Travel Enthusiast

At that, his eyes open reluctantly. The bedroom is dark, softened only by the faint wash of London night coming through the curtains and the open window. The duvet is warm where his body has been under it, but your side of the bed is empty, the sheets pushed back messily as if you left in a hurry or without much thought. He pouts, a genuine, sleepy little frown that no one is there to see. “Love?” he mumbles, but there's no answer coming from you.

He turns heavily onto his back and squints towards the nightstand. The clock glows at him with merciless clarity — 3:12 am. He stares at it for a moment, almost offended, then he looks towards the ensuite bathroom door. There's no light beneath it, no sound of running water, no little movements that would explain your absence. Still, he tries again, voice rough with sleep. “Y/n?”

But again, nothing.

Another clatter comes from somewhere downstairs then, and this time, it's followed by a faint metallic scrape, then what sounds suspiciously like a spoon hitting a countertop. Harry blinks, that is not outside, that is very much inside his house. He groans, because the only thing worse than waking up at 3:12 am after playing Wembley is discovering that his girlfriend has somehow escaped the bed and started a mysterious midnight project without him. He throws the duvet back and immediately regrets it. Cool air from the open window slips over his bare skin, and he shivers, looking down at himself with a sleepy sort of betrayal. Boxers, nothing else, excellent preparation for a household investigation.

He sits on the edge of the bed for a second, head bowed, trying to convince his body that standing up is a reasonable request, but his body disagrees. He stands anyway, the floor cool beneath his feet as he shuffles out of the bedroom, one hand running through his messy hair. He’s not fully awake, and every step downstairs feels as if it belongs to someone else. The house is dark in the hallway, quiet apart from the now unmistakable sounds coming from the kitchen; another clatter, a cupboard closing, something being stirred with great determination.

Halfway down the stairs, he smells food. Not a snack, or toast, no, actual food. Warm potato, melted cheese, something savoury, something sharp, and, strangely, something minty enough to make his nose question the entire situation. Harry pauses at the bottom of the stairs, brows drawing together. “What the hell,” he mutters, mostly to himself.

He crosses the open-plan ground floor, following the smell and the noise towards the kitchen. A soft light is on over the counters, warm and domestic, turning the dark glass of the garden doors into a mirror. When he reaches the corner and looks into the kitchen, he has to stop, then rub his eyes, then look again. The kitchen is a disaster. A very specific, highly organised disaster, but a disaster nonetheless. There are bowls on the island, two pans on the hob, a cutting board covered in chopped jalapeños, an open tin of sweetcorn, another of tuna, a small mountain of grated cheddar, potato skins, spoons, knives, spices, a bottle of mayo, salt, pepper, and a jar of mint sauce sitting proudly in the middle of the chaos like it has been invited to a party it shouldn't be attending.

And in the centre of it all is you.

Bare legs, feet planted on the kitchen floor, body swallowed in one of Harry’s old shirts that hangs loose over your thighs. Your hair is messy from sleep, your face is bare, your expression is focused to the point of comedy, brows furrowed as you move between the counter and the hob like you're running the pass in a restaurant that might lose a Michelin star if the garnish is wrong. Harry leans against the edge of the wall, crosses his arms over his bare chest, and watches with so much fondness he forgets to be annoyed about being awake.

You're muttering to yourself under your breath. “Needs more pepper. No, not too much. Where’s the fork? Fork, fork, fork. Cheese first? No, tuna first. Obviously tuna first.”

Harry’s mouth starts to curve, while you still don't notice him at all. You lift a bowl, stir something vigorously, taste it from a spoon, pause, then nod as if you have made a crucial professional decision. “Correct,” you whisper.

Harry presses his lips together to keep from laughing. There are many things he expects after a Wembley show. Exhaustion, aching legs, a voice that feels slightly used, the strange echo of a massive crowd still living somewhere in his head. But he doesn't expect to wake up at 3:12 am and find you in his kitchen building a jacket potato with the seriousness of a surgeon.

You reach for the spoon again, but your fingers knock it off the counter and it hits the floor with a loud, sharp clatter. You jump, one hand flying to your heart. “Jesus Christ,” you hiss at the spoon, then bend to pick it up. “Why would you do that?”

Harry loses it immediately. The laugh comes out sudden and loud, entirely unrestrained and you gasp and jump again, nearly dropping the spoon a second time as you whip around towards him. Your eyes go wide, then narrow immediately when you see him standing there, barefoot and sleep-warm and far too amused.

“Harry!”

He's still laughing. “Sorry.”

“You scared the shit out of me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You were just standing there like some half-naked Victorian ghost?”

That makes him laugh harder. “Victorian?”

“Yes. Looming in doorways at ungodly hours.”

“I live here.”

“So do I, and I wasn't prepared for a haunting.”

He pushes away from the wall and walks over to you, still smiling, his eyes moving over the counter. “I heard clattering.”

“I’m cooking.”

“Obviously.”

“You could've announced yourself.”

“I was busy watching Gordon Ramsay in my kitchen.”

You huff, turning back to your creation. “Do not mock the process.”

“I wouldn’t dare.” He steps beside you, scanning the island with growing amusement. “Good thing I bought the house with the big counters.”

You pause. “Excuse me?”

“Nothing.”

“No, what was that?”

He clears his throat, face too innocent. “I said it’s a good thing we’ve got room.”

“For my culinary vision?”

“For whatever this is, yes.”

You point the spoon at him. “This is dinner.”

“It’s quarter past three in the morning.”

“Then it’s breakfast.”

“Looks like it’s expecting guests.”

“Of course it’s not expecting guests. It’s the middle of the night.”

“You’ve used six bowls.”

“They were necessary.”

“One of them has three pieces of cucumber in it.”

“That one is emotional support.”

He looks at the cucumber bowl, then back at you. “Right.”

You turn away with dignity and return to the potato waiting on a plate. It's already split open, steaming faintly, butter melting into the soft middle. You spoon tuna mayo over it, then add sweetcorn, jalapeños, a generous handful of cheddar and a sprinkle of pepper. The whole thing is messy, excessive, and clearly exactly what you want. Harry opens his mouth, likely to make a joke, but then you reach for the mint sauce and he goes still.

You shake the bottle once, open it, and pour it over the top with complete confidence. Harry’s entire face changes. He tries to control it, because he loves you, but he can't. He inhales through his nose, slow and careful, as if preparing himself for bad news. He's not generally a picky eater. He likes trying food, he respects strange combinations, regional habits, tour catering experiments, whatever someone’s aunt makes at Christmas and insists is traditional. But tuna mayo, sweetcorn, jalapeños, cheddar and mint sauce on a potato at 3:17 am sends a visible shudder over him.

You look at him from the corner of your eye. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“Your face said enough.”

“My face is processing.”

“My food is none of your business.”

“It’s happening in my kitchen.”

“Our kitchen.”

“Our kitchen has rights, too.”

You place the mint sauce down and look proudly at the plate. “Perfect.”

Harry steps closer, unable to help himself, sleepiness makes him softer, clumsier with affection, and he wraps his arms around you from behind, resting his chin near your shoulder. His skin is warm against the back of your shirt, his bare chest pressing lightly into you, and despite his obvious horror at the meal, he kisses your neck once. “Are you seriously eating that?” he asks, voice low and rough from sleep.

“Yes.”

“Voluntarily?”

“Yes.”

“After making it yourself?”

“Yes.”

“Just checking.”

You lean back into him for half a second, amused. “I’ve been craving it all night.”

“You were asleep all night.”

“No, I was thinking about it in my sleep.”

“That’s worrying.”

“It’s impressive.”

“It’s called dreaming, love.”

You laugh and reach for a fork. “Do you want one?”

Harry answers too quickly. “No.”

You turn your head. “You didn’t even think about it.”

“I thought very quickly.”

“I could make you one.”

“I love you, but absolutely not.”

“You’re missing out.”

“I’ll live with that.”

“You sure?”

“I’m thrilled for you and your potato, but I don’t want to come between you.”

You roll your eyes, but you're smiling, and Harry kisses your cheek before reluctantly letting go. “Come on then, little jacket potato gremlin.”

Your mouth falls open. “What did you just call me?”

“Affectionately.”

“You called me a gremlin.”

“A beloved gremlin.”

“You’re on thin ice, popstar, very thin ice.”

“At least I’m not eating mint tuna.”

You glare at him, but he only takes the plate from your hand before you can protest, then nods towards the garden doors. “It’s warm out. Eat outside before you destroy another part of the house.”

You grab a fork and follow him out, the night air soft when Harry slides the door open, the garden dimly lit by the outdoor lamps along the patio and the faint wash of the city beyond the trees. It's warm enough to sit outside comfortably, though the stone beneath your feet still carries a night-time coolness. The large sunbed near the edge of the patio is piled with cushions from earlier in the week, and Harry places your plate on the small table beside it before lowering himself down with the heavy grace of someone who has just realised he's still exhausted. You settle next to him, pulling one leg beneath you and keeping the plate balanced in your lap.

Harry yawns so widely his eyes water, and guilt flickers through you. “You can go back to bed.”

He shakes his head once and sinks further into the pillows with a sigh. “Don’t want to.”

“You’re exhausted.”

“So are you.”

“I’m eating.”

“I can see that.”

“You don’t have to stay awake for my potato.”

“I don’t want to be alone in bed,” he says simply, and the sentence is so soft, so completely Harry in the middle of the night, that teasing him would feel unfair, so you only smile.

He shifts closer, slipping one hand beneath the back of your shirt, his palm warm against your skin. His fingers begin tracing slow, aimless patterns over your back, gentle enough to be half-asleep already and a shiver runs through you before you can stop it.

Harry’s mouth curves. “Cold?”

“No.”

“Ticklish?”

“No.”

“Liar.”

You take your first bite, and Harry watches very carefully. He's absolutely convinced your face will change, it has to. There is no possible way that combination tastes good. He waits for the regret, the pause, the brave little swallow, the admission that perhaps the mint sauce was too far. But instead, your eyes close and a deeply satisfied hum leaves you. Harry stares in disbelief as you chew with complete contentment, shoulders relaxing, the entire strange mission of the night apparently fulfilled in one bite. You look more peaceful with a forkful of chaotic jacket potato than you did in bed, and Harry, against all sense and reason, is suddenly overwhelmed by how adorable you are. His little weirdo, sitting in his garden after an exhausting day of work, cheeks full of food, bare knees tucked beside you, looking like the happiest person on earth because your stomach apparently requested the strangest meal in Britain and you obeyed without question. He cannot believe he gets to love you.

You notice him staring and turn your head, still chewing. “What?” you mumble around the food.

He lets out a breathy laugh. “Nothing.”

You squint. “You’re looking at me weird.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m admiring.”

“Admiring what?”

“My girlfriend and her questionable life choices.”

You huff, chew, swallow, then immediately take another bite. “It’s good.”

“I’m happy for you.”

“You sound traumatised.”

“I’m adjusting.”

He keeps his hand moving on your back while you eat, slow strokes up and down, occasionally circling his thumb near your spine. The night around you is quiet in the way only late hours can be, when even London seems to pause for breath. Somewhere beyond the garden, a car passes, leaves rustle lightly. Inside, the kitchen remains a disaster, but neither of you is thinking about that yet.

You're halfway through another bite when a little trail of sauce escapes down your chin, a pale mixture of tuna mayo and mint sauce that makes Harry’s stomach question his loyalty. He reaches up with his thumb and catches it. “You’re adorable,” he says.

You pause, eyes lifting to his. “Hmm?”

“I said you’re adorable.”

Then, because he's not thinking clearly and because his thumb is already there, he licks the sauce off. His regret is immediate, his face folds into a grimace so dramatic that you almost choke on your food. He swallows like a brave little boy forced to take the worst medicine of his life, eyes squeezed shut for half a second and you burst out laughing with your mouth still half-full, clapping one hand over it to avoid disaster.

Harry points at you weakly. “Don’t.”

You keep laughing.

“That,” he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, “is vile.”

“It’s not.”

“It assaulted me.”

“You’re so dramatic.”

“It tasted like a salad got lost in a fish market.”

You laugh harder, nearly dropping your fork while Harry recovers slowly, looking betrayed by both you and the condiment. “How are you enjoying that?”

You shrug, still grinning. “I don’t know. My body told me exactly what it wanted, and apparently it was right.”

“Your body needs supervision.”

“My body is satisfied.”

“My taste buds are filing a complaint.”

“You chose to lick your thumb.”

“I was being romantic.”

“You were being nosy.”

“I was caring for you.”

“You were judging my potato.”

“I’m still judging your potato.”

You point your fork at him. “And yet you’re still here.”

“Because I love you more than I fear mint sauce.”

You soften for half a second, then ruin it on purpose. “That’s beautiful, put it in a song.”

“I will not.”

“Too vulnerable?”

“Too disturbing.”

You smile and keep eating.

The silence that follows is warm. Harry stays beside you, one hand under your shirt, fingers still tracing over your back. His eyes grow heavier as the minutes pass, but he doesn't stop touching you. You finish the potato slowly, savouring the last few bites with a seriousness that makes him shake his head more than once.

Eventually, he blinks himself a little more awake and asks, “Have you checked Twitter?”

You pause with the fork halfway to your mouth, then turn to him. “Twitter?”

“Yeah.”

You stare.

“What?”

“You mean X.”

He groans immediately. “No.”

“It’s called X.”

“No, it isn’t.”

“It has been called X for almost three years.”

“Not in this house.”

You laugh. “That’s not how apps work.”

“It’s Twitter.”

“Twitter is dead.”

“Twitter’s not dead. It’s just wearing a stupid hat.”

You set the empty plate down on the small table and look at him with deep amusement. “That might be the most old-man thing you’ve ever said.”

“I’m not old.”

“You just refused to acknowledge a social media rebrand like a pensioner refusing contactless payment.”

“The rebrand didn’t make the app better, so why should I reward it?”

“That’s actually a fair point.”

“Thank you.”

“Still old.”

Harry nudges your thigh with his knee. “Did you check it or not?”

“I checked Instagram, X, and TikTok.”

“Twitter.”

“X.”

“Twitter.”

“Fine, Twitter.” You lean back against the cushions. “Yes, I checked.”

“And?”

“They loved the show.”

Harry’s face changes in the dim patio light, not into ego, not exactly. More relief than pride, though both are there in gentle amounts. He's chronically offline, but immediate feedback after a show still matters if it's taken carefully. It tells him what reached people, what made them lose their minds, what moments travelled beyond the stadium. He doesn't live there, but he knows enough to look sometimes, or ask you to look for him. “They did?” he asks.

“They really did.”

“What were they saying?”

You bite back a smile.

Harry notices. “What?”

“Nothing.”

“What were they saying?”

“They were very complimentary.”

“About the show?”

“Partly.”

“About the songs?”

“Somewhat.”

“About what, then?”

You turn your head towards him with wicked calm. “Your top.”

“My top?”

“Mhm.”

“The cropped one?”

“The cropped one.”

Harry laughs softly. “They liked it?”

“They were feral.”

“Feral?”

“Truly, deeply, historically feral.”

He looks pleased now. “Because it was cropped?”

“Because it was cropped and because it accentuated the hitties.”

Harry goes completely still, confusion written all over his face. “The what?”

You smile slowly. “The hitties.”

“The hitties?”

“Yes.”

He blinks at you. “What are hitties?”

“You don’t know?”

“Obviously not.”

“You really are offline.”

“Explain.”

You tuck your legs beneath you and face him properly, delighted by the opportunity. “It’s a fan word.”

“I gathered.”

“The H stands for Harry.”

“Right.”

“And it replaces the T in titties.”

Harry stares at you, processes slowly, then he bursts out laughing. A proper, bright, delighted laugh that breaks through the quiet garden and sends his head tipping back against the cushion. “Hitties?” he says again, still laughing.

“Yes.”

“They call my chest hitties?”

“Yes.”

“That’s incredible.”

You laugh, watching him laugh. “You’re taking this very well.”

“I’m honoured.”

“You’re honoured that your fans named your tits?”

Harry points at you. “Hitties.”

“Sorry. Your hitties.”

“Thank you.”

You stretch your arms above your head, yawning deeply now that the food has done its job. “Anyway, they want the hitties out again.”

Harry’s grin remains shameless. “Is that all I am to them? A handsome face and a sexy body?”

You lower your arms and blink at him sleepily. “That sounded incredibly self-absorbed.”

“I’m allowed. I work hard for the face and the body.”

You give him a look.

“I do Pilates,” he says. “I run. I’ve started washing and moisturising my face properly.”

“With my face wash.”

“With our face wash.”

“My moisturiser.”

“Our moisturiser.”

“You use the expensive one.”

“I have delicate skin.”

“You also force me to run and do Pilates at hours no decent person should be awake.”

“I don't force you.”

“You wake me up by kissing my face until I open my eyes, then you say, ‘Come on, love, it’ll be good for us,’ which is manipulation.”

“It’s gentle encouragement.”

“It’s emotional blackmail with dimples.”

Harry smiles slowly. “Effective, though.”

“Shut up.”

You settle back into the pillows again, sleep creeping back over you now that the craving has disappeared and your body has realised it is still the middle of the night. Harry watches you with soft amusement, still awake mostly because of how much he likes looking at you like this, unguarded and sleepy and ridiculous.

“So,” you mumble, eyes half-closed, “no hitties out on this tour?”

Harry suddenly sits up, but you sense the movement too late. “What are you doing?”

He gets to his feet and stretches once, then bends down before you can even react, one arm sliding behind your back and the other beneath your knees. “Harry—” He scoops you up, and you yelp, arms flying around his neck. “What the hell!”

“You’re done eating.”

“I can walk.”

“You’re half-asleep.”

“Am not.”

“You asked me about the hitties with your eyes closed.”

“That’s called multitasking.”

He carries you towards the open garden doors, steady and annoyingly pleased with himself. You hold onto him, your bare legs hanging over one of his arms, his skin warm against yours. “As for the tour,” he says, stepping inside, “maybe I’ll bring the hitties out and play Kiwi on the same night.”

You lift your head at once. “Whoa.”

“What?”

“Calm down.”

“I thought that’s what the people wanted.”

“The people want to survive, Harry.”

He laughs, walking through the kitchen and carefully avoiding the evidence of your midnight cooking. “You don’t think they could handle it?”

“The hitties out and Kiwi in one show? Absolutely not. Mass hysteria, medical tents overwhelmed, social media breakdown.”

Harry laughs harder as he carries you through the dark ground floor towards the stairs. “Good to know.”

“You have to use your power responsibly, y'know.”

“My hitties have power now?”

“Apparently.”

“Dangerous.”

“Very.”

He carries you upstairs with more ease than someone who performed at Wembley hours ago should reasonably have. You tuck your face closer to his neck, finally letting the sleepiness win properly now that you're warm and held and no longer responsible for operating a fork.

By the time he reaches the bedroom, your voice has gone softer. “Kitchen’s a mess.”

“We’ll deal with it tomorrow.”

“You hate mess.”

“I love sleep more.”

“You sure?”

“I’m sure.”

He lowers you gently onto the bed, then climbs in after you, pulling the duvet over both of you before the cool air can steal too much warmth. You immediately curl into him, and he looks deeply satisfied about having you back where he wanted you in the first place. His arm wraps around you, you rest your cheek against his bare chest and for a few seconds, neither of you speaks.

“You smell like tuna,” he then murmurs.

You make an offended sleepy sound into his neck. “And you smell like sweat and expensive moisturiser.”

He just laughs and kisses the side of your head, lingering there as your body relaxes fully against his. The day has been long, the show huge, the hour ridiculous, and somewhere downstairs his kitchen looks like a small potato-based crime scene. But you’re finally in his arms again, warm and full and half-asleep, and he can't find a single part of himself that cares about anything else. His hand moves slowly along your back again, the same soothing pattern as outside, gentler now beneath the duvet. Your breathing deepens, your fingers loosening against his side as he watches you for a moment in the dark, still smiling to himself.

His life is huge in ways that sometimes feel impossible. Stadiums, lights, noise, people screaming his name until it stops sounding like a name at all. But then there is this, too. His kitchen destroyed at night because you woke up craving a jacket potato with tuna mayo, sweetcorn, jalapeños, cheddar and mint sauce. Your sleepy arguments about social media names and fan slang, your body tucked into his like that is the only stage that ever really matters once the lights go down.

He kisses your hair. “My gorgeous little weirdo,” he whispers.

You're almost asleep, but not quite. “I heard that.”

“Good.”

He closes his eyes, presses one last kiss to your head, and finally lets himself drift back to sleep.

Taglist: @lizsogolden @avensgreenvans @maudie-duan @chocostyles @sparklejumpropequeen1113 @pops234 @lomlcamy

All Three Zones is a reputable source. Its data is used by popular analytics sites like hockeystats.com, the creator has consulted for an NHL team, and his work has been featured on Elite Prospects, The Athletic, TSN, and McKeen’s Hockey.

The graphs are standardized per 60 minutes, so average ice time isn’t a factor. It's not about how many minutes a player gets; it's about how much damage they do with the minutes they do have.

Terms: puck transporter vs. play driver – a play driver is a puck transporter that individually generates scoring chances after carrying the puck into the o-zone. You can be a great puck transporter but a bad play driver. The slot and crease are where most goals are scored in the NHL, especially the inner crease. Scoring chance means shots in/passes to the slot and crease; high danger is a subset of scoring chance, for chances in the inner crease.

How to generally read these graphs (explanations of graphs further below):

Top Right Quadrant: Elite in both categories on the axes – the further the player is in, the more elite. You'll frequently see Avs and Lightning logos as outliers. That’s MacKinnon and Kucherov.

Top Left/Bottom Right Quadrant: Players that are good in one specific category but not both.

Bottom Left Quadrant: These players are bad for both categories.

If you’re in the top right quadrant for 4-5 of these graphs, you’re an elite forward.

TL;DR Player Analysis:

WillMack are in the top right quadrant for every graph and are among the very top NHL players (see below for comparable stars) for 5-on-5 scoring chance contributions, the most important graph. Being this high at a young age while matched against the opposing team’s top players is incredible. No surprises for Celebrini, he's great at everything. The graphs prove Smith isn't getting carried by Celebrini offensively – he would appear in the bottom left quadrants a lot if that were true since the graphs measure individual traits. Smith is likely going to be a superstar soon and is currently one of the most dangerous passers in the NHL (more dangerous than Celebrini) and top 3 with MacKinnon and Kucherov for generating both high danger passes and shots. Smith needs to increase his frequency of controlled zone entries (puck transporting), but when he does carry the puck into the o-zone, he’s decent at creating a scoring chance from the entry (play driving).

Eklund is in the top right quadrant in 4 of the 5 graphs; for the outlier graph, he is in the top left quadrant as an elite high danger passer but is not getting shots through from high danger areas and/or not receiving high danger passes (his fault and/or his linemates fault). Overall, Eklund is the best on the team for generating shots from cycling/forechecking and the 2nd best play driver after Celebrini. Within the context of the entire NHL, Eklund is elite at both. The team’s offense would suffer significantly if Eklund was traded. Dude just needs to finish more and play with finishers.

Wennberg remains a reliable vet for secondary offense: a good puck transporter, decent play driver, and solid at completing high danger passes. But overall, he's not elite at generating scoring chances.

Misa and Graf both have significant work to do offensively at 5-on-5, which is expected for their experience. Neither were driving play or even transporting the puck well, but Misa showed flashes of being decent at shooting from forechecking/cycling and shooting in/passing to the crease and slot. Tbh, Graf really benefited offensively by playing with WillMack. 4 of the 5 graphs he's in the bottom left quadrant, but he's great at getting open in the high danger area to receive high danger passes from WillMack (bottom right quadrant for graph 3).

Story of the Season, Graph-by-Graph:

Zone Entries Leading to Scoring Chances (Rush Offense): Celebrini, Eklund, and Wenny are elite in transporting the puck across the opposing blue line. Eklund and Celebrini turn those entries into danger most frequently and are among the best in the NHL – play drivers. Wenny doesn’t turn the entries into scoring chances himself as much – he’s a solid play driver. Smith barely makes the top right quadrant but is still good. He’s the opposite of Wennberg – less controlled entries, but creates more scoring chances when he does carry the puck in. In the far corner of top right quadrant is McDavid. Bedard and Kyle Connor are closest to McDavid, but still far.

Misa is sitting on the border between the bottom left and bottom right quadrants. He is starting to carry the puck into the zone, but those entries are currently dying before they turn into scoring chances – indicating wasted rush offense. Graf is slightly worse. So, both aren’t elite play drivers nor even puck transporters right now.

Rush vs. Forecheck/Cycle Offense: Most goals in the NHL are scored off the rush. WillMack both lean towards generating shots off the rush, while Eklund is the team’s leader in generating shots off the forecheck/cycle. Celebrini is approaching the very top of the NHL at shot generation off the rush. All 3 are in the top right quadrant so they elite at both. The 3 best NHL players for both metrics are Eichel, MacKinnon, and Kucherov, which you can see are in their own little group.

Misa is showing signs of being effective in the cycle/forecheck (top left). Wennberg and Graf are both in the bottom left quadrant, so not very good at either but Graf is kind of inching towards being decent at shots off the rush. So, building off graph 2, Wennberg is great at transporting the puck in which then leads to offense, but he's not doing the offense part himself (play driving).

High Danger Passes and Shots from High Danger Passes: High danger means inner slot. Smith is one of the most dangerous passers in the NHL, approaching the top guys of Eichel, Hagel, and Kucherov. He is also top 3 at both making high danger passes and shooting off high danger passes, with only Kucherov and MacKinnon being higher when factoring both metrics. Shots from high danger passes means a player is good at getting open in high danger areas, landing their shot, and has teammates making those dangerous passes. Celebrini is also elite at both, but heavily leans towards high danger passes compared to Smith dominating both. Eklund is elite at making high danger passes but isn’t receiving them. Reasons are probably a mixture of his linemates aren’t dishing them, he’s not in position, or he’s missing his shots. This is why he’s in the top left quadrant.

Wennberg is decent at both, but leans passing. Misa is in the bottom left quadrant so not good at either. Graf is elite at getting getting to the inner slot to shoot and landing shots on net, but isn’t good at making high danger passes.

Shot Contributions (quantity of shots/primary passes) and Scoring Chances (quality shots in/primary passes to the crease or slot): WillMack are among the very top NHL players in the league at both frequently shooting in/passing to the slot and crease. Celebrini is around the same level as Eichel, better than McDavid, with the best in the top right quadrant being MacKinnon, Kucherov, Necas, and Draisaitl. Smith is grouped with Marner, Crosby, Larkin, Panarin, and Scheifele. Eklund is also in the top right quadrant. He leans more towards scoring chance contributions than shot contributions.

Wennberg and Graf are not good at both, and Misa isn’t even on this graph for some reason. Likely not enough data for him.

5-on-5 Scoring Chance Creation (Individual Scoring Chances (Shots) + Scoring Chance Assists (Passes)) and Scoring Chance Assists: WillMack are among the very top players in the NHL for both. Smith is right next to Bedard, and basically the forwards in the cluster where WillMack are include: Kucherov, Eichel, P. Kane, Keller, McDavid, Marchand, and Connor. The outlier near the top of the top right quadrant is MacKinnon, and below that Hagel – these guys lean more towards shots for scoring chances, while the outliers at the bottom right near the x-axis are Draisaitl, Necas, and Nylander. They lean towards passing for scoring chances.

Eklund is also in the top right quadrant and leans more towards passing for scoring chances. Smith is slightly better at passing for scoring chances but much better at overall scoring chances – he’s a dual threat that can pass or shoot. Misa is interesting: he’s actually cracked the top right quadrant which is a good sign, leaning slightly towards being a shooting threat in the slot/crease rather than a facilitator, but decent at both.

David Coulthard was no stranger to motorsport galas.

He knew how they worked: stiff champagne, too many sequins, bad canapé geometry, and conversations that lasted just long enough to be polite before strategically drifting away. He’d spent decades navigating them — first as a driver, then as whatever hybrid category retired drivers eventually fell into: part historian, part pundit, part gossip conduit, part decorative furniture.

So when he spotted her — standing near a display case full of vintage race helmets — he assumed she was another PR executive, or maybe a junior engineer dragged along as part of the team quota.

She was young, but with the posture of someone who didn’t need to rely on small talk to belong in a room.

And she was also, quite frankly, beautiful. 

Dark eyes, calm expression, light hair pinned back neatly. No nerves. No uncertainty. No please don’t ask me a question I can’t answer energy.

Just observation.

Stillness.

Precision.

David appreciated that kind of composure. 

He approached casually — not predatory, just confident — glass in hand, polite smile ready.

“Not many people pay attention to the old helmets,” he said, nodding to the display.

She turned her head, just slightly — enough to acknowledge him, not enough to invite familiarity.

“They tell the story better than the trophies,” she replied.

Her accent was impossible to pin down instantly — mostly English with something smooth and rounded underneath it.

Interesting.

He leaned a shoulder against the display case, careful to look approachable but not creepy retired driver trying to impress someone half his age.

“And what story do you think they’re telling?” he asked.

She looked back at the helmets. Really looked.

“That safety is iterative,” she said. “And that human error shapes regulation more than foresight.”

David blinked.

Not PR then.

Something sharper.

“Do you work in engineering?” he asked.

“Yes.”

No elaboration.

He tried again.

“And you are…?”

She finally turned fully toward him and extended a hand with a perfectly neutral expression.

“Dr. Anastasia Wolff.”

David froze mid-handshake.

Wolff.

Oh no.

Oh no no no.

Before his brain fully processed that catastrophic surname alignment, a tall shadow fell across the conversation.

Toto Wolff appeared beside them, expression neutral in the way a storm cloud is technically just “atmospheric moisture.”

“David,” Toto said — calmly, politely, without warmth.

David swallowed.

“Toto,” he replied, suddenly very aware of how tall the man actually was.

Ana seemed entirely unfazed by the tension. She simply nodded toward Toto and said, “We were discussing historical helmet design and regulation.”

Toto nodded once. “Good.”

David wasn’t sure if the statement was approval or territorial declaration.

Then Toto shifted his attention fully to him.

Not angry. Not hostile. Just… evaluating.

It was somehow worse.

“Enjoying the evening?” Toto said, cordial but clipped.

“Yes,” David replied a little too quickly. “Very much so. Just—ah—chatting.”

“To my daughter,” Toto finished helpfully.

If silence could scream, this one did.

David blinked.

Once.

Twice.

He replayed the past thirty seconds in his mind with the desperate precision of someone reviewing race footage after a very public mistake.

“…your daughter.”

“Yes.”

There was no elaboration. No threat. No explicit warning.

Just a calm stare that held centuries of paternal instinct and enough unspoken judgement to make a grown man reconsider his understanding of mortality.

Ana, meanwhile, looked mildly perplexed that anyone needed to speak at all.

“Papa,” she said calmly, “you said you wanted to speak with the aerodynamics group.”

“Yes,” Toto replied, gaze still locked on David. “I suddenly remembered.”

David cleared his throat and decided that survival depended entirely on retreat.

“Well,” he said, already stepping backward, “lovely talking. Really. Great chat. Good… water,” he said, trying to salvage dignity, “Lovely to meet you, Doctor. I’ll just— go over there.”

“Over there” had no defined geographical meaning.

He chose “away.”

Quickly.

As he retreated, he heard Ana murmur, perfectly deadpan:

“He looked uncomfortable.”

Toto replied, “Good.”

Much later — after two more glasses of champagne and a private moment of staring out a window contemplating his life choices — David decided there were three kinds of fear in motorsport:

Brake failure.

Monaco in the wet.

Accidentally flirting with Toto Wolff’s daughter.

And only one of those stayed with you for the rest of your life.

***

Toto Wolff didn’t lose his temper easily.

People liked to think he did—because he was tall, direct, and Austrian—but real anger? That was rare. Controlled. Measured. Like torque mapping, not fireworks.

But tonight, as he walked through their house after the gala, jacket undone, tie discarded somewhere between the hallway and the kitchen, he was absolutely — quietly — furious.

Susie looked up from the sofa, book in her lap, expression immediately alert.

“You’re pacing,” she noted.

“I am not pacing,” he replied.

He was pacing.

She closed her book. “What happened?”

He hesitated.

Because it was ridiculous, when spoken aloud.

Absurd.

Something that shouldn’t have irritated him as much as it had.

But there were rules—unspoken ones—about his daughter.

So finally, he said with the clipped precision of a man keeping every word under quality control:

“David Coulthard tried to flirt with Anastasia.”

Susie blinked once. Then twice.

“…sorry, what?”

Toto gestured sharply, as if reenacting the crime scene.

“At the gala. He walked over to her while she was looking at the helmet display and began—” he made a vague circular motion with his hand, “—conversation.”

Susie tried not to smile, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her.

“And what did Ana do?”

Toto stopped pacing.

That—the part that sat under his ribs like pressure build-up—was the strangest detail.

“She didn’t notice.”

Susie set the book aside fully now, interest piqued.

“She didn’t realise he was flirting?”

“She didn’t even recognise the category,” Toto said flatly. “She answered him like he was asking her to explain fuel flow limits.”

Susie laughed — quietly, warmly. “That sounds like her.”

Toto didn’t laugh.

He ran a hand down his face, exhaled through his nose, and muttered something in German that technically translated to: God give me patience before I go to prison.

Susie stood, crossed the room, and touched his arm.

“What exactly did David say?”

“He commented on helmets,” Toto replied, as if reciting a crime report. “She replied with a full analysis of safety evolution and regulatory impact. Then he asked her name.”

Susie pressed her lips together, trying very hard not to sound entertained. “And then?”

“And then,” Toto continued, jaw tightening, “she introduced herself as Dr. Anastasia Wolff. And David froze like someone had been unplugged mid-sentence.”

Susie’s shoulders shook — laughter she couldn’t contain.

“And what did you do?”

Toto straightened — posture shifting from irritated father to territorial apex predator.

“I walked over.”

“And glared,” Susie guessed.

“I did not glare.”

Susie raised an eyebrow.

“…I communicated.”

“With your eyes.”

“Yes.”

“Speech optional?”

He paused.

“…minimal.”

She smiled fully now — affectionate, amused.

“He won’t try again,” Toto added, almost pleased.

“No,” Susie agreed, “I don’t imagine he will.”

For a moment, silence settled — not heavy, just thoughtful.

Then Susie said softly, “She really didn’t understand what he was doing?”

Toto shook his head, expression softening — irritation fading into something gentler.

“No. To her, it was not… social interaction. It was input. Data. Someone who required an answer.”

Susie leaned against him.

“That’s good, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes,” Toto replied quietly. “Very good.”

Because there were men who saw her brilliance first.

And men who noticed her before they noticed her brain.

He knew which kind he preferred.

Susie rested her head briefly against his shoulder.

“You know,” she murmured, “one day someone will flirt with her and mean it — and she’ll understand it.”

Toto stiffened, instantly horrified.

“No.”

Susie laughed.

“You can’t veto time.”

“I can try.”

She reached up, smoothed his collar, and said with fond resignation:

“You are impossible.”

“And I am fine with this,” he replied.

Later that night, as he turned off the lights and headed upstairs, Toto thought of his daughter — brilliant, analytical, utterly uninterested in human subtext — and finally smiled.

David Coulthard would survive.

Probably.

But the message had been delivered.

Not verbally.

Not explicitly.

Just simply:

1. Growth Spurt

Oscar had been lanky for a while — all elbows and knees, perpetually a size too large for his school uniform. But somewhere around sixteen, his body decided to catch up all at once. He shot up several inches in a single term, his shoulders broadening, his legs too long for desks that used to fit.

Felicity noticed first. Not because of the height itself, but because of the way he’d suddenly started bumping into doorframes and misjudging his own reach. Like he hadn’t quite recalibrated to his new size.

Which was how, one afternoon, while they were supposed to be “studying” in her room, the growth spurt made itself known in the worst possible way.

They were kissing, stretched out across her bed, Felicity’s hands curled in the collar of his t-shirt. Oscar leaned in a little too fast, a little too heavy — and his chin clipped her forehead with a solid thunk.

“Ow!” she gasped, pulling back, rubbing at the spot.

Oscar froze, mortified. “Oh my God, did I just headbutt you?!”

“Yes,” she said, though she was already biting back a laugh. “You absolutely did.”

“I’m so sorry,” he blurted, sitting up so quickly he nearly rolled off the bed. His ears went red. “I didn’t mean to—I don’t know where my arms are anymore—”

Felicity started laughing outright, the sting already fading. “You’re like a baby giraffe. All limbs, no coordination.”

Oscar groaned, covering his face with his hands. “This is so embarrassing.”

She tugged one hand away and kissed his cheek. “It’s fine. Occupational hazard of dating someone who’s growing like a weed.”

“Still,” he muttered. “I’m supposed to be suave.”

Felicity grinned. “You’ve never been suave. But you’re very sweet. That’s much better.”

Oscar exhaled, relieved, before admitting softly, “You’re going to have to teach me how to use all these extra inches. Before I hurt you again.”

Felicity smirked. “I’ll survive. Just… aim lower next time.”

His ears went even redder.

2. Skincare

The irony wasn’t lost on Felicity.

Her parents hadn’t cared if she was happy, hadn’t cared if she was eating properly, hadn’t cared that she’d been working herself to exhaustion just to keep her place at Haileybury.

But God forbid she had a blemish.

There had always been a row of glass jars and sleek bottles lined up on her dresser back in Singapore, imported creams that cost more than most students spent on textbooks. Her mother would check the levels like a general inspecting troops: Are you using them? Are you taking care of your face? You represent the family.

The first time Oscar broke out properly was right after exams at Haileybury. Stress, bad food, too many late nights — his skin flared up across his forehead and chin in angry red blotches. He kept tugging the hood of his jumper down like he thought no one would notice.

Felicity noticed. Of course she did.

She was sitting cross-legged on her dorm bed when he walked in, grumbling about revision and trying to hide his face. She closed her book and tilted her head.

“You’ve been picking at it.”

He flushed, pulling the hood lower. “It’s gross.”

“It’s normal,” she corrected. Then, after a pause, “And fixable.”

Oscar groaned. “Don’t start—”

But Felicity was already pulling a glass bottle out of her toiletries bag. Sleek packaging, weighty in the hand, with a label in French. She set it down on the desk in front of him.

“What’s this?”

“Skincare,” she said matter-of-factly. “Ridiculously overpriced. My mother insists I use it.”

Oscar eyed it like it might explode. “How overpriced?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Felicity.”

She sighed. “Three digits.”

He gaped. “For this? It’s the size of a juice shot!”

“Tell me about it.” She smirked. “But if my family insists on throwing money at my face, you may as well benefit too. Sit down.”

Before he could protest, she had him in her desk chair, head tilted back as she dabbed the serum across his skin with careful, practiced hands.

“Feels weird,” he muttered.

“Better than sandpaper,” she replied. “Trust me.”

He blinked up at her, brow furrowed. “You actually do this every night?”

“Apparently my worth as a human being is tied to whether or not I wrinkle prematurely,” she said dryly. “But in this case, it’ll help with the breakout.”

Oscar watched her for a moment, then smiled faintly. “Guess I’m the luckiest guy alive, huh? Dating someone with an unlimited skincare arsenal.”

She rolled her eyes, but her lips tugged up too. “You’re lucky I like you enough to share. Most people would have to sell a kidney to afford this bottle.”

He chuckled, leaning into her touch as she smoothed the last drops across his jaw. “Guess I’ll just owe you one, then.”

“You already owe me about ten,” she said, but her chest felt warm.

Because it was true — her family might have tried to buy perfection in bottles and creams, but Oscar was the only one who’d ever made her feel like she didn’t need it at all.

3. Periods

It was always the same cycle — no pun intended.

The months would start fine, and then, somewhere in the middle, her body would remind her just how fragile it really was.

Felicity hated it. The way her period would come late, or sometimes not at all. The cramps that felt sharper when it did, the way her whole body seemed to turn inward on itself, punishing her for the weight she never seemed to hold onto. She was tired of teachers hinting that she was “run down” or “not looking well,” tired of clutching her stomach under the desk and pretending she was fine.

Oscar was the only one who didn’t pretend not to notice.

She remembered one afternoon vividly. They were in the library, books spread across the table, the air buzzing with the quiet of a school that was full but subdued. She’d been curled over her math notes, trying not to cry because the cramps had hit like knives, and she hadn’t eaten more than a slice of toast all day because her appetite was gone.

“Fliss,” Oscar said quietly, nudging her pencil out of her hand. “You’re not okay.”

She tried to wave him off. “It’s just—”

“I know,” he said. “Period?”

She blinked at him, cheeks hot. Most boys their age would’ve stumbled or turned red, but Oscar just said it plainly, like he was asking if she’d finished her homework.

“Yes,” she admitted. “It’s bad this time.”

Without a word, he pulled his hoodie over his head, folded it, and slid it across the table. “Pillow. For the cramps.”

Felicity stared. “Oscar—”

“Just use it,” he said, already fishing through his bag. He pulled out a chocolate bar — the emergency stash he always carried — and slid that over too. “And eat. You’ll feel worse if you don’t.”

Her throat tightened. “You’re… kind of perfect, you know that?”

He shrugged, ducking his head like he always did when she got too close to the truth. “I just hate seeing you in pain.”

She curled up against the hoodie, the scent of him grounding her, and nibbled at the chocolate even though she wasn’t hungry. He sat there beside her, pretending to read, his hand finding hers under the table, thumb brushing her knuckles in quiet reassurance.

And Felicity thought, not for the first time, that maybe Oscar Piastri wasn’t just the boy she loved. Maybe he was the safest place in the world.

4. Hangover

Felicity woke up first.

Her head was pounding — not a sharp pain, more like someone had stuffed her skull with wet sand. Her mouth felt dry, her tongue heavy. She groaned, rolling over against her pillow.

Except it wasn’t just her pillow.

There was an arm around her waist. Heavy, warm, unfamiliar.

Her eyes cracked open and focused on the tangle beside her: Oscar. Lanky, gangly, all long limbs and messy curls, half-buried under her quilt. Still in yesterday’s t-shirt and jeans, one arm looped tight around her middle like he’d anchored himself there in the night.

Her attic room — hot, stuffy, walls sloping in around them — smelled faintly of cider and stale crisps.

Felicity blinked. Right. The party. Someone’s older brother had bought the drinks. They’d both sworn they weren’t drunk, just “buzzed.” Now, her skull felt like it might fall off if she moved too fast.

“Oscar,” she croaked, voice cracked.

He made a noise somewhere between a groan and a whimper, burying his face deeper into the pillow. “Don’t yell.”

“I wasn’t yelling.”

“You were.” He tightened his arm around her, groaning again. “Everything hurts.”

She huffed, half-amused despite the pounding in her head. “You’ve got your first hangover. Congratulations.”

“So do you,” he muttered.

It was true. Her stomach churned, her body felt wrung out. But she still smiled faintly, turning her head just enough to see his face. His curls were a mess, his lips chapped, his eyes shut tight against the light leaking through the skylight. He looked terrible.

And weirdly dear.

“Never drinking again,” Oscar mumbled.

“You said that last night.”

“This time I mean it.”

She snorted, then regretted it instantly as her head throbbed harder.

They lay in silence for a while, the attic humming, both too wrecked to move. Eventually, Felicity whispered, “Do you think your mum will kill you if she ever finds out?”

Oscar cracked one eye open, gave her a wry look. “Probably.” He closed his eye again, sighing. “Worth it, though.”

Felicity tilted her head, curious. “Why?”

“Because I’m here,” he said simply, tightening his arm around her again.

Her heart gave a strange, traitorous lurch. She blamed the hangover.

“Go back to sleep, Tin Man,” she whispered.

“Gladly.”

And for the first time that morning, the pounding in her head didn’t feel quite so bad.

5.  Sex Education

The gym smelled faintly of floor polish and too many bodies crammed into folding chairs.

Haileybury had decided, in its infinite wisdom, that “comprehensive sex education” was a thing best delivered in one excruciating two-hour block on a Tuesday afternoon. So the entire year sat lined up in rows, heads ducked, shoulders hunched, collectively willing the ground to swallow them whole.

Samir was already stifling laughter, his elbow in Thea’s ribs every time the instructor said intercourse. Lara had buried her face in her hands. Aarya, ever the overachiever, was taking notes like she expected a pop quiz. Jian looked like he was planning his escape route through the emergency exit.

It was mandatory. Which was the worst kind of school event, because it meant there was no way out.

“Sexual Health and Responsibility,” the flyer had said,  blazed across the top in Comic Sans. Thea had read it aloud at breakfast and nearly spat her cereal all over the table.

Oscar slouched in his seat, arms crossed, trying to look invisible. Felicity sat beside him, legs neatly crossed, hands folded on her notebook like she was carved out of composure. Only Oscar, who knew her better than anyone, could spot the faint twitch at the corner of her mouth — the exact sign that she was seconds away from breaking into laughter.

On his other side, Samir was already whispering. “Twenty bucks says they break out the bananas.”

“They always break out the bananas,” Thea whispered back from the row behind them. “This is Haileybury, not Hogwarts.”

“Shut up,” Lara hissed, though she was smirking.

At the front, the school nurse clicked to the next slide. Cartoon sperm danced across the screen in terrifying clip art. “It’s important to remember,” she intoned, “that consent and communication are the foundation of any healthy sexual relationship.”

Oscar felt heat climb up his neck. He darted a glance at Felicity, who was studiously taking notes she absolutely didn’t need. Active for months and here they were, pretending to be paragons of virtue.

Aarya leaned over from the next row, stage-whispering sarcastically, “Bet Piastri’s blushing ‘cause he’s never even kissed anyone.”

Jian snorted so loudly it earned them all a glare from a teacher.

Felicity didn’t move a muscle, didn’t even look up. “Projection is a terrible thing, Aarya,” she murmured under her breath, just loud enough for Oscar to hear.

Oscar had to cough to hide his laugh.

The nurse picked up a condom and rolled it onto the inevitable banana. A collective groan rose from the year group.

“See?” Samir muttered triumphantly. “Bananas.”

Oscar pressed the heel of his hand to his forehead, dying inside. If anyone looked too closely, they’d see it — the twitch in Felicity’s jaw, the way his ears burned, the fact that neither of them could meet the other’s eyes without risking giving everything away.

Thea leaned forward, chin in her hands. “Imagine actually needing this right now. Imagine.”

Felicity, without missing a beat, jotted down something in the margin of her notebook and angled it just slightly toward Oscar.

Pretend to look bored, not guilty.

His mouth quirked despite himself. He slouched further in his chair, eyes on the ceiling, trying to look like any other kid being tortured by mandatory sex ed.

+1: The old married couple

Study hall was supposed to be quiet. Emphasis on supposed to.

Instead, Samir had tipped his chair back on two legs and was drumming a pencil against his notebook, Aarya was doodling flowers in the margins of her maths homework, and Jian was arguing with Lara over whose turn it was to fetch snacks from the vending machine.

In the middle of all that chaos, Oscar and Felicity sat side by side, heads bent over a shared textbook. She was explaining a physics problem, calm and steady, while he wrote the solution in neat, slanted handwriting. Every so often, Felicity would stop to correct the way he held his pen, and he’d roll his eyes but adjust anyway.

“Look at them,” Samir muttered, nodding toward the pair. “Perfect bloody adults.”

Lara snorted. “They’re not sixteen, they’re thirty-six. Mortgage, meal plans, the whole thing.”

Oscar glanced up, frowning. “We’re doing homework.”

“Exactly!” Aarya said, throwing her hands up. “Homework. On time. With colour-coded notes.”

Felicity raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. “As opposed to what? Scribbling down half an answer in pencil and hoping the teacher can’t read it?”

“That’s called improvisation,” Jian said solemnly. “It’s a life skill.”

“Sure it is,” Felicity said, turning back to her page.

Thea leaned forward, chin in her hands, smiling. “I think it’s nice. You two already have the whole… stability thing figured out.”

Samir shook his head. “It’s unnatural. We’re all kids. They’re—” he gestured wildly at Oscar, who was quietly sliding Felicity’s water bottle closer so she didn’t forget to drink “—they’re like a middle-aged couple with matching slippers.”

Oscar groaned, covering his face. Felicity just capped her pen, perfectly calm.

“Well,” she said evenly, “someone has to act like the adults around here.”

The room fell silent for a beat, until Samir muttered, “Yeah, but did it have to be you two?”

Y/n is not a fantastic singer, but god knows that won't stop her from getting on a karaoke and singing her heart out once she's got a few drinks in her system.

Her friends encourage her to get up there and sing with them, y/n is belting out Teenage Dream by Katy Perry like her life depends on it.

It's something to just have fun about and enjoy in the moment but part of Lando's mind is stuck on seeing her in the little black dress she chose to wear tonight. The sheer black panels giving away she's got nothing under neath it. No bra, no underwear, just that dress and his mind is going to ungodly places of what he could do with that.

Y/n finally away from the mic along with her friends with everyone getting a very short respite on their ears before another group of very amateur singers take over. She frolics to Lando and plops down in his lap feeling him twitch underneath her.

"Really?"

"I'm not going to apologise for you having that type of effect on me." Lando sighs making y/n hum before she settles back on him regardless of what part of him is standing to attention. "You ok?"

"I feel like I could get out of here." Y/n smiles lightly before standing up. "Can we go?"

"Absolutely." Lando nods with a grin.

Despite their return to home, y/n had insisted they get some pizza for her to sober up and her insinuated promises for when they got home were thrown out the window as she put on music and started dancing around the apartment with her pizza in hand and again it's something so completely unsexual but Lando feels himself twitch regardless.

"Baby, you're not eating your pizza." Y/n states pausing her dancing.

"I'm not really hungry for pizza, baby." Lando sighs standing up and deciding he can't keep waiting for y/n to give him attention as he moves towards her and slides his hand up under the hem of her dress and exposes all as his pushes it up while his hands rest on her hips. "You don't even have to try for me to need you, baby."

-

Y/n being in a mood shouldn't be a turn on, especially not when it's Lando who is the cause behind it. But on this occasion it's less so that she's in a mood because she's mad and more just because something isn't happening the way she wants it to.

She's pouting.

It's only because the flight to go to Texas is so early and she did not want to wake up this morning. Admittedly Lando kept her up late last night and she rightly blames him for it because, as usual, he just couldn't keep his hands off of her.

Just the memories of last night and y/n's pouted lips are enough for him to twitch in his joggers. If they were alone then he'd make use of those pouty lips without hesitation.

"Baby, I'm sorry." Lando laughs as he pulls y/n into his lap once they can take their seatbelts off now they're in the air.

Y/n shouldn't be more attractive just because she's pouting and whining but Lando's body reacts to whatever it wants to react to and apparently that's doing something for him.

"But you always do it when we have to travel." Y/n whines making Lando smirk since he's not going to be stopping having sex with y/n just because they're travelling. Usually they don't have to travel so early and it's not a problem.

Y/n continues to whine at him, mumbling and grumbling about it while Lando's mind can't ignore the filthy images he's got stick in his head. Each one sending a bit more blood to his dick and away from his head.

"You're unbelievable." Y/n states feeling him getting hard against her thigh.

"Baby, I'm not apologising for having a girlfriend who I always want. That's a privilege that I'm never giving up." Lando chuckles while y/n sighs a little knowing she can't really argue with that.

-

9 out of 10 times y/n isn't intentionally turning Lando on, but sometimes he thinks she is trying to rile him up.

Like waking up to an empty bed, y/n never adjusts well to different timezones so that's no surprise. But when he lifts his head giving a quick look around the room to see if he can find her.

Then he spots her leaning over the railing over the balcony, clearly trying to look at something but she's visibly underdressed and he can see the goosebumps that are covering her skin from the chilly morning air.

Lando could've passed out from how quickly his blood rushes down to his dick. This woman is trying to kill him. He's certain of it.

The worst part is, if he wasn't cautious of the risk of fans seeing them, he'd go out there and fuck her against that railing without hesitation. God knows he's had her up against enough walls and windows from not being able to control himself. But out on a balcony is unchartered territory and too high risk.

"Baby." Lando calls out making her jump and turn. "What are you doing out there?"

Y/n's feet patter heavily against the floor as she rushes back inside and jumps onto the bed.

"Baby, you missed the most amazing sunrise. It was so pink and orange and so pretty." Y/n rambles before sliding down and lying with the McLaren driver who is still trying to ignore his morning wood that would've been less eager if not for his half naked girlfriend looking so fuckable over the railing.

"Yeah, that's a shame baby." Lando hums while y/n frowns at his slightly dismissing comment. "Did you get any pictures?"

He's just trying to distract himself to not ruin a sweet moment. Most of the time he wouldn't be so restrained but he does know when to let y/n just enjoy something innocent and sweet.

"No. I was trying to just...live in the moment." Y/n smiles making Lando hum and nod a little at her words.

"That's really good, baby." Lando smiles watching her brighten at such a simple comment and despite his hopes of distracting himself, he even feels himself twitch with need just from her smile.

Oscar was still a little grey around the edges when he landed in Woking.

The nausea had eased — mostly — but his appetite hadn’t come back properly, and his entire body felt like it had been wrung out and left in a hotel laundry bag somewhere between Baku and Miami. His joints ached. His head throbbed. His stomach still gave an occasional warning that it was not ready for normal food. He was hollow and tired in a way that went beyond jetlag.

And he wanted to cry with relief when he opened the door and heard her voice.

Not Felicity’s.

Bee’s.

“Mama, it’s Papa! I hear him!”

There was a thump and the rapid patter of toddler feet down the hallway, and then Bee launched herself at him with the kind of full-body trust only a two-and-a-half-year-old could manage. He caught her on instinct — always did — and staggered only a little under her weight.

“Hi, Bumblebee,” he said, voice rough, burying his face in her curls.

“You smell like plane,” she informed him, patting his cheeks with tiny hands.

“I was on a plane.”

“Did you bring me something?”

“I brought me,” he said, managing a small smile.

She seemed to consider this. Then nodded solemnly. “Okay. But next time, chocolate.”

He chuckled softly and kissed her forehead before she wiggled back down and ran off to announce that “Papa is HERE and he’s ALIVE.”

Oscar dropped his bags in the hallway and leaned against the wall, the tension in his shoulders just beginning to melt.

Felicity appeared a moment later, barefoot and in one of his old hoodies, a dish towel over one shoulder and hair twisted up in a messy clip. She didn’t speak, just crossed the space between them and folded herself into his arms.

It was that simple.

The moment her arms wrapped around him, he wasn’t in Miami anymore. Or Baku. Or any of the anonymous hotel rooms and rental cars and paddock tents he’d dragged himself through while pretending he didn’t feel like death.

He was home.

“You look awful,” she murmured into his chest.

“I feel awful.”

“I made soup. And put fresh sheets on the bed. Bee’s banned from jumping on you for twelve hours.”

“She’ll forget that in twelve minutes.”

“I know,” Felicity said, pulling back just enough to cup his face. Her eyes scanned him — dark, soft, fiercely observant. “But I’ll remind her.”

Oscar didn’t know how to explain what it meant — how easy she made it. Not that any of it was easy, exactly. But she made the transition so seamless. The decompression. The letting go. She never demanded stories or forced normalcy onto him after a race weekend. She just… built the space for him to be tired and slow and real.

“I missed you,” he said simply.

“I missed you too.”

“And the soup.”

“Obviously.”

They moved into the kitchen, where Bee was now asking a breadstick politely to “be brave in the soup.” Felicity handed Oscar a bowl without fanfare.

And when he sat down with Bee curled up beside him, still narrating the soup’s emotional journey, he realized just how much of himself he only felt in this space. In this small, warm kitchen. In the soft noise of family. In the steadiness of Felicity’s hand on his back.

Baku had left him drained. Miami had pushed him to the edge. But home — home made sense.

She made sense.

***

Bee had fallen asleep in the middle of their bedtime story, her little hand curled tight around Felicity’s shirt like she was afraid she might float away in her dreams. She was getting so long now, legs dangling off the edge of the mattress, but she still tucked herself into Felicity’s side like the baby she’d once been.

Felicity smoothed her curls back and pressed a kiss to her temple. “Goodnight, Bumblebee.”

A sleepy hum. A soft, “Night, Mama.”

By the time she tiptoed back down the stairs, the house had gone quiet again. The soup bowls were still on the counter, the faint hum of the dishwasher in the background. And in the living room—

Oscar.

Half-sprawled on the couch, one arm over his eyes, still in his travel clothes, and looking approximately two minutes away from becoming a permanent fixture of the furniture. His shoes were kicked off but his socks were mismatched. His hair was sticking up at angles that screamed both “long-haul flight” and “too tired to care.”

Felicity paused in the doorway and took him in. Her husband. Her ridiculous, exhausted, stubborn husband who would absolutely sleep right there if she let him.

She did not intend to let him.

Quietly, she crossed the room and tugged at his sleeve. “No.”

He cracked one eye open. “Huh?”

“No,” she repeated, firmer now.

Oscar blinked, dazed. “I’m… not doing anything.”

“That’s exactly the problem,” she said, tugging again. “You’re not sleeping here like some overgrown college student. You need a bath.”

He groaned. “I just want to close my eyes for five minutes.”

“Five minutes becomes five hours and then your spine hates you,” Felicity said flatly. “Up.”

“Fliss…”

“Up, Oz.”

He peeked at her through his lashes, a faintly petulant look on his face that made him look about twelve. “Bossy.”

“Married,” she corrected, tugging harder until he sat up with a dramatic sigh. “Come on.”

He shuffled after her like a sulky toddler, muttering under his breath about how he was fine, he didn’t need fussing over, he’d survived back-to-back race weekends and a stomach bug.

Felicity ignored all of it.

By the time she got him into the bathroom, he was rubbing his eyes and swaying on his feet. She turned on the taps, tested the temperature, added a handful of bath salts to help with the soreness she knew was in his shoulders.

Oscar blinked blearily. “You’re drawing me a bath.”

“Yes.”

“This feels… decadent.”

“This feels necessary,” she corrected, pushing his hoodie off his shoulders and pressing a kiss between his shoulder blades. “Clothes off.”

He gave a weak laugh. “You’re very commanding for someone who’s five foot nothing.”

She swatted him lightly. “Into the bath, Piastri. Now.”

When he finally slid into the warm water, she saw it—the moment his whole body loosened, like someone had flipped a switch. The tension in his jaw eased. His shoulders dropped.

Felicity crouched beside the tub, brushing damp hair off his forehead. “See? Not so bad.”

Oscar cracked a smile, eyes half-shut. “You win.”

“I always do.”

He reached for her hand under the water, fingers warm and wrinkled against hers. “You make coming home easy.”

Felicity’s chest squeezed. “That’s the point.”

Oscar was silent for a few minutes, sinking lower into the bath until the water lapped just under his chin, eyes half-closed like he might slip under and sleep there forever. Felicity stayed crouched beside him, her fingers resting lightly on his arm, watching the tension finally bleed out of his shoulders.

Then he cracked one eye open and gave her a lazy, crooked grin.

“Get in.”

She blinked. “Excuse me?”

“Get in with me.” His voice was slow, thick with exhaustion, and a little pleading in that way that made her weak sometimes. “Feels weird without you.”

Felicity raised an eyebrow. “Oscar. You have food poisoning hangover, three days of flights in your system, and I guarantee you have less core strength than our two-year-old right now. You are not up for what you’re thinking.”

He had the audacity to pout. “I wasn’t thinking that. Much.”

“Mhm.”

“Just… want you close,” he mumbled, eyes fluttering shut again. “Feels better when you’re close.”

Her heart twisted, the irritation melting into something soft and warm. He sounded so young when he was this tired. So hers.

“You’re ridiculous,” she muttered.

“I’m right.”

“You’re still ridiculous.”

“Still right,” he said, the corner of his mouth curling.

She sighed, long-suffering, and stood to peel off her sweater. His head tilted just enough to watch her.

“Don’t look so smug,” she warned. “This isn’t for you. This is so you don’t drown when you fall asleep.”

“Yes, Fliss,” he said, and if she didn’t know how close to passing out he was, she might’ve smacked him with a washcloth.

When she slid into the bath behind him, he immediately leaned back into her chest like he’d been waiting all day to do it. She wrapped her arms around his shoulders without thinking, tucking her chin against the damp hair at his temple.

For a moment, neither of them spoke. The only sound was the soft ripple of water and the faint hum of the pipes.

Then Felicity glanced down at his hair, flattened and curling at the ends from steam and travel sweat. She clicked her tongue.

“You’re getting your hair washed,” she announced.

He made a noise of protest that sounded suspiciously like a sleepy whine. “Fliss…”

“Don’t care. You smell like airplane and street circuit and pain.”

“You love me,” he mumbled.

“That’s the only reason you’re not being hosed off in the garden.”

He laughed — soft, breathy — and let her tilt his head back. She worked her fingers gently through his hair, massaging shampoo into the roots. The sound he made was somewhere between a sigh and a groan, and she felt his whole body go heavy against her, trusting and pliant.

“You’re not allowed to enjoy this so much,” she teased.

“Not my fault you have magic hands,” he murmured, eyes fully closed now.

By the time she rinsed the last of the shampoo away, he’d gone completely boneless against her, a sleepy little smile tugging at his lips.

Felicity pressed a kiss to the crown of his head. “Told you you weren’t up for anything else.”

He made a noise that might’ve been agreement, might’ve been protest, but he didn’t move.

Getting Oscar out of the bath was like dealing with a very tall, very floppy toddler.

“Come on, Oz,” Felicity said gently, draining the water. “Up.”

He groaned without opening his eyes. “Don’t wanna.”

“You sound exactly like Bee.”

“Bee’s smart,” he mumbled, letting his head loll back against the edge.

Felicity rolled her eyes, grabbing a towel and bracing herself. “Okay, here we go. One, two—”

He let her haul him up with all the grace of a drunk giraffe. Water dripped onto the bath mat. He swayed. She steadied him with one hand against his chest.

“Sit,” she ordered, perching him on the closed toilet lid while she wrapped the towel around his shoulders. “Do you want pajamas or are you about to faceplant into the duvet like this?”

“Both,” he said, voice soft and slurred with sleep.

“Of course.”

By the time she got him to the bedroom, he was half-asleep on his feet. She tugged the sheets back and guided him down, and he collapsed into the mattress like it was the first solid thing he’d touched in weeks.

“Fliss…” His voice was muffled against the pillow.

“I’m here.”

“Love you.”

Her chest tightened, a warm ache under her ribs. “Love you too, Oz.”

She brushed his damp hair back from his forehead and pulled the covers up over his shoulders. He was already gone, breathing slow and steady, one hand curled loosely over where her side of the bed would be.

Felicity stood for a moment in the dim light, just watching him. Her husband, wrung out and wrecked, finally safe.

She turned off the lamp and slid in beside him, curling up against his back. His body shifted instinctively, fitting into hers like it had a hundred times before.

Within seconds, the house was quiet except for the soft sound of their breathing.

***

The first thing he noticed when he woke up was the light.

It was soft, warm, angled just so through the curtains — midday light. Midday. Which meant he’d slept nearly twelve hours straight.

The second thing was the quiet. No Bee humming off-key to herself in the hallway, no tiny feet thundering across the floor. Just… stillness.

He rolled over and found Felicity sitting cross-legged on the edge of the bed, a mug of tea in her hands, hair falling loose around her shoulders. She smiled when she saw him blink blearily up at her.

“Hey, Oz.”

“Midday?” His voice was gravelly, barely there.

“Midday.” She handed him a glass of water. “Bee’s at kindergarten. You were dead to the world. I wasn’t about to wake you.”

He took a long sip, then set the glass aside and leaned back against the pillows, letting himself breathe. For the first time since Baku, he didn’t feel like his body was trying to fight him.

“You look better,” Felicity said softly, eyes scanning his face. “Less like you fought a street circuit and lost.”

“I still feel like I lost,” he admitted, and she chuckled, reaching over to brush his hair out of his eyes.

The simple touch made something tight in his chest ease. He caught her hand and held it against his cheek.

“I didn’t get to do it properly yesterday,” he said quietly.

“Do what?”

“Come home.” He shifted, pulling her closer until she was half-draped over him, her mug abandoned on the nightstand. “This. You.”

Her breath hitched the tiniest bit when he kissed her — slow, soft, with all the exhaustion of the last two weeks finally burning off in the heat of having her in his arms.

Felicity smiled against his mouth. “You’re still recovering. This might not be a great idea.”

“I’m not asking for much,” he murmured, hands sliding over her back, grounding himself in the familiar curve of her waist. “Just… let me feel like I’m home.”

She didn’t argue after that.

The kiss deepened, still gentle but sure, the kind of intimacy that wasn’t about urgency or need but about remembering. About them.

There was nothing flashy about it — no fevered desperation, no rough edges — only the slow, careful fit of two people who’d done this a hundred times, and who’d long since learned to love the comfort as much as the spark. Felicity’s hands were warm on his jaw, and he could taste the hint of tea on her tongue, and when she curled closer, he felt every mile he’d traveled finally collapse into a single point.

For once, Oscar let himself stay there. He didn’t think about qualifying or lap times or the next city on the schedule. He didn’t count the hours until his next flight. He just breathed her in, soft and steady, and let her fill the hollow places the season had made in him.

“What if you do all the work?” he asked her as she pulled back, his hands creeping underneath the soft shirt she wore.

She raised an eyebrow, eyes glinting with mischief and something darker, something he recognized from years ago in that attic room in Haileybury.

She’d always loved taking over when he was uncertain, shaky underneath. Still remembered that first time that she had decided that he wasn’t rough enough with her for her liking and had simply flipped him over onto his back and taken over.

He saw her remember, too, in the sly upturn at the edge of her mouth. She kissed him again and then drew away just enough to straddle his hips, the mattress dipping under her slight weight. She looked him over with a nurse’s scrutiny—was he too pale, still feverish, too empty?—but apparently decided he was salvageable because she tugged her shirt off in a single practiced motion and dropped it by the bed.

Oscar had seen her a thousand times this way. But the sight was always new, always a shock to his system. The lines of her body, the way she stretched her arms above her head. The perfect porcelain skin, only interrupted by the violent scar that cut her belly in two.

He would never be able to look at that scar and not remember what it had nearly cost them.

It wasn’t a normal c-section scar. That would have been horizontal, faint… this one was vertical, up to her belly button. This one had been made by doctors in an desperate attempt to not only safe a baby but also her mother.

It had worked. But it had left it’s scars.

He always wanted to touch it—sometimes he did, at night, or when she was half asleep, hands coasting reverently over the uneven seam.

She reached for his hands and set one on her waist, the other along the curve of her hipbone. There—anchored. Present. No more ghosts. Then she pulled out her hairclip, long dark, silky straight hair, cascading around them as she leant forward to kiss him.

“I am here,” she promised him fiercely. “I am here, Oz.”

He might’ve said something, but it was lost in her mouth, in the heat of her moving against him. He dug his hands into the small of her back, as though if he let go she’d get up and leave, vanish into the next thing, and he’d be left with only the ghost of her warmth. She braced her hands on either side of his head, hair falling around his shoulders, soft as silk and heavy with the smell of her shampoo.

He let her lead, let her draw it out, let himself be gentle back. There was always violence in qualifying, in the race, in the way he lived every moment between the lights going out and the chequered flag. But this was the opposite of that. This was patience. This was the grace of not needing to prove anything.

Still, after two weeks of only his own hand for company and his wife back in England, it took scarcely little to feel himself harden.

She noticed, laughing quietly as she reached down, stroking him once, deliberate and slow.

She stroked him again, and Oscar found himself arching into her hand, desperate and shameless, all his old restraint lost. He tried to swim up, to reach for her, but the world remained syrupy and slow around the edges, limbs heavy from sleep. Felicity smiled—he could feel it against his neck as she bit lightly at his skin, then soothed the mark with her tongue. Her breath was hot and damp in the hollow of his throat.

He ran his hands over her back, counting the vertebrae. His palms mapped their old route down to her hips, memorizing the shape of her, the way she fit perfectly when she folded against him.

Felicity pressed a kiss against the corner of his mouth, hands scrabbling at clothing, pulling it off and out of the way.

He let her take both their pants at once, couldn’t help laughing when she got them stuck at the ankles, and she laughed with him, dragged them off, then pressed her palm flat to his thigh in a way that made his skin jump. Her skin was still sleep-warm, softer than he remembered—she’d lost a little weight while he was gone, a fact he registered with a pang of guilt, made concrete by the sharp new angle in her hip.

His hands, greedy now, slipped up gathering her closer, searching for the pieces of her he’d missed: the old scar above her shoulder blade, the stubborn spar of muscle in her thigh, the hidden constellation of freckles on her back.

She reached for his cock again, stroking him once more, a groan escaping him as he tried his best not to come all over his wife’s hand just from this. He wasn’t 16 anymore. He knew better now.

But he also hadn’t had Felicity in more than 2 weeks, and their trysts before had been quick and fitted in around bedtime and Bee waking up in the morning, the sound dampening in their pre-war farmhouse not up to par. Felicity was still working on that.

Another stroke. “Fliss,” he groaned. “Be nice, please.”

She rewarded him with a slow, wicked squeeze and then shifted forward, catching his mouth in another kiss, hard and promising. “You need to suffer a little. Build some character,” she murmured, and he mumbled a curse into her collarbone but didn’t protest.

She braced herself on his chest, hair sliding around her face, and guided him in with a slow, grinding roll of her hips, taking him inch by inch. She moved above him, slow and measured—doctor’s precision, dancer’s poise—her breath cycling through faster and faster until it matched the stutter in his own chest.

He tried to make it last, burying his face in her shoulder, seeking the pulse there, anchoring himself. But she knew him too well.

“You are going to come for me, Oz?” she asked him, her voice slightly breathless, a teasing lilt to her voice.

He almost lost it then, the words shorting a circuit deep in him. “God, yes, just—” He cut off, every muscle tensed, the world narrowing to the place where they fitted together.

She set a steady rhythm, unhurried but relentless, grinning down at him, the only person in the world who ever bested him in a contest of will. He held on, knuckles white against her thighs, biting down the surge that threatened to wreck him.

Felt her—God, she was so wet, so tight—she squeezed around him on purpose, milking him, and any sense of self-preservation evaporated.

“Oh, fuck, Fliss,” he said, shuddering as he finally gave in, hips bucking up, the two of them moving perfectly together, locked into the kind of precision that only came from years of practice.

She chased her own pleasure, hips tilting until she caught the angle just right, and he could feel her shudder above him as she let herself go, the tension crackling down her spine, her body squeezing tight around him, gripping him in oiled silk.

He forced his eyes open, wanting to watch his wife come apart. There was nothing more beautiful in the world than Felicity in the throes of pleasure, her body taut and incandescent, eyes shut, mouth parted around a gasp that was half-laughter, half-sob. Her spine curved as her body clenched down onto his.

It was enough that he came apart less than a minute later, a soundless gasp. He gave a shaky laugh at that, braced himself against the sheets, and let go. White-hot, all at once, the build and break of it like cresting a hill at two hundred and plummeting down the other side. He clung to her hips, rode it out, head tipped back into the pillow with a sound he would never admit to making.

Felicity slumped forward, resting her forehead on his shoulder, the two of them catching their breath together, skin cooling and sticking in the late morning light. Oscar traced the line of her spine, felt the faint tremor of her muscles underneath. She was always like this afterward—quiet, boneless. She liked to be held, especially after.

He wrapped his arms around her, tucking her against his chest, and they lay there in the golden morning light, her hair damp against his skin, his heart thumping, electric and alive. The only sound was the ticking of the old radiator under the window and the faint murmur of a car passing somewhere out on the road.

“I missed you,” she said, and he felt every lost moment in the flatness of her voice.

He tightened his arms around her, holding her so close it almost hurt. “I’m here,” he said, the echo of her voice in his own, and then, because he needed her to believe it: “I’m not going anywhere.”

She gave a soft huff. “Liar.” It was said with all the affection in the world. She smoothed his hair. “We have…” she squinted at the clock, “about an hour and a half before we have to leave for pickup.”

Oscar ran a thumb along the ridge of her scar. “That’s plenty of time to do absolutely nothing.” He liked the sound of that, the idea of letting the day crawl over them, uninterrupted, just a lazy, luminous hour and a half before the sprint of real life resumed.

She made a noise, half purr, half groan, then rolled off to the side and tucked herself into his chest, knees drawn up beneath her as if she were making herself as small as possible, as if she were still the tiny, severe-looking girl who slept folded tight as a letter at the foot of his bed, brittle as an origami crane.

He didn’t let her get away with it. He curled around her until their limbs tangled, until she was caught between his arms and he could press a line of kisses down the back of her neck.