it was a proposal before a proposal.”

You remember laughing at the time. It was quaint. Archaic. Romantic, in a way that felt more myth than law.

You doubt Lando Norris is aware of any of that.

You watch him now — grinning at a text, tossing his phone aside, still slouched like he owns the whole motorhome — and decide not to mention it.

“It’s just a hat,” you say lightly.

He nods. “Right? Totally normal. Generous, even.”

“Deeply generous,” you echo, smiling.

You both fall quiet for a moment. It’s not awkward. It’s … easy.

Then he turns to you again.

“So do you get bored of it?” He asks.

You blink. “Of what?”

“Being important. Being watched. Being … not normal.”

That one hits.

You lean back, letting your gaze drift to the window. “Sometimes. It’s hard to know if people are being real with me. If they want something, or if they’re just pretending they don’t know who I am. Or worse, pretending they do.”

He nods, slower now. “Yeah. I get that. A bit.”

You glance over at him.

“Okay, not the royal part,” he adds. “But … being public. Being expected to be on all the time. It’s weird, right? Like, people think they know you. Like they’ve already decided who you are before you say anything.”

You watch his face as he says it. There’s a moment of real honesty there, flickering between his words.

And you realize he’s not as clueless as he seems.

“I like this,” you say softly.

He looks up. “This?”

“This. Just talking. Not performing.”

He smiles, slower this time. “Me too.”

Someone calls his name from across the motorhome, but he doesn’t look away.

You pick up a packet of cookies from the coffee table, toss it into his lap. “Tell me more about crashing into other people. I want to know how many lawsuits you’re juggling.”

He laughs. “Okay, so once in Silverstone, I clipped George Russell with a golf cart. He insists I did it on purpose, but I maintain it was sabotage from Mercedes.”

You lean in, smiling. “Tell me everything.”

And so he does.

He talks with his hands, dramatic and unfiltered. He tells stories that make you laugh until you’re clutching your stomach. He impersonates Daniel Ricciardo. He makes fun of himself, of the team, of the absurdity of fame. You don’t realize how much time has passed until the room starts to empty.

You glance at the clock and blink. “It’s been two hours.”

“No way.”

You both look around. People are filtering out. The buzz of the paddock is louder now, the day slipping past you like sand through your fingers.

You reach up to adjust the hat again, and Lando watches, biting back a smile.

“You’re really keeping that, huh?”

You shrug. “Finders keepers.”

“I knew it,” he says. “You just came here for the merch.”

“I’m royalty,” you reply. “I came here for the drama and the free stuff.”

He clutches his heart. “A woman after my own heart.”

You hear a few more shutter clicks outside — photographers catching shots through the motorhome windows, lenses like little eyes peering in. Lando doesn’t seem to notice. Or maybe he’s used to it.

You should care more. Maybe you do, somewhere deep down.

But right now? In this moment?

You don’t.

You’re wearing his hat, and he’s laughing like he’s never had more fun in his life. And you’re just … two people on a couch, pretending the world outside doesn’t exist.

Later, you’ll both hear about the photos. About the symbolism. The headlines in Luxembourgish tabloids translating your laughter into lovers’ whispers, the cap into a silent vow.

But for now, you just look at him and smile.

And he smiles back.

***

It starts early.

Too early for a Sunday race day.

Lando is still half-asleep, blinking against the pale Monte Carlo morning light slicing through the curtains, when his phone explodes.

First it’s the buzz. Then the buzzbuzzbuzz. Then the ping, ping, ping of messages stacking up like a digital avalanche.

He groans, rolls over, tries to bury himself under the pillow. No use. Whatever this is, it’s not going away.

And then-

Cabrón. WHAT have you done?

Carlos is the first one in the group chat. With a screenshot.

Lando squints blearily at it. All caps. Tabloid headline.

A blurry photo from yesterday.

It’s you. Wearing his McLaren cap. Laughing. The moment he placed it on your head captured in too-crisp detail.

And the headline-

HEREDITARY GRAND DUCHESS OF LUXEMBOURG ENGAGED TO FORMULA 1 STAR LANDO NORRIS IN SECRET MONACO CEREMONY?

He blinks again.

“…What the fu-”

Another buzz.

ZAK BROWN: Call me. Now.

ANDREA STELLA: This is not funny. We are in Monaco. Please, for once, use your head.

GEORGE: Lando. Mate. Explain the royal engagement.

MUM: We need to talk ❤️

He stares at the screen like it might bite him.

The Grand Duchess part doesn’t even register at first. He scrolls through more links, more headlines, all variations of the same fever dream.

Symbolic proposal shocks royal observers in Monaco GP paddock.

Royal family confirms no comment

McLaren’s Lando Norris in relationship with Luxembourg’s future monarch?

He mutters, “What the — what is happening?”

Carlos sends another message.

CARLOS: This is the best thing that’s ever happened. Can I be your maid of honor?

CARLOS: Wait. Groomsman. Unless you're planning to wear the dress, then honestly I support it.

Lando doesn’t even have the energy to reply.

He swings out of bed, throws on a hoodie, and starts pacing. The cap. The hat. Was it really that big of a deal?

He offered it because she looked a little sun-blind. He thought it’d be cute. A gesture. Flirty. A laugh.

Not an international incident.

There’s a knock on his apartment door.

He opens it.

Zak stands there with the energy of someone who’s been yelling into a phone for two hours straight. Andrea is behind him, looking like he aged ten years overnight.

“You’re trending,” Zak says without preamble. “Not for winning. Not for pole. Not even for crashing. You’re trending because apparently you’re about to marry into a monarchy.”

“I didn’t — what — no,” Lando says, holding his hands up. “I gave her a hat!”

“An engagement hat!” Carlos shouts from inside the apartment, because of course Carlos has let himself in somehow. “The most sacred of all hats!”

Lando glares. “You’re not helping.”

Andrea pinches the bridge of his nose. “Do you understand the implications of this, Lando?”

“No! Because it’s insane!”

Zak exhales. “There are diplomatic rumors flying. Press camped outside the motorhome. Questions coming in from Luxembourg’s government channels.”

Lando looks helpless. “But I didn’t do anything.”

Carlos, now lying fully horizontal on Lando’s bed, grins. “You proposed. With headwear.”

“I hate all of you.”

Carlos lifts a hand. “It’s what we do.”

***

By the time Lando makes it to the paddock, he’s wearing sunglasses and a hoodie pulled up like a man on the run.

He gets stopped four times before reaching the McLaren motorhome.

One PR officer actually bows at him, just to be a menace.

Oscar gives him a slow, impressed once-over and just says, “Your Royal Highness,” with a mocking nod before walking away.

He’s never living this down.

The only thing he wants is to find you.

And, as if summoned by the strength of pure panic, there you are. Standing just outside the McLaren garage, mid-conversation with someone from Alpine, sipping from a bottle of water like you own the place. Your hair is tucked into a sleek ponytail. The sun makes your earrings glint.

Lando jogs up to you, breathless.

“Hey! Hey, hi, um, hi.”

You turn, startled. “Good morning.”

“Not really,” he says, lifting his glasses. “What the hell is going on?”

You blink. “What do you mean?”

“The cap. The hat. The one I put on your head yesterday? Apparently that means I proposed to you. The tabloids are going crazy. Everyone thinks we’re engaged. My mum texted me.”

Your eyebrows lift. “Wait, seriously?”

He pulls out his phone, flicks through the headlines, and shoves it toward you.

You squint at one. “‘Royal Love Blooms on the Grid?’” You snort. “‘Luxembourg’s Heartthrob Duchess Swept Off Her Feet by McLaren Maverick?’”

Lando’s voice pitches up. “Swept off her feet! I literally ran into you with a scooter!”

You start laughing. Not a polite laugh. A full-body, unbothered laugh. Like this is all the most normal thing in the world.

He stares. “Why are you laughing?”

You wipe a tear from under your eye. “Because this is nothing. You should’ve seen the time they said I was secretly dating a Swiss banker who turned out to be my second cousin.”

He pauses. “… What?”

“Or the time they decided I’d renounced the throne to become a goat farmer in Liechtenstein.”

He blinks. “Okay, that one’s kind of iconic.”

You give him a shrug. “This is what happens when you’re born into a monarchy and dare to show emotions in public.”

He stares at you. “You’re telling me you’re fine with this?”

“I think it’s hilarious.”

“Hilarious? They called me your future consort.”

“Are you not?” You ask innocently, sipping your water.

He splutters. “What-”

You grin. “I’m kidding.”

You’re very not kidding. Not in the way that matters.

Because watching him panic like this — watching him trail after you with his hoodie strings bouncing and his voice pitching up with every breath — it’s … oddly sweet.

He cares. Not just about the press. About you. About how this reflects on you. That matters.

You reach over and tug gently at his hood to straighten it. “Relax. The headlines will change by tomorrow.”

“You really think that?”

“No,” you admit. “But that’s what I tell myself when I’m spiraling.”

He laughs despite himself. “You’re way too chill about this.”

“I’ve had practice.”

“You’re literally a royal and you’re less stressed than me.”

“That’s because I’ve had years of training in pretending I’m not screaming inside.”

Lando looks at you. Really looks at you.

There’s this flicker of something in his chest. Admiration. Confusion. Something just slightly more than fondness.

He exhales. “You’re ridiculous.”

“So are you.”

“I didn’t mean to propose to you.”

“Shame,” you say casually, and walk away before he can respond.

He stands there, stunned, as Carlos passes behind him, humming “Here Comes the Bride.”

***

Back in the McLaren motorhome, the chaos continues.

The PR team is in damage control mode. Zak is pacing with a headset. Andrea has three newspapers folded under his arm and an expression that could melt titanium.

But Lando?

Lando is leaning on the windowsill, watching you from across the way as you chat with someone from Mercedes.

Still wearing his cap. Still laughing like you haven’t just caused a minor diplomatic crisis.

And for some reason … he’s not mad.

He just grins, taps the glass once, and mutters, “Yeah, this is totally fine.”

Absolutely fine.

Nothing is on fire. Nothing at all.

***

You know something’s wrong when Martine shows up.

Martine only shows up when things are very wrong. Like, international-incident-meets-centuries-old-protocol wrong. She’s your primary handler, which is a polite way of saying she’s the one who stops you from accidentally tanking Luxembourg’s economy with a bad outfit choice.

You spot her across the paddock: sharp black blazer, sunglasses that mean business, marching toward the McLaren motorhome with the speed and grace of a small, determined missile.

“Oh, no,” you mutter.

Lando, sitting on a folding chair next to you with his helmet in his lap, glances up. “What?”

You nod in Martine’s direction. “That.”

He follows your gaze and immediately winces. “Oh no.”

“She’s here to kill me.”

“She’s probably here to kill me,” he says, standing up like a man preparing to face execution.

Martine stops two feet away, does not greet you. Does not smile. Just removes her sunglasses and levels the two of you with the look she usually reserves for scandalous budget overspending or cousins dating minor celebrities.

She speaks in a voice so tight it might shatter glass. “Well, I hope you’re both having fun.”

You open your mouth to respond, but she holds up a hand. “No. Stop. Don’t speak yet. We’re in crisis mode.”

“Isn’t that a little dramatic?” Lando offers, with a hopeful grin.

Martine turns to him so slowly it’s almost operatic. “Mister Norris, the Luxembourgish Parliament has just issued a formal declaration of congratulations on your engagement. Your faces are on the front page of every major paper from here to Berlin. People Magazine referred to you as the ‘millennial fairytale.’ And — just to really put a cherry on top — your Instagram post from two days ago has now been recirculated as a ‘subtle announcement.’”

Lando swallows. “That post was about McNuggets.”

“Yes,” Martine says. “And you hashtagged it #lovemylife. So now the press thinks the nuggets were metaphorical.”

You press a hand to your face. “Okay. That one’s kind of on you.”

Martine whirls on you next. “Do you understand the implications of this? Because this is not just a PR disaster. This is a constitutional event. We cannot simply say it was a misunderstanding.”

“Why not?” Lando asks, hands outstretched. “Can’t we just say it was, like, a joke? A mix-up? A funny cultural thing?”

Martine takes a deep breath, as if preparing to deliver a death sentence.

“Because,” she says carefully, “in Luxembourgish law, once a declaration has been acknowledged by Parliament and received no formal objection from the heir apparent within the hour, it becomes a matter of record.”

Lando stares. “What does that mean?”

You sigh. “It means … it’s official. As far as the government’s concerned, we’re engaged.”

There’s a beat of stunned silence. And then Lando says, very quietly, “Oh, my god.”

Martine nods grimly. “Oh, your god, indeed.”

“I didn’t even do anything!” He protests. “I gave her a hat!”

Martine’s eyes narrow. “Which, in Luxembourg, is equivalent to a pre-marital vow of intent.”

“That’s ridiculous!”

“It’s ancient tradition!”

Lando throws his hands in the air. “Well maybe someone should’ve written a pamphlet! ‘Hey, welcome to Luxembourg, don’t give royal women hats!’”

“I should have known,” you say, mostly to yourself. “I knew the hat was going to be a problem.”

Martine exhales and pinches the bridge of her nose. “There is a press conference in two hours. The Grand Duke has already spoken to French media.”

You freeze. “Wait. My father knows?”

Martine shoots you a look. “Knows? He’s celebrating.”

“Celebrating what?”

“His exact words,” she says, pulling out her phone and reading from a very official-sounding email, “‘I have always dreamed of a son-in-law who drives fast and talks nonsense. This is perfect.’”

Lando, completely bewildered, points at himself. “Is that a compliment?”

You look at him. “Honestly? I think it is.”

Martine puts the phone away. “You both need to keep this under control. Just for a few days. Until the press dies down.”

Lando’s face scrunches. “Wait. Waitwaitwait. Are you saying we have to pretend to be engaged?”

Martine nods once. “Exactly.”

“Temporarily?” You ask.

“For now,” she says. “But you will both need to act engaged. Convincingly. That means appearances. Smiles. Coordination. Possibly an interview.”

Lando looks like he’s going to be sick. “Interview?!”

“Oh, you’re absolutely doing the interview,” Martine says.

You blink slowly. “So … just to clarify. Our options are either to lie to the international press and pretend to be planning a royal wedding or risk sparking a diplomatic conflict between my country and the rest of the European Union?”

Martine smiles grimly. “Correct.”

Lando leans against the nearest wall. “This is a nightmare.”

You nudge him with your elbow. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

You grin. “You could’ve actually proposed.”

He groans. “I’m never giving anyone a hat ever again.”

***

The rest of the morning is a blur.

Your phone doesn’t stop buzzing. Everyone from Monaco’s royal family to your mother’s childhood piano teacher is reaching out.

Lando’s friends have renamed their group chat “THE ROYAL CONSORTS.”

Carlos sends a meme of Meghan Markle waving from a balcony, photoshopped with Lando’s face. Lando throws his phone across the room.

Everywhere you walk in the paddock, people are staring, whispering, smiling in that way that means they think they know.

Lando sticks to your side like a man attached by invisible glue.

“This is surreal,” he mutters, not for the first time. “You’re just … fine with this?”

You glance at him. “I’ve been fake-smiling through political dinners since I was ten. This is honestly one of the less stressful things I’ve had to fake.”

He eyes you. “That’s kind of impressive.”

You shrug. “I mean, don’t get me wrong. It’s insane. But it’s also temporary. We do a few appearances, wear some coordinated outfits, and smile for the cameras.”

He groans. “Do I have to wear a sash?”

“Only if you want bonus points.”

He considers. “Does it come in papaya?”

You grin. “Now you’re thinking like a royal.”

He glances sideways at you. “You really think we can pull this off?”

“I think,” you say slowly, “we have no choice. But yeah. We can do it.”

There’s something unspoken between you in that moment. Some flicker of understanding. And maybe a spark of something else.

***

By the time you arrive at the media scrum, the photographers are already in position. Flashes pop. Lenses aim.

You loop your arm through Lando’s, and he looks down like you’ve just handed him a live grenade.

“What do I do?” He mutters.

“Smile,” you whisper back. “And look like you’re wildly in love.”

He takes a breath, then smiles so wide it almost hurts to look at. A little crooked. A little chaotic.

It’s perfect.

He leans toward you. “Like this?”

You nod. “Exactly like that.”

The cameras love it. Shutters go wild. A symphony of clicks.

Someone shouts, “Any wedding date yet?”

Lando opens his mouth to panic.

You answer smoothly, “We’re just enjoying the moment.”

“Have you met each other’s families?”

Lando again looks like he might choke. You reply, “They’re … very supportive.”

“How did the proposal happen?”

Lando starts to laugh, helplessly.

You answer, “It was spontaneous.”

And that’s how the day goes.

Flash after flash. Smile after smile.

And through it all, Lando — your accidental fiancé, your completely overwhelmed co-conspirator — stays right beside you, fingers brushing yours, as if anchoring himself to reality.

You don’t know what’s coming next.

You don’t know how long you’ll have to keep this up.

But when Lando looks at you with that half-panicked, half-awed grin — like he still can’t believe this is happening — you just smile back.

Because somehow, against all odds this royal disaster? Feels a lot like fate.

***

The Grand Prix is over, the champagne has dried, and the press has moved on to whatever other scandal is brewing in the glittering circus of Monaco. And yet … you stay.

You’re supposed to leave, technically. There’s a return flight booked under your name, a motorcade on standby, and a color-coded itinerary that includes words like “debrief” and “post-engagement optics strategy.” But instead of heading back to Luxembourg, you text Martine something vague about needing to monitor the situation on the ground.

She doesn’t push. She never pushes when you use diplomatic language like that.

And so, you stay — in the sunshine, in the noise, in the afterglow of whatever chaos you and Lando have created.

And Lando? Well. Lando leans in. Hard.

It starts with a bouquet. You think it’s from some Monegasque diplomat until you read the note.

For my one true duchess. Long may she reign.

- Your Devoted Fiancé™

You roll your eyes so hard it almost hurts.

The next morning, there’s a box of chocolates left on the doorstep of your borrowed suite. Heart-shaped.

The note reads: May these sweets bring you half the joy your smile brings me.

- His Royal Himbo-ness

Then come the messages.

LANDO: Milady, I beseech thee … may I take thee to breakfast?

YOU: Only if thou bringest me hashbrowns.

LANDO: I would brave dragons and tyre degradation for thee.

YOU: Good, because I just saw you stall your scooter outside my hotel.

It’s ridiculous. It’s also … weirdly fun.

You keep telling yourself it’s fake, that it has to be fake. A temporary performance to appease international dignitaries and excitable royal fathers with a love for motorsport.

But then one afternoon, you find Lando outside your hotel with a paper crown from Burger King and a daisy between his teeth.

He bows. “Milady. Thy noble steed awaiteth.”

You snort. “You’re riding an electric scooter.”

“And she runneth on pure love.”

He offers his hand, like you’re a princess in a storybook.

You take it.

***

It’s only when you’re not performing — when the flowers are left without a camera flash or you’re laughing in a hallway while ducking behind a vending machine — that Lando starts to notice it.

The quiet moments.

The way your smile sometimes fades the second people look away. The way you’re constantly being trailed by someone in a blazer holding a tablet. The way your phone buzzes and you flinch like it might explode.

It hits him hardest at the hotel bar.

You’re sitting across from him in some ridiculous formal dress, sipping water like it’s wine because the event is too long and you’re too tired, and someone behind you says, “She doesn’t even look that royal.”

You hear it. He knows you hear it. But you don’t flinch. You just smile, poised and polite, and excuse yourself a moment later. You come back three minutes later, smile reset, posture perfect.

He watches the entire transformation with his stomach twisting into a knot.

“You alright?” He asks gently, when the crowds have thinned.

You glance over. “Of course.”

And he doesn’t push. But something in his chest tugs.

***

The idea comes to him in a flash.

“Hey,” he says the next night, casually leaning against the doorframe of your hotel suite. “Wanna ditch this disaster and do something stupid?”

You arch a brow. “Define stupid.”

“Burgers. Reality TV. My place.”

You blink.

“No press, no handlers. Just us. A comfy couch and some bad choices.”

You narrow your eyes. “What’s the catch?”

“No catch,” he says. “I just thought maybe … you might want to feel normal for a bit.”

You don’t answer right away.

Because it’s absurd. It’s reckless. You have a state dinner in forty-five minutes and there are actual diplomats waiting downstairs to make small talk about Luxembourg’s agricultural exports.

But then you look at him — hopeful, earnest, wearing a hoodie that says “QDRNT” and socks that do not match — and you think screw it.

You shut the door behind you.

“Let’s go.”

***

He smuggles you out the back through the hotel kitchens.

“You’ve done this before,” you note, as he expertly navigates a series of corridors.

“Absolutely,” he says. “I once snuck out past curfew during a sponsor dinner to get tacos with Max.”

“And how’d that end?”

“In a minor fire.”

You blink. “Wait, what?”

He just grins.

Ten minutes later, you’re sitting in his apartment — barefoot, legs tucked under yourself on the couch, a paper bag of burgers between you.

“You know,” you say, unwrapping one of them, “if this gets leaked to the press, they’re going to think you’re a bad influence.”

He takes a dramatic bite. “Milady, wouldst thou accept this humble offering of ketchup and meat?”

You snort, almost choking on your fries. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you remain seated.”

You roll your eyes but don’t argue.

He clicks on the TV and scrolls to a show that looks suspiciously like Love Island, then leans back and stretches his arms behind his head like it’s the most relaxing evening of his life.

“Do you do this a lot?” You ask.

“What, seduce royalty over fast food?”

“No,” you laugh. “Just … be this normal.”

He shrugs. “Normal’s relative, innit? I mean, yeah. When I can. When people let me.”

You nod slowly. “Must be nice.”

He turns to look at you. “You really don’t get much of that, huh?”

You take a sip of soda. “Not unless it’s scripted. Or has a purpose. Even this … it’s not real.”

He shifts on the couch, voice quieter. “It feels real.”

You glance over at him, something flickering behind your eyes. “It does, doesn’t it?”

There’s a long beat. The show drones in the background — someone screaming about being “mugged off” and crying in a hot tub.

And then he says, softly, “Can I ask you something?”

You nod.

“What would you be doing right now if you weren’t, y’know, you? The royal stuff, I mean.”

You pause.

“Sleeping,” you say finally. “Without a schedule. Without worrying if my resting face looks too detached in photographs.”

He smiles, a little sadly. “You’re good at it. The pretending.”

“Too good,” you murmur. “It’s like muscle memory.”

He nods, thoughtful.

Then, in a whisper like a secret:, “I wish I could give you more of this.”

You turn to him fully. “More burgers?”

“More normal,” he says. “More space to just … be. Laugh. Eat crap food and wear ugly pajamas and not have to explain yourself to anyone.”

Something in your chest squeezes.

You don’t say anything.

Instead, you lean over, take a fry from his tray, and say, “You talk too much.”

“Sorry,” he says quickly. “Didn’t mean to-”

“I like it,” you interrupt.

He blinks.

You nod toward the screen. “Shut up and watch trash TV with me.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

He salutes. You hit him with a pillow.

He yelps, dramatically falling sideways onto the couch like you’ve slain him. “Oh no! The duchess has betrayed me!”

You’re laughing now, full-bodied and unfiltered, and Lando watches you like he’s discovered something sacred.

And in that ridiculously expensive Monaco apartment — over lukewarm burgers and cheap television — something real clicks into place.

Something neither of you says out loud. Yet.

***

There’s something wildly disorienting about pretending to be engaged while boarding a private jet with your not-actually-fiancé and his team. Everyone’s in branded hoodies, backpacks slung low, and you are wearing sunglasses too big for your face and eating gummy bears out of Lando’s hand.

It shouldn’t feel this easy. But it does.

Lando slouches into the seat beside you, nudging your knee with his. “You ready to charm the entire paddock again?”

You grin, biting off a red bear. “As long as you don’t run me over with a scooter this time.”

He chuckles. “I make no promises.”

The entire team is still buzzing about Monaco, and Lando’s riding the wave like he was born for it. Every time someone asks about “the duchess,” he beams, slings an arm around you like it’s instinct, and says something utterly absurd like, “She saved me from a life of bachelor mediocrity.”

You elbow him every time. He doesn’t stop.

When you land, everything’s familiar but shinier. More photographers. More interest. More rumors. The press is obsessed, still pushing out think pieces dissecting your “engagement,” articles titled How Luxembourg’s Royal Match Might Save McLaren’s PR Season and Love, Speed, and Statecraft: A Modern Fairytale?

You try not to read them. You try not to notice that people are beginning to look at you and Lando like something real is happening.

But the problem is … it’s starting to feel real.

Especially when he FaceTimes his mother from the garage and yells, “Mum! Look who I’ve got!”

You barely have time to blink before a kind, curious woman appears onscreen, waving excitedly. “Oh, she’s gorgeous! Hello, sweetheart!”

“Hi,” you laugh, suddenly weirdly nervous. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

“Don’t let him get away with anything,” she says warmly. “He’s always been a cheeky one.”

“Mum,” Lando whines, red in the ears.

You smile. “I’ll keep him in line. Royal decree.”

His mum howls with laughter. “Oh, I like her.”

After the call ends, Lando’s quiet for a second, just watching you like he’s never seen you before.

“What?” You ask.

He shrugs, softly. “Nothing. Just … you’re good with my family.”

You nudge his shoulder. “And you brought a duchess to meet your mum over FaceTime in a dirty motorhome. What a catch.”

He grins. “The best catch.”