i-magines

The two weeks between São Paulo and Las Vegas were a quiet, agonizing blur.

You spent most of it in your apartment. The championship followed you anyway. Hard not to, when you lived in Monaco and your allegedly devoted boyfriend was two streets over.

Lando's knock came on a Tuesday. Quiet, like he wasn't sure he'd be welcome.

You let him in.

Within minutes the weight of everything collapsed into the only reasonable outlet available: talking for hours, laughing at things that weren't entirely funny, and eventually ending up in bed — because that's what you and Lando did when the world got too messy and neither of you wanted to say it out loud.

He pinned your wrists above your head, his body sinking into yours with a sudden, needy desperation. But even as his movements grew rough, he would lean down to press lingering kisses to your jaw, whispering your name like a prayer between breaths.

"Fuck, you feel so good," he groaned against your neck, his hips driving into you with a heavy rhythm that had you arching off the mattress, crying out his name.

He paused for a fraction of a second, staring down at your flushed face with dark eyes, a wicked smirk cutting through his features. "Look at me. Tell me who you're taking all this for."

"You—goddammit, Lando!” You whimpered, your fingers digging into his shoulders as he picked up the pace, completely ruthless. ”Only you," you gasped out, the pleasure blinding you completely.

He let out a soft laugh, leaning down to capture your lips in a messy, open-mouthed kiss before whispering right against your skin, "That's right, love. No one else takes you like this."

He held you like you were the only solid thing left in his chaotic world, moving against you with a confident possessiveness that made you entirely helpless under his weight. It was a familiar rhythm — a private bubble where he could be completely unraveled and safe.

But as you locked your legs around his waist, riding the wave of his release, a quiet ache settled deep in your chest. 

You couldn't stop the sudden memory of Oscar’s bruising grip from bleeding into the dark, a haunting reminder that this private sanctuary was no longer just yours and Lando's to keep.

Afterwards, you were lying with your head on his chest, the room quiet.

"We should tell Oscar," you said. "About us. What we actually are."

Lando's thumb stopped moving on your arm.

"No."

"He's breaking, Lan. Lily is gone. He thinks—"

"I know what he thinks," Lando said. "And I don't give a fuck."

He sat up slightly, looking at you with that expression — fond and immovable at the same time.

"I like Oscar. He's a good teammate." A pause. "And knowing he's losing his mind wanting what's mine? I'd be lying if I said it didn't get me going."

You stared at him.

He had the self-awareness to look slightly embarrassed. Slightly.

"I'm not giving him the fuel to just take you when nobody's watching," he continued. "Mark already wanted to cut you loose after the photo. Said you'd become a liability."

"What?"

"I told him no. Obviously." His expression went flat at the memory. "You're not going anywhere as long as it's up to me."

"I don't want to leave you," you said. "I love you. As a friend, as whatever this is."

"I know." He pulled you back down. "And whatever you want from me in the long run — it's yours. Contract or not."

"Don't make promises like that."

"I mean them." He looked at you, completely unguarded for once. "So keep our secret. If the media starts digging at this point in the championship—" He stopped. Restarted, harder. "Oscar stays in the dark. He can share you in the shadows if he wants you that bad. But for the world? You're my girl."

You didn't argue.

Because the thing about Lando was that he meant every single word.

He just couldn't see what any of it looked like from the outside.

You'd long since stopped expecting him to.

~*~

Two days later, Nevada.

Las Vegas was neon and dry heat and the end-of-season energy where everyone was exhausted and pretending otherwise. The McLaren garage had the atmosphere of a house where two people aren't speaking but haven't decided who leaves yet.

Lando and Oscar's interactions had been reduced to professional nods that somehow still managed to feel like threats.

The FIA press conference room was freezing. Appropriate.

You stood in the wings. Lando on stage — immaculate, comfortable, built for being looked at. Oscar beside him — arms crossed, eyes on the back wall, ignoring his teammate's existence with impressive dedication.

A journalist reached for the mic.

"Are you boys ready to share the asphalt this weekend, or is someone going to try to push the other out of bounds?"

Lando leaned forward. Easy smile. Eyes flicking briefly to you. "We always try to respect each other's space on track. Team first, right?"

Oscar didn't wait for the microphone.

"We've been sharing a lot of things lately," he said, voice flat. His eyes drifted to the side of the stage and found yours. "The track is the easy part."

Amused whispers through the room. They thought he meant data or something similar.

Lando's smile froze at the corners. Two seconds of very controlled stillness before he leaned back, smile returning in a different shape entirely.

"Sharing is great for the team," Lando said. "But Oscar knows that when it comes to the things that actually matter — I don't give up what's mine. Some things stay out of reach. No matter how close you think you are."

Oscar leaned forward, forearms on the table.

"Knowing when to fight for something and when to let it go is what makes a good driver," he said. "Some people just don't realize when they've already lost control."

"I have full control, mate. On the track and everywhere else."

"Good," Oscar murmured. Ghost of a smile. "Let's see how long that lasts under pressure."

In the wings, your nails were leaving marks in your own palms.

The ice they were standing on had never been thinner.

Neither of them looked down.

~*~

The engineering room was supposed to be about the disqualification.

It was not about the disqualification.

Andrea Stella stood at the head of the table trying to maintain professional order. Zak Brown was in the corner on his phone, voice low and frantic.

Lando sat on the edge of the table, race suit half-unzipped, knuckles white around his balaclava. Oscar stood opposite him, arms crossed, still zipped to the throat.

You were by the door. Trying to be furniture. Failing, as usual.

"It's a team mistake," Andrea said, calm Italian accent working hard. "We own it, we analyze it, we move on."

"Sure," Lando said, almost bored. "Team mistake."

He looked at Oscar.

"While we're owning things — you want to tell me what that press conference was about today?"

Oscar said nothing.

"Because I thought it was pretty fucking clear," Lando continued, tone still light, which was somehow worse than shouting. "To everyone in that room. Including the journalists."

"Lando," Andrea said quietly.

"No, I'm curious." Lando tilted his head. "What exactly are we sharing, Oscar? Since you brought it up."

Oscar's jaw tightened. "Drop it."

"I don't think I will, actually."

"Lando—"

"You sat up there in front of cameras and said—"

Oscar moved. Not toward Andrea. Not toward the door.

Toward Lando.

He crossed the room fast and grabbed Lando's collar, walking him back into the lockers hard enough to rattle the door.

"I said drop it," Oscar said. His voice was completely even. That was the frightening part.

Lando grabbed his wrists. Didn't push him off. Just held them.

"There it is," Lando said quietly. Almost to himself.

For a second neither of them moved.

Oscar let go. His breathing was the only thing giving him away — shallow, too controlled, the kind that meant the opposite of calm.

He picked up his helmet from the table.

Looked at you.

One second. The same raw, unguarded thing you'd seen in Texas — but heavier now. Older. Like it had been carried a long way.

Then he walked out.

The door clicked shut behind him.

Lando straightened his collar slowly. Didn't look at anyone.

"Are we done?" he asked Andrea.

Andrea looked at him for a long moment.

"Yes," he said. "We're done."

~*~

The paddock parking lot was quieter than it had any right to be.

You'd slipped out through the back exit looking for air, and found none. The neon of Vegas bled colorful over the rooftops. Your hands wouldn't stop shaking.

The McLaren empire is burning, and you are the match.

You didn't hear him coming.

One second you were alone. The next, Oscar was there — stepping into your path with the same precision he used to block a door on track. Not grabbing. Not rushing. Just... positioned. Inescapable.

"Oscar—"

"Don't." His voice was quiet. That was worse than shouting.

He looked terrible. Still in his race suit, half-unzipped. Eyes that hadn't slept properly since Miami.

"You knew," he said. "In São Paulo. You knew he knew, and you let me walk into that hallway anyway."

You opened your mouth.

"Don't apologize," he cut in. "I don't want that either."

He stepped closer. Not touching you. Just shrinking the space until you could feel the heat radiating off him, the barely-contained energy of a man who had just lost a race, a championship lead, and whatever version of reality he'd been operating in for the past six months.

"I destroyed my relationship," Oscar said. Low. Measured. Like he was reading off a damage report. "I nearly wrecked both our cars. I have been losing my mind, systematically, since Miami — and the whole time, the two of you—"

He stopped himself.

Jaw tight. Eyes closed for exactly two seconds.

When he looked at you again, something had shifted. The anger was still there, but underneath it was something more dangerous.

Clarity.

"Was any of it real?" he asked. "Me and you. Was that real, or was that part of it too?"

"Oscar—"

"Just answer the question."

"It was real," you said. "You were real."

He held your gaze for a long moment. Like he was running the data. Like he was deciding whether to believe you or file it under things she says.

Then, slowly, he stepped back.

"Go back inside," he said.

"Oscar—"

"Please." The word came out rough. The closest thing to breaking you'd ever heard from him. "Before I do something that makes this worse."

You didn't move.

His eyes dropped to your mouth for one unguarded second. Then back up.

"I'm serious," he said. "Go."

You went.

Behind you, you heard nothing. No footsteps. No door.

Just Oscar, standing very still in the dark, doing the only thing he was ever actually good at.

Holding the line.

~*~ 

You found Lando sitting on the floor.

Not the bed.

The floor, back against the wall, race suit still on, helmet on the carpet beside him like he'd dropped it and never found the energy to pick it up.

He looked up when you came in. Didn't say anything.

You sat down beside him. Let your shoulder touch his.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

The Las Vegas strip neon through the curtains, relentlessly cheerful. Outside, someone was celebrating. Probably several someones.

"I hate this city," Lando said finally.

"I know."

"I hate the track. I hate the lights."

He let his head fall back against the wall, eyes closing.

"I hate I said things I knew would land," he said quietly. "In there, I was fishing and I caught something and now I don't know what to do with it."

You didn't answer.

"That's probably worse," he added.

He reached over without looking, found your hand, held it. Not tightly. Just held it.

"You okay?" he asked.

The question caught you off guard. He was the one sitting on the floor of a hotel room in Vegas after being disqualified from an essencial race — and he was asking if you were okay.

"I'm fine," you said.

He opened one eye. "You're not."

"Neither are you."

"No," he agreed, closing it again. "Neither am I."

You thought about the parking lot. About Oscar standing very still in the dark. About "was any of it real" and the specific way his voice had sounded when he said it — like he already knew the answer and was asking anyway.

You didn't say any of that.

"Stay with me," Lando said quietly. Not a question.

"Yeah," you said. "I'm staying."

He didn't move. You didn't move.

The city outside kept going without you, loud and indifferent and entirely unbothered by the quiet wreckage of the two people sitting on the floor of a hotel room in the dark.

All the half-truths settled quietly between you, comfortable as a habit.

~*~

When you pushed the door to Lando's suite in Doha open that night, the silence inside wasn't tight or aggressive.

It was the lazy haze of late-night alcohol and a war that had temporarily run out of ammunition.

The scene made you think you were seeing things.

Lando was sitting on the edge of the unmade bed in sweatpants. Oscar was a few feet away, sitting backwards on a desk chair, forearms resting on its backrest. A second simulator setup had appeared in the room at some point.

Empty beer bottles on the table. Half-opened bag of chips. Two boys who were simply too tired to sustain a war.

"Look who decided to show up," Lando murmured, a lazy smile breaking across his face. "I told you she makes the most out of all this traveling, Osc."

Oscar's eyes flicked to yours. He took a slow sip of his beer and said nothing.

You closed the door behind you. Let your eyes linger on the pair of them.

"I brought him up here," Lando explained, pushing himself off the bed and wrapping an arm around your waist. He pressed a warm kiss to your temple. "Decided the garage was too small for two drivers acting like total pricks. We had a talk. Sort of."

"We agreed Las Vegas was a disaster," Oscar said from the desk.

"Exactly." Lando kissed your temple again and grabbed his keycard from the counter. "And since I am trying to be a better teammate and I am currently out of alcohol — I'm going to raid the fridge. Don't do anything stupid while I'm gone."

The door clicked shut.

The easy banter evaporated instantly.

You leaned your back against the door, arms crossed. Oscar set his beer down.

"I owe you an apology," he said. "For the way I handled things. I snapped and it was selfish."

"I'm not angry about it," you said, stepping into the room. "You broke under pressure because you hate losing control. I get it."

Oscar let out a short, strained laugh. "I mean — I might still be losing it. But sitting here, drinking his beer, waiting for you—" He shook his head. "I thought I hated all of this."

He sounded like someone confessing something they hadn't planned to.

"And now?" you asked.

He looked at you for a long moment.

"I thought it would pass."

A pause.

"It didn't."

The door slid back open before you could answer. Lando, fresh six-pack in hand.

"The bartender tried to tell me the lounge was closed," he announced, tossing a cold bottle to Oscar, who caught it without looking. "I told him it was for championship data analysis. He bought it."

You took the bottle Lando held out, grateful for the interruption. Grateful for the cold.

For the next hour, the room settled into a strange, intoxicating rhythm. You on the floor between the bed and the desk, backs against the mattress, sharing beers. The conversation loose and easy — the kind that only happened when people were too tired to perform.

They were enjoying each other. The old familiarity still there despite everything. The affection of two people who had genuinely liked each other before all of this made it complicated.

But underneath it, something else.

Every time Lando reached for his drink, his shoulder brushed yours deliberately. Every time Oscar laughed, his eyes found you first over the rim of his bottle.

Both of them testing, quietly. Realizing, maybe, that the anger didn't have to be a wall.

"Alright," Lando said eventually, pushing himself up from the floor and dropping into the simulator chair. "Oscar's telemetry on the virtual lap is genuinely offensive. I need to beat it."

You moved to stand.

Lando's hand caught your wrist.

"Where do you think you're going?" He pulled you down onto his lap, a wicked spark in his eyes. "Sit. Extra ballast."

You settled sideways across his thighs, his arm coming around your waist to grip the wheel, bare chest warm against your shoulder.

Across the room, Oscar went very still.

"You're cheating, Lando," he said, voice careful, though his eyes were pinned entirely to the way your skirt had ridden up slightly.

"Home advantage, mate."

The screen flashed green. Lando tore down the virtual straight.

He was a disaster. Every corner, your weight shifted against him — and every time it did, his grip on your waist tightened, fingers digging into your skin, trying to concentrate on the track and failing spectacularly.

"Fuck, love" he muttered, missing an apex by a mile. "You're doing that on purpose, if you keep moving against me like that—"

"I'm just sitting here."

"Terrifyingly," he replied.

Oscar watched every second of it. The jealousy was there — familiar by now, almost comfortable in its consistency. But underneath it, something new. A darker, quieter curiosity he wasn't entirely sure what to do with.

He was looking at you the way he looked at a corner he hadn't mapped yet.

The screen flashed red. LAP INVALIDATED.

Lando threw his head back laughing. Looked over at Oscar.

"Your turn, mate."

Oscar stood. Walked over without hurry. His eyes on you the entire time.

"Get up," he said.

You rose. Lando slid out with an amused grin, stepping back against the wall, crossing his arms. For the first time, watching his teammate look at you didn't make him want to throw something.

It made him curious. Which was either growth or a problem. Possibly both.

Oscar sat down. Looked up at you.

"Sit."

You did.

The contrast was immediate. Where Lando was warm and loose, Oscar was solid and still — like something that had decided not to move and meant it. His hands came to your waist, grip firm, and he loaded the track without looking at the screen.

"Don't move," he said near your ear. A shiver went straight down your spine, which was extremely inconvenient. "I don't lose focus as easily as him."

He engaged first gear.

He didn't look at the screen once.

From the wall, Lando watched Oscar's hand slip slightly lower on your thigh and felt something shift in his chest that he wasn't ready to name yet.

His phone buzzed on the nightstand.

He read the screen, and smiled as he dodged the bullet of dealing with this tonight.

"A good friend of mine just landed in Doha," he announced, grabbing his jacket. He looked at you directly, eyes dropping briefly to Oscar's hands on your waist. "Do you mind?"

"Go," you said. "Have fun."

He walked over, pressed a quick kiss to your lips, gave Oscar a handshake.

"Don't do anything I wouldn't," he said. Then, at the door: "Text you later, love."

The suite clicked shut behind him.

The room felt twice as small.

Oscar let go of your waist slowly, like he was allowing himself the full length of the moment before it ended. Then he stood.

"The hell is wrong with you people," he murmured, staring at the closed door.

He knew exactly where Lando was going. He knew what kind of ‘friend’ this was.

The hypocrisy of it made his stomach turn.

Then he looked at you.

He was no better. He was sitting in Lando's room, drinking Lando's beer, and minutes ago he'd been hard against Lando's girl with Lando's full permission.

All three of them. The same sick, circular logic.

"I need air," Oscar said. "Come to the beach with me. Just to walk."

~*~ 

The sand was cool and damp. Doha glittered in the distance.

You walked in silence for a while — shoes off, water rushing over your feet, the championship and the team and the simulator seat temporarily suspended somewhere behind you.

Oscar broke it first.

"How does this even work?" he asked. Not loud. Just honest. He stopped walking, turning to face you, the distant lights catching the edge of his jaw. "How do you sit there, feel his touch, and watch him walk out the door to fuck someone else?"

You didn't answer.

"Before we got close," he continued, "I thought he was just — I don't know. A careless cheater. And I thought you didn't know. But you do. And you stay."

He exhaled.

"I know I'm no saint. I know exactly what I was doing on that chair tonight. But at least I'm not pretending it isn't fucked up."

You took a breath. Squared your shoulders. Stepped directly into his space.

"Oscar," you said. "Shut up."

He blinked.

"Shut the fuck up," you said, quieter. More final.

Not defensive. Just done with his fake morals.

"You don't get to judge us," you said. "I know in your neat, uptight little world everything fits into a box. You see Lando walk out that door and your first move is to call it a betrayal."

"Because it is—"

"It isn't." You didn't raise your voice. You didn't need to. "Lando and I are faithful to each other in ways you don't understand yet. Our loyalty doesn't look like your textbook definition. It's not about who shares a bed for one night in a random country. It's about who holds the fucking line when everything else is falling apart."

Oscar stared at you. Mouth slightly open.

"He has my back," you said. "I have his. Always."

The waves moved in the silence between you.

"Faithful," Oscar repeated, the word coming out unsteady. "Even when you're under me. Even when you let me—"

"Yes," you said, tone daring him to say otherwise.

He looked up at the sky. Back down at you. The anger was gone, replaced by something more exposed and harder to name.

His hand came out of his pocket, fingers wrapping around the side of your neck, thumb pressing against your pulse.

"I keep telling myself you're both out of your minds," he said quietly. "Absolutely fucking crazy."

His eyes dropped to your lips.

"The worst part is I don't think I even care anymore."

~*~

The invite came through a sponsor. Polite, official, impossible to decline without making it obvious you were declining.

A birthday dinner. Thursday night. Rooftop in Abu Dhabi.

Lily's birthday.

You went because you had to. You wore something simple because you weren't in the mood to perform. You kept your wine glass full enough to justify having something to do with your hands.

Everything was fine until Lily walked in.

She looked good. Annoyingly, specifically good — the kind of effortless that takes effort. She scanned the room, found you, and smiled.

Not a cruel smile. A sad one.

She sat two seats away. Close enough to talk. Far enough to pretend not to.

For the first course, she was perfectly pleasant. Laughing at the right things, asking questions, being exactly the kind of person you'd like under different circumstances.

The kind of person you already knew she was.

Which made it worse.

The first comment came somewhere between starters and mains, slipped into a lull like it had always been there.

"It's so nice," Lily said lightly, to no one in particular, "when the people closest to you actually show up. Even when it's inconvenient for them."

You reached for your wine.

The second one came later, while someone was talking about race weekends.

"I've gotten quite good at reading rooms," Lily said pleasantly. "You spend enough time in paddocks, you just — know things. Even when no one tells you." A small smile. "Especially when no one tells you."

The table laughed vaguely. You smiled at your plate.

There it is, you thought. There it fucking is.

The dinner wrapped up slowly. You were reaching for your bag when you felt a light touch on your arm.

Lily.

"Walk out with me?"

Not really a question.

~*~

The terrace was quiet. Abu Dhabi glittering below, warm air, the kind of night that had no business being this beautiful.

Lily stood at the railing. You stood beside her.

"I know you're fucking my boyfriend," she said.

No buildup. No venom. Just the words, delivered the way you'd state a fact you'd made your peace with.

You opened your mouth.

"Ex-boyfriend," you had the presence of mind to correct her.

"You don't have to explain," she said. "I'm not here to make a scene. I just needed to say it to your face."

She looked at you, eyes bright but dry. She'd already done the crying somewhere else.

"I've tried to be angry at you. It doesn't really stick."

"Lily—"

"He ended things with me without being fully honest with me," she said. "I know how that sounds. I know how all of this sounds." She laughed, small and rueful. "Happy birthday to me, right?"

The guilt landed somewhere it wasn't going to leave quickly.

"I know it's doesn't even begin to cover it, but I apologize," you said.

Lily turned to look at you. Something shifting in her expression — not relief. More like a door closing on a room she'd been standing in too long.

"Of course you do" she said. Flat. Processing.

A beat.

"Take care of him," she said finally. "He's not as solid as he looks."

Your chest tightened. "I know."

She nodded once, picked up her bag, and walked back inside.

You stayed at the railing.

She deserved better than all of this.

The worst part was that you knew it from day one. And knowing didn't change a single thing you'd done.

~*~

Race day in Abu Dhabi had a kind of energy — the last one of the season, the one where everything either crystallized or collapsed. The Yas Marina Circuit glittered under the floodlights like it knew it was being watched.

The championship was Lando's to lose.

You watched from the pit wall, headphones on, heart somewhere in your throat for fifty-eight laps. You watched him manage the gap, manage the tyres, manage the pressure of knowing that one mistake — one safety car, one rogue puncture, one moment of Max Verstappen deciding he had nothing left to lose — could unravel everything.

None of that happened.

Max crossed the line first. The comeback story of the century, still wasn't enough.

Two points protected Lando's legacy.

When he crossed the line, the radio exploded.

The garage exploded.

You stood very still in the middle of all of it, watching the screens, watching his car slow into the cool down lap, watching him pound the steering wheel with both fists while his engineer lost his mind in his ear.

He did it, you thought. He actually did it.

Someone grabbed your shoulders from behind, spinning you around into a hug you weren't prepared for. A mechanic, maybe. You hugged them back. Someone else was crying. The energy in the garage was a living thing, loud and physical and completely impossible to stand outside of.

You let yourself be inside it for once.

~*~

The podium ceremony took forever and was over too fast.

You watched from the press area, cameras everywhere, the kind of visibility that usually made you want to disappear. Lando on the step, champagne arcing into the floodlit sky, the trophy finally in his hands after everything it had taken to get there.

He was saying something into the microphone. You caught fragments over the noise.

Team. Season. Grateful.

And then his eyes found you in the crowd.

Just for a second. The way they always did — like checking that you were still there.

You smiled. He grinned back, wide and unguarded, the version of him that existed before the cameras taught him to be careful.

Then he was off the podium and the chaos swallowed him whole — engineers, team principals, media, sponsors, everyone wanting a piece of the new World Champion.

You stayed where you were. Let it happen. This was his moment, not yours, and you knew how to hold the edges of someone else's.

A hand wrapped around your wrist.

Lando.

Somehow through the entire circus he'd found you and pulled you in before you could say anything, his race suit still damp, champagne in his hair, trophy tucked under one arm like an afterthought.

"Lando—" you started, already reading the look on his face. "The cameras are—"

He kissed you.

Not the PR-friendly version.

Not the calculated, chin-down, smile-rehearsed version. The real one — deep and certain and completely unbriefed, his free hand cupping your jaw, the trophy digging into your ribs, an unimportant detail.

The cameras went absolutely insane.

When he pulled back, you stared at him.

"What the hell was that?" you breathed. "That wasn't briefed. Mark is going to—"

"What contract?" Lando said, acting like he had no clue what you were talking about.

Simple. Final. The smile on his face was the most unbothered thing you'd ever seen.

"Lan—"

"I burned that thing the moment I crossed the line," he said, thumb brushing your cheekbone. "Mentally. Very ceremonially. There was a small internal fire." He tilted his head. "You should've seen it. Very moving."

"You can't just—"

"I just did, love." He kissed you again, shorter this time, just because he could. "We'll figure out the rest. We always do."

Somewhere in the crowd, George Russell caught your eye with the expression of a man deeply entertained by someone else's chaos.

"Did PR approve that?" he mouthed.

Behind him, you could already see Mark cutting through the crowd with the energy of a man who had just watched his entire PR strategy get kissed into oblivion on international television.

"Your manager looks like he's going to commit a crime," you said.

"Let him," Lando replied, entirely unbothered, already turning to pull you with him back into the celebration. "He works for me."

~*~

The party was exactly what a Formula 1 World Championship celebration looked like when the person winning it was Lando Norris.

Loud. Expensive. Slightly out of control in a way that was somehow still charming.

The venue was a private club, taken over entirely by McLaren money and Lando's energy — which, at this point in the night, were roughly equivalent forces.

The bass was physical. The champagne was endless. Half the paddock was there, the other half was on their way.

You stood near the edge of the VIP area, drink in hand, watching him work the room.

He was extraordinary at this. The laughing, the touching, the making every single person feel like they were the most important one there. It was a skill, genuinely — the kind that looked effortless and wasn't.

You knew because you'd watched him practice it for three years.

Oscar was somewhere near the back. You'd clocked him the moment you arrived — alone at a table, drink in hand, doing the thing he always did at parties, which was exist in them without participating.

He was handling it the way Oscar handled everything: in a way that would probably cost him later.

You were considering whether to go to him, when Lando appeared at your side, still buzzing, trophy long gone since handed to someone else to look after.

"Having fun?" he asked, stealing your drink.

"Watching you have fun," you corrected.

He grinned. Handed your drink back. Then his eyes drifted across the room to where Oscar was sitting, and something shifted in his expression.

"Give me ten minutes," he said.

"For what?"

But he was already moving.

You watched him cross the room. Watched him drop into the seat beside Oscar without ceremony, like they were back in Doha with beer bottles and no championship between them. Oscar looked up, surprised for a fraction of a second, then guarded.

Lando said something.

Oscar went still.

Lando said something else.

Oscar's head turned — slowly, like he was moving carefully — and found you across the room.

The look on his face made your heart skip a beat.

Not anger. Not the complicated, guilty hunger you'd gotten used to reading on him.

Something else entirely.

Something that looked dangerously close to the expression of a person whose entire understanding of the last eight months had just been handed back to them in a completely different shape.

Lando stood, clapped Oscar once on the shoulder, and walked back to you.

"Ten minutes," you said. "What did you tell him?"

"Everything," Lando said simply, placing a quick kiss on your lips.

"Lando—"

"The contract. Our agreements. Me." He met your eyes, unbothered in the way he only was when he'd already made his peace with something. "All of it."

"Oh," your heart was doing something complicated, "and?"

Lando glanced back at Oscar across the room. Then at you.

"Give him a minute," he said. He picked up your hand and kissed the back of it, eyes on yours the whole time. "Then go."

Your stomach dropped somewhere pleasant and terrifying.

"You're unbelievable," you said.

"World Champion," he corrected, already turning back to his party. "Semantics."

Oscar stayed where he was after Lando left, looking vaguely nauseous.

You gave him five minutes, because you needed them too.

Then you crossed the room.

Oscar was still at the table. Glass empty. Elbows on his knees, staring at the middle distance with the focused expression of someone running very fast calculations.

You sat beside him.

For a moment, neither of you spoke. The bass from the main room pulsed through the walls. Somewhere, Lando was making three hundred people laugh at once.

"So," Oscar said finally.

"So," you said.

He turned to look at you. And there it was again — that expression. Up close it was even harder to look at. All the guilt and the grief and the obsession, suddenly reorganized around a completely different center of gravity.

"None of it was real," he said.

"Some of it wasn't," you said carefully. "It's complicated, really."

"Now I know."

Oscar exhaled. Long and slow.

"I spent eight months," he said, "thinking I was the worst person in this paddock."

"I know."

"I destroyed my relationship."

"I know."

"I crashed our cars."

"Yep."

"Lando and I almost got physical."

"Twice," you said. "Technically."

Something moved across his face. Not quite a laugh. Almost.

"You're going to be insufferable about that forever, aren't you," he said.

"Absolutely," you said. "Sorry."

He looked at you for a long moment. The club noise felt very far away.

Then Oscar reached over, with the patience of someone who had decided to stop being careful — and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Just that.

And somehow it was the most devastatingly intentional thing he'd ever done.

"I would've chosen this anyway," he said, decided. "If I'd known about this mess of yours, I would've made it mine too."

Your chest cracked open a little.

"Oscar—"

"I just want you to know that," he said. "That it wasn't the guilt. It was never just the guilt."

You didn't say anything. You didn't trust yourself to.

He dropped his hand. Looked back out at the room.

"Your boyfriend," he said, with the particular tone of someone testing a word they weren't sure fit yet, "is insane."

"Both of them are, apparently," you said.

Oscar turned to look at you.

And this time, he did smile.

~*~

The suite was too small for three people getting ready at the same time.

This was, objectively, Lando's fault.

"I was here first," you said, blocking the mirror.

"It's my suite," Lando replied, reaching past you for his cufflinks.

"Technically," Oscar said from the bathroom doorway, tie hanging loose around his neck, "neither of you are ready and we leave in forty minutes."

"He's right," you said.

"Don't," Lando said, pointing at you. "Don't side with him before I've had coffee."

"It's six in the evening."

"Emotionally it's morning."

Oscar made a sound that was almost a laugh and disappeared back into the bathroom. You caught his eye in the mirror before he did.

That was new. The almost-laughing. The being in a hotel room while Lando complained about cufflinks like it was a completely ordinary thing.

It wasn't ordinary.

It was the strangest thing that had ever happened to you.

You were unreasonably happy about it.

"Hold still," you said, turning to Lando and fixing his collar. He went obediently still, looking down at you with that expression — fond and unhurried, the one he saved for when no one was watching.

"You look nice," he said.

"I know," you said.

He smiled. "World Champion's girlfriend energy."

"Don't push it."

He kissed your temple anyway, unhelpful, while your hands were still at his collar.

"Done," he announced, stepping back, cufflinks still not in. "Oscar, how's the tie?"

"Fine," Oscar said, reappearing.

It was not fine.

"Come here," you said.

Oscar crossed the room and stopped in front of you. Close enough that fixing the tie was practical and nothing else. You reached up. His hands stayed at his sides.

The room went quiet in a particular way.

You smoothed the tie flat against his chest. Your hand stayed a second longer than necessary.

Oscar looked down at it. Then up at you.

"Thank you," he said. Like the words meant something else entirely.

Behind you, Lando sat on the edge of the bed and said absolutely nothing, which was somehow louder than anything he could've said.

"We're going to be late," he said, making no move to leave.

"You could just not go," Oscar said, still looking at you. "Tell them the World Champion has a prior commitment."

"You have to go," you said. "You're receiving a trophy."

"I already have a trophy," Lando said. "The shelf situation at home is a crisis."

But he wasn't looking at the door. He was looking at the two of you — your hand still against Oscar's chest, Oscar with the expression of someone who had stopped pretending he was going to move away.

Lando tilted his head. The smile on his face was certain.

"FIA can wait," he said.

"We are not—" you started.

Oscar's hand covered yours against his chest. Pressed it flat. Held it there.

You stopped talking.

"I don't lose focus easily, remember?" Oscar said. The almost-smile finally arriving completely. "But I think I'd like to tonight."

Behind you, Lando reached over and turned off the lamp.

~*~

In the dark, things were different.

The ceremony, the trophy, the forty minutes — all of it dissolved into the gravity of three people who had spent an entire season orbiting each other and had finally stopped pretending there was anywhere else to be.

Lando moved first. He always did.

His mouth found yours in the dark with the easy certainty of someone who knew the way — warm and unhurried, one hand sliding into your hair, the other finding your waist and pulling you back against his chest.

"Hi," he murmured against your lips.

"Hi," you managed.

"Been waiting all season for this," he said. Not to you specifically. To the room.

"Shut up, Norris," Oscar said, from somewhere close. Much closer than expected.

"Make me," Lando replied.

And then Oscar's hands were on your waist too — from the front, his thumbs pressing into your skin. His mouth dropped to your neck, open and warm, and the sound that escaped you was embarrassingly immediate.

"There it is," Lando said near your ear. Satisfied. Like he'd been waiting for exactly that.

"You're both insufferable," you breathed.

"You're not exactly complaining," Lando murmured.

You did not argue.

Oscar lifted his head, his face inches from yours in the dark. "Tell me what you want."

"Everything," you said. Honest in the way you could only be when there was no light to see your face.

Something shifted in him with that. The last of the patience — already stretched thin for months — giving way entirely.

"Good," he said. "Because I have a lot of ground to make up."

"Competitive to the end," Lando observed, steering you both toward the bed with the calm confidence of someone who had planned this without planning this.

"Says the man who always makes sure she moans loud enough so the whole planet can hear," Oscar replied.

"That is a strategic decision."

"Everything with you is a strategic decision."

"It works, doesn't it?"

"Both of you," you said, "need to stop talking."

A beat of silence.

Then Lando laughed — bright and genuine — and pulled you down with him.

The laughter died out as you hit the mattress, but the warmth stayed. Lando was beneath you first, his eyes gleaming in the dark, entirely unabashed.

"See?" he whispered. "Perfect fit. Told you it makes sense for us to keep him."

"Don't bring logic into this," Oscar's voice came from just above you. He was kneeling on the edge of the bed, his hands already on your thighs, parting them with a quiet pressure. "And she's still wearing too many layers. It's inefficient."

"Then optimize the situation, Piastri," Lando shot back, though his breath hitched when Oscar's hands slid up under your dress, peeling it over your head in one smooth motion.

Lando didn't waste the opportunity. His mouth found your collarbone, warm and unhurried, while his fingers worked your bra open with a confidence that felt entirely unfair. His hand slid inside you underwear, his thumb finding you, making you gasp against his neck.

"That's a point for me," Lando murmured against your skin, his fingers moving with a slow rhythm.

"We aren't keeping score," Oscar said, stripping his own shirt off. He crawled over you, calculating the space until he was hovering just behind you — his chest pressed into your back, solid and hot. "But if we were..."

His hand slid down, replacing Lando's. Larger fingers, firmer touch, impossibly precise. He stroked you once, deeply, and a sharp sound tore from your throat before you could stop it.

"That's a point for me," Oscar noted, voice entirely even, breath shallow against your ear.

"Cheater," Lando muttered — but he was already pulling you down, the heat of him pressing against your entrance. He looked up at you, the playfulness giving way to something darker, his hands locking onto your hips. "May I?"

"Lando, just please—," you breathed.

He drove upward — a smooth, deep thrust that filled you completely. You arched into it, and your free hand slid back, fingers wrapping around Oscar's length. He let out a sharp breath against your neck, his hips shifting forward into your palm at the sudden heat of your touch.

Every time Lando thrust up, your hand stroked Oscar, matching the rhythm. His control was visibly fracturing — caught between your grip and his teammate taking you from below.

"I think we can do better," Lando panted, shifting his angle, driving harder, hitting a spot that made your vision blur.

Oscar froze behind you. The precise breathing snapped.

"Enough of that," Oscar muttered.

The restraint didn't just crack. It vanished entirely.

He reached around, fingers gripping your jaw, pulling your face toward his and crashing his mouth into yours with a intensity completely devoid of his usual calm. His free hand slipped down between your thighs, fingers forcing their way into the tight space where Lando was buried deep inside you, adding a fast, heavy pressure.

Your other hand never left him, pumping faster, squeezing hard.

Lando felt the sudden tightening and choked.

"Oscar—" he gasped, knuckles white on your hips. "You're ruining the strategy."

"New strategy," Oscar growled into your mouth.

The double friction was overwhelming. You couldn't breathe, couldn't think — caught between Lando's frantic heat below and Oscar's unhinged precision behind you. The climax hit like a physical blow, your body shaking violently, and Lando lost it a few seconds later — throwing his head back, coming inside you with a ruined groan before going completely still.

The clenching of your walls and the tight friction of your hand were the exact moment Oscar's composure also went blank. His hips bucked hard into your palm one final time, his groan swallowed entirely by your mouth as he came — the timing so precise it felt like he'd calculated even that.

Oscar held you through every tremor, his forehead dropping heavy against your shoulder, chest heaving.

For a long moment, the only sound in the room was the three of you trying to remember how to breathe.

"So," Lando wheezed from underneath you, eyes closed, a faint exhausted smile on his face. "Data analysis. Who won?"

Oscar didn't move, arms still wrapped tight around you.

"Shut up, Lando," he said.

You laughed.

"Draw," you said. "Obviously."

Neither of them argued.

~*~

Later, much later, the suite was quiet.

The city outside was doing what cities did — glittering, indifferent, continuing without you.

You were lying between them. Lando on his back, one arm thrown over his eyes, the particular satisfaction of someone who had won a World Championship and then had the best night of his life in the same week. His other hand was drawing absent circles on your shoulder.

Oscar was on his side, facing you. Awake, because Oscar was always awake — his mind doing whatever it did when the rest of him finally stopped moving.

His eyes were soft in a way you were still getting used to.

"We're going to be so late," you said, to the ceiling.

"Already late," Lando said, from under his arm. "Committed now."

"The FIA is going to fine you."

"Who cares," he said simply.

Oscar said nothing. He reached out and pushed a strand of hair from your face — the same gesture from the party.

You looked at him.

"What?" you asked softly.

"Nothing," he said. "Just—" He paused. The pause of someone choosing words carefully. "If I'd known from the beginning. I truly would've chosen this. You. And fucking Lando, I guess, somehow."

You smiled.

From your other side, Lando lifted his arm from his eyes and turned his head to look at Oscar.

Something passed between them — not quite a smile, not quite a truce.

Something quieter than both. The understanding of two people who had spent a year trying to destroy each other and had somehow ended up here instead.

"Alright, Piastri," Lando said finally. "You can stay."

Oscar raised an eyebrow. "Generous."

"World Champion. I'm feeling magnanimous."

"You've said that eleven times tonight."

"It's been eleven magnanimous moments."

You closed your eyes.

Outside, the FIA Prize Giving was happening without its guest of honor, who was lying in a hotel suite between his teammate and the woman who had held his secret for three years, off the clock.

The contract was ash.

The season was over.

You blamed the French Riviera for the start of all of it.

The coast in southeast France was small enough to be a village, so of course you met Lando through mutual friends around the time he moved to Monaco in 2022. The sexual tension between you was a given — essential, even, to the hang-out sessions and the kind of drunk parties that slowly turned you into actual friends. Despite the few nights that had ended with both of you in his bed.

That's why he came to you when pictures leaked of him getting a little too cozy with a mysterious man at a New Year's party.

Lando was already getting bad press for partying too much. He knew how relentless this sport could be towards anyone who didn't walk a straight line, and he deemed you worthy of his trust.

You didn't let him down.

The publicists hard-launched the two of you as a couple at the start of the 2023 season — blind items first, then paparazzi photos. The team controlled your narrative strictly, from public appearances to social media. The act had to be spot-on any time you were around anyone outside the five people who knew the truth.

You'd signed a contract. It came with a lot of big words and complex rules you'd since learned by heart. Main thing: obey and behave.

The 2025 season had started a little over a month ago and you had yet to be seen supporting your championship-contender boyfriend at a race.

Honestly, it didn't bother you much. The paddock was loud, overheated, constantly buzzing with stressed people sprinting in every direction, and the cameras always made your life ten times harder.

But you did sign a contract.

The call summoning you to Saudi Arabia didn't come as a surprise. The season was just warming up, and they wanted you there — Lando's teammate was catching up on points.

Piastri.

There he was: calm, polite, put together. Annoyingly unreadable. Always a little judgy, never quite pleased to play second driver to anyone.

You'd barely spoken to him beyond F1's official calendar. His relationship with Lando was strictly professional, bordering on amicable — and in the brief moments you'd shared with him, you'd caught enough eye-rolls to know the feeling wasn't mutual.

You hadn't seen Oscar since Abu Dhabi last year. His behavior, apparently, had not changed.

"You're late," he said to Lando as you arrived at the McLaren garage for qualifying. Casual. Like stating the weather. His eyes moved to you. "Y/N."

"Good to see you too," Lando replied cheerfully. "Went to bed late. My girl arrived last night."

"How great," Oscar said, emotionless. "Hope your lucky charm works this weekend."

Not unkind. Not warm. Like someone commenting on tire degradation.

He walked away.

"The fuck is wrong with him?" you asked, watching his back disappear into the garage.

"As if I'd know," Lando shrugged, entirely unbothered. He grabbed your hand and kissed it — right on cue for the cameras. "Go have fun and look pretty for the photographers."

Translation: smile, don't blink too much, and try not to ruin anyone's brand.

You watched him go, already slipping back into character.

~*~

A dramatic crash in Q3 had put Lando starting the race in P10. He'd finished P4.

Oscar was now leading the championship — by a margin small enough to be infuriating.

"I can't catch a fucking break," Lando muttered, throwing his helmet and balaclava onto the floor like the gear had personally betrayed him.

"You aren't that far behind," you tried. Uselessly. He wasn't listening.

"And the smirk on his face, God." His face was red. "Now I have to show up to media duty with that devil beside me and still have energy for this—"

He moved his index finger between you and him. An invisible line of blame.

You didn't know what to say. Part of you agreed. The other part was tired of being the collateral damage.

You knew the tension between the drivers was high — that's exactly why the PR team had called you in. But you didn't have to dig too deep to see that your presence added a whole new layer of stress for Lando. With you there, he didn't just have to perform on track.

He had to perform every second outside private rooms too.

He dropped onto the couch, face buried in his hands.

"Don't get me wrong," he said after a moment. "I value our friendship so much."

A sigh.

"But the acting kills me."

You sat beside him and rested a hand on his thigh. He grabbed it immediately, holding tighter than necessary.

"To think I still have to follow up with my publicist and get feedback on how to behave better next time I'm with my fucking girlfriend," he let out a dry laugh. "'Hold her like this, smile like that.' At this point I'm one bad race away from needing choreography around you."

"I'm sorry, Lan."

"It's nobody's fault but mine," he said, throwing his head back against the couch. "And I'm lucky enough to have you on board with this bullshit."

"I'm glad it's me," you said, pulling him closer — because if it wasn't you, it would be someone else. And he chose you.

Lando took a few breaths and relaxed under your touch as you ran your fingers through his hair.

"Sometimes I wish it could just be like this," he whispered. "No cameras. No script. No pretending."

"We'd get bored," you pointed out, pressing a soft kiss to his forehead. "And probably ruin it in a week."

He laughed. Small, quiet. Knowing exactly how true that was.

A knock at the door. Mark, Lando's manager, already halfway inside.

"Media duty, Lando." His eyes landed on you briefly. "Y/N, you're off the clock. Chop-chop."

You stood up, grabbing your purse. Touched Lando's shoulder a second longer than necessary.

On your way out, Oscar's side of the garage was still celebrating. You greeted a few people, did your best to leave without drawing attention — a skill you'd fortunately mastered.

But nothing escaped those careful brown eyes.

Almost nothing.

He approached just as you reached the exit.

"You know," his voice cut clean through the noise, "if you're going to be around for any other races this season — don't get in his way."

You frowned. This was the longest sentence he'd ever directed at you, and this was what he chose to say.

What had once been a joke between you and Lando now felt very real.

Oscar had a problem. With you, specifically.

"So you don't like me," you said. Not a question.

"I don't like distractions."

"Then stop staring," you shot back, already walking away — leaving him standing there, jaw tight, not used to being talked back to.

~*~

"He's unbelievable," you complained, tossing your phone back into your purse. "Did you see that quote about 'getting your head in the game'? How dare he."

"He's jealous," Lando said casually. "Doesn't get a lot of family time. Or girlfriend time. Makes everything feel heavier, probably."

"I just don't like the picture of you he's trying to paint."

You were in the back of a car on the way to a celebration party after the Miami GP — a McLaren 1-2, Lando in second, which apparently still counted as reason enough to drink like he'd won the whole thing.

You'd told him everything about your interaction with Oscar. He'd gotten a good laugh out of it. The kind that came with zero concern and maximum ego.

For you, it was more serious. You couldn't deny how protective you were of Lando's image — especially after how hard you'd worked to polish it. Or, more accurately, duct-tape it together.

You let those thoughts slip away when you arrived. Started drinking with friends, team members, acquaintances — anyone with a drink and a vague connection to motorsport.

A couple of hours in, Lando was already everywhere. Including, somehow, next to Oscar.

Annoyed, you watched them from a distance. You were drunk too, but not the friendly kind. The observant, slightly bitter, mentally-taking-notes kind.

"Hi!" A tap on your shoulder. "I'm Lily! It's so nice to finally meet you!"

Great, you thought. Today of all days.

"My pleasure," you smiled. Or tried to.

"I was just telling Oscar how crazy it is that the boys have been racing together for over two years and we've never met!"

This was no accident. You'd been careful — you didn't want to be forced into any relationship beyond the one with Lando. Especially not WAG drama, group chats, or forced brunches. So you'd gotten good at keeping a low profile.

A skill that was currently failing you.

"Our schedules never seem to line up," you said gently, like you hadn't been actively dodging this exact situation for years.

"That's such a shame, isn't it?" Oscar appeared, placing an arm around Lily.

His eyes were on you. Not her.

"Totally!" Lily agreed. "I'm not sure if you have plans tomorrow — maybe we could all—"

A very drunk Lando interrupted, pulling you in and kissing you.

Deep. Urgent. Almost passionate — the kind that felt less like affection and more like a statement.

"Sorry," he murmured, wiping the corner of his mouth. "She just looked too pretty. I couldn't resist."

Oscar's jaw clenched. He couldn't look away. His grip on Lily tightened just enough to notice.

"She really is gorgeous," Lily laughed sweetly. "You seem to be having a great time, Lando!"

"Well, I try. Doesn't matter who stood higher on the podium — a 1-2 is a 1-2, right?"

Oscar snorted. Sharp. Involuntary.

It very much did matter who stood higher. He did.

"Of course!" Lily smiled. "Incredible teamwork!"

You placed a hand on Lando's chest. The look: wrap it up before I do.

"I actually came to steal Y/N from you guys," Lando said.

"Oh please, do take her," Oscar replied, tone light, eyes anything but.

You caught the way his gaze lingered a moment too long on Lando's grip around your waist.

"Don't mind him," Lily rolled her eyes. "Oscar's no fun."

"No shit," slipped out before you could stop it.

All three of them stared.

Lando barely holding back a grin. Oscar blinking like he'd just been slapped with honesty. Lily trying to decide if she'd misheard.

"Lily, it was so nice meeting you," you said, pulling her into a quick hug. "Let's do it again sometime."

"I'd love that," she whispered, completely unaware of the emotional landmines she'd just walked through.

~*~

Paparazzi waited outside. You and Lando both knew — they were meant to. The PR team wanted those photos.

Lando grabbed your hand without thinking as the car pulled up, stepping in front of you like a shield against the flashing cameras. Chin down, smile rehearsed. The perfect gentleman.

All of that was calculated.

What wasn't was the way he didn't let your hand go.

Even once the cameras were gone. Even once the doors slid shut behind you.

Still drunk and laughing at nothing, you both stumbled out of the elevator.

"God, I missed drinking," he said, grinning. "Remind me to do this more often."

You caught his arm just before he walked into a wall.

"Remind me to hide your phone when you do. You almost left a voice message for Christian Horner."

"I just wanted to tell him how it is," he shrugged, far too gone to care.

You laughed, shaking your head — and then your eyes met.

Just for a second. But it was enough to flip the energy completely.

He cupped your face. Gaze dropping from your eyes to your lips. Then back up. Then back down. Like he was making a very serious decision.

"We're not acting right now," he said, a crooked smile pulling at his mouth. "Just so you know."

"I'm aware."

And then he kissed you.

Not the neutral, PR-friendly kind you pulled out for cameras. The real kind. The kind you only share when it's just the two of you and proximity does the rest.

Or when you're drunk. Or bored. Or just in need of something that feels sort of real.

"Do you have any idea how good you look?" he murmured, kissing down your jaw, your neck. "Contract or not, you're mine tonight."

Between sloppy kisses and wandering hands, you somehow made it to your room — tripping down the hallway, bumping into walls, laughing through all of it.

His patience lasted maybe eight seconds before he started pulling your clothes off like you might disappear if he didn't hurry.

You weren't being quiet. The thin walls between your room and his teammate's next door suddenly felt very relevant.

They were, apparently, to Lando too.

The TV volume next door turned up.

Something primal crossed his face.

"Been thinking about this all night," he admitted, hands tracing every inch of your skin like he was mapping it out.

You fell onto the bed, Lando following instantly. His knee pressed between your thighs, deliberate, as his mouth found yours again.

Not far away, a door slammed. Too hard to be accidental.

"Guess someone's pissed," Lando murmured against your ear. "Good."

And finally, it clicked.

He wanted to be heard. The idea pleased him more than it should have.

His hands slid down your thighs, his mouth following, as if he had all the time in the world. 

Every time you shifted your hips to feel him better, he groaned — like you were doing something to him too. Every time you moaned, you could feel his smile. 

“Lando—fuck,” you cried.

"Louder," he said against your skin, voice low, certain. "I want him to hear you properly."

~*~

The morning came faster than you'd like. The sun was already warm, the pool an offensive shade of turquoise — entirely too cheerful for how little sleep you'd gotten.

Oscar was already there.

Sitting stiffly on a sunbed, towel clenched in his fist, jaw tight. He looked ruined by lack of sleep. The kind that didn't come from jet lag or training.

"You okay, baby?" Lily asked beside him. "You're quieter than usual."

"Just tired."

The safest thing he could say. Because how was he supposed to explain the way his stomach twisted every time last night surfaced? How his brain, apparently bored with peace, kept replaying sounds he was never meant to hear?

He watched the two of you arrive.

Lando's hand glued to your waist. Your laugh soft and tired. Both of you walking like you shared a secret.

Which, in a way, you did. Several, actually. None of them helpful to Oscar's sanity.

Lily lit up instantly. "Hey, you guys! Come sit with us!"

Oscar's whole body went rigid.

"Morning," Lando said, dropping your things on the table like he owned the place.

"Didn't think you two would be up this early," Oscar muttered.

Lando's smile was slow. Knowing. Annoyingly well-rested for someone who absolutely was not. "Didn't get much sleep."

Oscar's eyes flicked to you before he could stop himself. Then away. "Right."

Lando took off his shirt and sat in front of you so you could rub sunscreen on his shoulders. Tilted his head back. Eyes closed. Entirely too relaxed for a man who had just chosen violence.

Oscar watched every second of it. Hated that he did. Hated more that he couldn't stop.

"I'm gonna jump in," Lily announced, already heading for the pool. "Coming?"

"In a minute," Oscar said, not looking at her.

And suddenly it was just the three of you. Which felt illegal somehow.

"You were loud last night," Oscar said. Voice too even.

"Not really," Lando replied, grin widening. "Could've been louder."

Oscar's grip tightened on the towel. "Just don't overdo it."

"What does that mean?" you asked.

His eyes met yours. Brief. Sharp. A warning he hadn't decided how to phrase. Then he looked down.

"Distractions are expensive."

The air shifted. Not heavy — tense.

Lando's smile didn't disappear. It changed. Smoothed into something colder.

"Guess that depends," he murmured, "on who's getting distracted."

~*~

Oscar didn't fully understand what the hell was wrong with him.

He had no business caring about Lando's relationship with you. If anything, it should've been convenient. A gift.

It was not.

He'd built a decent lead in the standings after Lando's disaster in Canada. Which should've felt good.

It did not.

Because it came at a cost.

He had to keep his distance from the two of you. Like avoiding a bad habit he'd never agreed to start. He and Lando weren't friends — just teammates with a polite, functional relationship. The kind that survived debriefs and died everywhere else. And now even that felt strained.

What he heard that night in Miami had messed him up. He'd forbidden himself from acknowledging what it made him feel.

Very mature. Very ineffective.

He was having a terrible time keeping his eyes off you. The more he tried, the more he noticed. Every touch. Every whisper. Every goddamn smile.

It made him sick. Worse: curious.

He'd let himself believe that your absence from the last few races meant something.

Hope, it turned out, was a stupid habit too.

So when he saw you walking toward the McLaren garage at the British Grand Prix, his heart sank.

Of course you'd be there for Lando's home race. He briefly considered that maybe he was an idiot.

You both did your best to stay out of each other's way. Almost succeeded.

But post-race Silverstone was dangerous — full of champagne and people feeling braver than they should.

The corridor behind the garages was quieter. The noise fading into something dull and distant.

It took you a few seconds to realize you weren't alone.

Oscar.

He hadn't meant to block your way — he just stood there like a poorly placed obstacle. Your shoulder brushed his chest as you tried to pass.

"Sorry," you said automatically, stepping back.

He didn't move. "Congratulations. To him."

"Cut the crap," you replied. "I see you, Oscar. If you have a problem with me, I'd rather hear it straight."

Silence. Thick. Almost impressive.

"That night in Miami," he said finally, almost under his breath. "I didn't ask to hear that."

He regretted it instantly. Your chest tightened.

"So this is about that," you said. "You were eavesdropping?"

"Hard not to. Walls were thin."

His eyes flicked to the sound of Lando laughing somewhere nearby — effortlessly alive.

You stepped closer. Not on purpose. Or maybe exactly on purpose.

"I didn't do anything wrong. That was Lando—"

"I know," he cut in too fast. "I know."

That stopped you.

Oscar swallowed.

"That's the problem."

For a split second he held your gaze. Clearly tempted to say something catastrophic. Something that would ruin several careers and his own self-image.

"Whatever you think you heard wasn't meant for you," you said, forcing neutrality. "You don't get to hold that over us."

"And I didn't ask to be fucking affected by it."

The sharpness of his voice caught you off guard. Your composure cracked.

"You don't get to say that," you snapped.

"You weren't supposed to be part of this," he said, eyes dropping. "And maybe I'm imagining things — but I think I speak for both me and Lando when I say you make it harder to focus."

He stepped back. Easing the tension just enough to breathe.

"You should stay out of this."

"Then why do I get the feeling you don't really want me to?" you asked, already knowing he wouldn't answer.

"Please go," he said. "Before this gets worse."

You nodded — even though the idea that this was already bad lodged itself firmly in your chest — and walked past him.

Oscar didn't move.

He just stared at the empty space you left behind, knowing he'd crossed a line he could never uncross.

And worse — that he didn't regret it nearly as much as he should've.

~*~

You knew better than to show up for the next couple of races.

Mostly because you were scared of your own brain — which had recently decided to become wildly unhelpful — and because Oscar had done the worst thing he possibly could.

He'd made you curious.

The way his eyes had held yours at Silverstone. Something new flickering behind them. Not anger. Not the usual annoyance.

Something else. Something inconvenient.

Something you kept telling yourself meant nothing — and that still left you uneasy days later, like a song you didn't like but couldn't stop replaying.

You'd never really thought about Oscar as anything other than Lando's competition. A tall, quiet obstacle with excellent bone structure. But that encounter had shifted something all the same, and the questions followed you everywhere — with work, with friends, with the carefully curated image of a perfect relationship you were supposed to be maintaining.

Which was how you ended up here.

"Love?" Lando called again after a few failed attempts. "Care to join me? I promise I'm very charming today."

"Yeah. Of course," you replied, abandoning your spiraling thoughts and moving closer.

He wrapped his arms around you and pulled you onto his lap, your hands resting around his neck.

Flash.

He kissed your cheek, gently. You giggled, automatically.

Muscle memory was a terrifying thing.

Flash.

"You two look great together," the photographer said, thumbs up. "I think British Vogue got everything it needs."

"Great," Lando smiled, effortless.

You waited while he said his goodbyes, doing the same with the handful of people you knew. After all, this arrangement wasn't meant to benefit only Lando — you'd been promised access and exposure within the industry too.

He grabbed your hand and tugged you toward his dressing room, shutting the door behind you.

"That went surprisingly well," he said, dropping onto the couch. "I actually had fun."

You nodded. A beat too slow.

"Where are you?" He frowned, pulling you down beside him. "You look miles away. Is this about the jacket you hate?"

You didn't answer — mostly because your brain was doing that thing it had started doing lately, the one where Oscar Piastri showed up uninvited and refused to leave. 

Lando studied your face for a second, then pulled you closer. You let him. Easy. Familiar. Safe. 

Safer than the alternative, anyway.

"Careful," he murmured when your lips drifted to his neck. "Or I might start liking this too much."

"You wouldn't dare," you laughed, pulling back. Grateful for the lightness.

"Thank you for showing up today," he said quietly, thumb drawing absent circles against your arm.

"I kind of had to," you replied. "Bureaucracy and all. You know how much your lawyers would love to fine me."

He bit his lip, eyes lingering. "I really hope they're paying you well. A woman this pretty shouldn't work for free."

"Some people do like to call me a gold digger," you said, half-joking, half-testing.

"Yeah?" he murmured, close enough that his breath brushed your skin. "People say a lot of stupid shit."

He smiled. 

"Doesn't make them right."

And just like that, your chest tightened — because with him, things were easy.

And lately, easy felt dangerous too.

~*~

You'd barely seen Lando over the past month — which, considering you were allegedly his girlfriend, felt almost impressive. Just once or twice after the photoshoot, and even then only to fulfill public appearance duties.

Sure, there were stolen kisses here and there. Hands held a second longer than necessary. But that was it.

You didn't let yourself overthink it. This was what you'd agreed to. The moments you shared in private were supposed to remain rare — brief glimpses of what you and Lando could be, but ultimately weren't.

That's what you kept telling yourself.

So you couldn't deny it bothered you when your lawyer called to inform that Lando's team wanted you at the Dutch Grand Prix, but had very politely, very professionally, requested separate hotels for the weekend.

You knew what that meant.

Someone else.

You reminded yourself the contract didn't cover exclusivity. As long as it stayed private and scandal-free, it was nobody's business. Not yours. Not his. Not the internet's.

So you played your part.

Showed up for free practice. Walked through the paddock wearing the cutest outfit. Smiled when you were supposed to, looked worried on cue, delivered your usual reliable performance.

Ten out of ten. No notes.

But Lando noticed your distance. He always noticed — just never quite knew what to do with it. So he didn't say a word. He knew he was the one who'd asked for space, and he'd had the audacity to do it through other people.

He should've been content. He was getting exactly what he wanted.

So why didn't it feel like it?

He found you in the garage just before the race. One of the least private moments possible — which made it perfect, because you couldn't dodge him without making a scene.

"I'm really glad you came," he whispered against your ear, hands on your waist. "I'm sorry we haven't had much time together."

"Are you, though?" Your tone was flat.

"You know we both need space sometimes," he said.

"Space." You let out a dry laugh. "Right. I must've missed the memo where space comes with a hotel upgrade."

"Don't be like that." He kissed your forehead. "You're my best friend."

That one landed harder than you expected.

"I just hate being alone during race weekends," you admitted, dropping your voice. Allowing yourself, briefly, to be honest. "I'm only here because of you."

Lando took the hit.

"I'm sorry, love, I—" He cupped your face. "I just need something different right now."

You didn't feel like talking anymore. Or begging. Or pretending this didn't sting.

"We're probably better off like this anyway," you said, gently pulling away.

The words tasted bitter. Familiar.

~*~

Of course, you thought, watching the smoke rise from Lando's car with seven laps to go.

Life really loved its timing.

You took off your headphones and set them down. Watched the screen. Felt the lump settle in your throat as the camera found him sitting on the grass, defeated.

"He's okay," someone from the team touched your shoulder. "We'll take you to him in a bit."

You hesitated. Because you weren't sure you should go. It was what everyone expected — but was it what Lando wanted?

You moved away from the group, arms crossed, leaning against the wall. Full commotion filled the garage when he arrived, helmet still on. Engineers swarming, everyone talking at once.

For a brief moment, your eyes crossed.

He saw you. Away. Waiting.

He excused himself and came to you. You hesitated, then stepped forward and gently lifted his helmet off — his face red and wet underneath.

The cameras went wild in the background.

"You okay?" you asked softly.

"You don't need to worry about me." He sounded almost childish. His voice cracking gave him away.

"I know, baby," you replied, laying a gentle hand on his face. "I do it anyway."

You held each other's gaze — too long to be nothing, too short to fix anything — before he grabbed your hand from his face and kissed it.

Without another word, he headed back to his team.

You started walking away, ignoring the questions thrown at you by the media — wondering when exactly things had started to hurt this much.

~*~

No matter how hard you tried, you couldn't sleep. Your brain simply refused to clock out.

Being in Amsterdam, there was one thing you could easily get that would help with that.

So you were discreet getting on the hotel elevator, careful getting in and out of a coffee shop two blocks away, and extra cautious walking back down the hallway.

None of that was a match for Oscar's attentive gaze.

He opened his door just as you reached yours, catching you completely off guard.

"Jesus Christ!" you blurted.

"Where were you?" he asked immediately.

"Why do you care?"

"It's late," Oscar shrugged. "And it's Amsterdam."

"What does that even mean?"

"What's in the bag?"

You stood there in silence. A staring contest you were definitely losing.

"It's tea," you said, already knowing he wouldn't fall for it.

"Yeah?" He raised an eyebrow. "Come in and make me some, then."

Your mouth opened and closed while your brain screamed at you to abort mission.

"Lando's waiting for me," you lied.

"No, he's not," Oscar said, far too pleased with himself. "I happen to know Lando isn't even here tonight."

"Doesn't mean I owe you anything."

"I never said that." His eyes darkened. "I asked you to roll me a joint. Is that a terrible offence?"

You blinked.

The last time you'd spoken, he'd practically begged you to leave so he could have peace of mind. And now—

"What's changed?" you asked.

"I just had an important win," he said. "Maybe I deserve to get a bit distracted."

You looked at him leaning against the doorframe. Messy hair. Flushed cheeks. Eyes fixed on you like he'd already made his decision.

You were lonely. Wired. And the curiosity you'd been cultivating about Oscar was scratching at your brain like an itch you could no longer ignore.

"Do you have a lighter?" you asked, walking past him.

~*~

You don't even remember when the tension left your shoulders. But it felt damn good to feel this light.

Both of you were lying on the fluffy rug, shoes off, laughing easily — like people who didn't have a championship, contracts, or common sense between them.

Oscar was different like this. More relaxed. More real.

"I didn't think you'd be this much fun," you admitted.

"Same," he laughed. "I used to think you were so fucking annoying. And a bit stupid, if I'm being honest."

"What!" You propped yourself up on one elbow. "That is so rude, Oscar."

You both smiled, high as hell.

"I think I notice patterns," he said after a moment, something quieter settling over him. "You're always there for him. No matter what."

A pause.

"People don't usually show up when it costs them something."

The words hit harder than you expected.

"You mean Lily?" you asked, avoiding his eyes.

"Yeah," he murmured. "But also the team."

Another pause.

"Even today — they were too busy crying over something else to care about our win." He gestured loosely between the two of you. "But this is quieter. I prefer it."

You swallowed. You'd always known Lando was McLaren's golden boy. You just hadn't stopped to think about what that meant for Oscar.

"Don't get me wrong," he said, running a hand through his hair. "But where the fuck even is Lando right now?"

You bit your lip before the truth could slip out.

"I don't think he realizes what he has," Oscar said. "Or how easy he has it."

You didn't interrupt. That alone felt new.

"It's not that I want what he has," he continued, eyes on yours. "I just don't understand how he doesn't lose his fucking mind trying to keep it."

You let out a breath you hadn't realized you were holding.

"I think the championship is taking a toll on you boys," you said lightly.

He smiled. Just barely.

"Don't act like it's just the championship," he said, voice lower now, gaze drifting briefly to your lips.

"Oscar," you cut in gently. "You're lonely and you heard something you weren't supposed to. Lando got in your head and now you think—"

"You seriously think it started that night?" he interrupted. "I noticed you way before Miami."

You sat up slowly, never breaking eye contact.

"And if I'm wrong," he continued, "then why do I get the feeling you flirt with the same idea?"

Because I do, you thought.

"You're too smart for your own good," you said.

"And you're too stubborn to admit it."

You held his gaze a second too long before looking away.

"Am I being a piece of shit?" he asked.

You laughed, unfiltered.

"I like it when you laugh like that," Oscar said quietly.

"You're different without the team around," you pointed out.

"I don't usually talk this much," he admitted. "And I don't get high. You make things complicated."

"That's what makes me such a good distraction."

"My favorite one."

Your eyes locked again. Bodies shifting closer without either of you deciding to.

"If you stay," he said softly, "I might stop being careful."

Your heart pounded.

"Don't tempt me," you whispered. "I thought that was my job."

You didn't know who moved first — only that suddenly his mouth was on yours, warm and urgent, like he'd been holding back for too long. Your legs wrapped around his waist as you settled on his lap, his hands gripping you like he was grounding himself.

"I want to fucking ruin you so bad," he muttered against your ear. "It's actually stupid."

"Maybe I like you stupid."

"Bet you get off on it."

His mouth found yours again.

"Oscar," you breathed. "We shouldn't."

"I don't want to stop," he said, eyes honest. "And I hate when you're right."

You pulled back, fixing your clothes. Heart racing.

"This was fun," he said, standing, exhaling slowly.

"I should go."

He nodded and offered his hand. You took it — and noticed he didn't let go until you were outside his room.

"Well," he scratched the back of his neck. "This Dutch weed is insane."

"Tell me about it," you laughed. "Guess I'll see you around, Oscar."

"Not if I hide from you first."

You didn't look back as you walked to your room. The door clicked shut behind you, and you stood there staring at it like it could contain the mess you'd just made.

Sleep, you realized, was not happening anytime soon.

~*~

After you skipped the next two races, you showed up to the cocktail Lando's team had arranged before Singapore — meant to celebrate his British Vogue cover launch before things got even more serious as the season went on.

It was supposed to be intimate. It rarely ever was. Hard to keep a small circle when everyone wants a piece of one of the hottest drivers of the moment.

Your plan was simple: keep a low profile, avoid public figures, other WAGs, and anything that smelled like drama.

A solid plan. Right up until it wasn't.

Because when you saw Oscar across the room, your heart did something embarrassing.

Even from a distance, you could tell he hadn't fully bounced back from the last race weekend. And after everything that had happened in that Amsterdam hotel room, you felt an almost ridiculous urge to check on him.

Almost ridiculous. You went anyway.

You approached when he stepped away from his group, touching his arm lightly — discreet, brief.

"Hey," he greeted, his fingers brushing the spot where your hand had been. "The party looks expensive."

"It probably is," you rolled your eyes. "I've been meaning to reach out. But I don't have your number."

"Same," he replied. "It felt weird asking — well, anyone, really."

"Trust me. I get it."

You both laughed. But your smile faded first.

"I'm sorry about Azerbaijan."

"Thanks," he murmured. "Probably deserved it."

"Don't say that." You frowned. "It was just a bad race. You still have it in you, Oscar. The championship, I mean."

"Wow." Lando appeared out of nowhere, hand firm on your waist, kiss pressed to the top of your head like punctuation. "Let's dial it back a notch, shall we? Dangerous words to throw around in a room like this, love."

Your cheeks burned. Oscar let out a dry laugh.

"She really is the cutest little thing, isn't she?" Oscar said, taking a sip of his drink. The sharpness in his tone calibrated to keep Lando comfortably ignorant. "Thanks, Y/N. But I don't need consolation. I'm a big boy."

"You sure are, mate," Lando replied, fist-bumping him. "Stuff like that happens to any of us."

Oscar nodded, smiling with his mouth.

"Still hoping to put up a good fight this season," Oscar said.

"Oh, I know I will," Lando replied easily, pulling you closer. "Got my lucky charm with me. Speaking of — where's Lily?"

Oscar's eyes flicked to you for half a second.

"Busy," he shrugged. "She'll probably show up to a couple races."

Your expression went blank.

Jealous? You filed that away to be horrified about later.

"Maybe we should grab a drink," you said to Lando.

"You read my mind." He kissed you again. "If you'll excuse us, mate. Gotta cause some trouble."

Trouble, indeed.

You didn't see Oscar again for the rest of the night. You also didn't look.

One drink turned into three, then four. Laughter grew louder. Touches sloppier. Lando's hand never really left your waist. Somewhere between the music and the endless champagne, the weight you'd been carrying for weeks finally loosened.

By the time you were in the back of a car, his mouth was already on yours — desperate and clumsy, like he'd been holding back for too long.

"It's funny," Lando said suddenly, pulling back just enough to look at you. "I don't usually care who you talk to."

He wiped the corner of your lip with his thumb.

"But with him, I notice," he added quietly. "People might get the wrong idea."

"About what?" you asked.

His hand slid under your dress, fingers pressing against the lace of your underwear with the kind of familiarity that came from way too many stolen moments like this.

"About who you belong to."

You gasped into his mouth. He smirked, watching your face as his fingers dipped lower.

"We exchanged like three words," you managed. "I was just being a good team player."

Lando's hands slowed for a fraction of a second — deciding whether to believe you or not. A moan tore from your throat before you could stop it.

That did it for him. As long as he kept winning and you kept melting under his touch, people could think whatever the fuck they wanted.

"You have no idea what you do to me when you look like that," he whispered. "Tell me you want this."

"You're insufferable."

"Yeah?" His grin was criminal. "Then why are you—"

His sentence died when you bit his earlobe.

"You are a fucking devil."

The wet sounds filled the car, mixing with your moans and his heavy breaths, as Lando had two fingers inside you, curling them against that spot that made you see stars.

“Stop teasing,” you begged. “Fuck me already.”

You reached for him, moving your body to sit on his lap. In a hurry, he opened his belt and you guided him to your entrance. Lando thrust in deep, filling you completely in one smooth movement. 

You both groaned at the stretch, the way he hit every nerve inside you.

“God, I’ve missed you,” he whispered.

His hands gripped your thighs, helping you move up and down as he pounded into you, the slap of skin on skin echoing in the tight space. 

You did your best to pull him deeper, nails digging into his shoulders.

Sweat on his forehead, his curls sticking to his skin. You clenched around him deliberately, making him curse under his breath.

“Don’t,” he warned you. “I won’t last long if you keep up with this shit.”

And you let it happen. Goddamn, you wanted it to happen.

The windows fogged up, the world outside forgotten as he fucked you harder and deeper, pushing both of you over the edge almost at the same time. 

Even with all the distance and silence, this was still you and Lando. You couldn’t even dare to deny you’d missed him like crazy. 

His mouth, his hands, the way he took over your space until there was nothing left but heat and breath and need. 

Only him could make everything else go quiet. And for a few hazy, drunk hours, it almost felt easy again, like you were exactly where you were supposed to be.

~*~ 

Three weeks later, Singapore.

The McLaren Constructors' celebration was loud enough to rattle the press area. You watched from behind the barriers, cheering, clapping, playing your part perfectly.

It took you a few minutes to notice someone was missing.

Oscar.

You scanned the area again. Nothing. No sign of him, or anyone from his circle.

That didn't sit right.

You knew you shouldn't go looking.

So you did anyway.

They already had what they wanted — photos of you cheering for Lando, videos of you whispering I love you back at the kiss he blew your way. You excused yourself early.

It didn't take long to find Oscar sitting alone in hospitality, champagne bottle in hand, drinking straight from it like he'd stopped pretending hours ago.

"Congratulations," he said as soon as he noticed you. "Funny how you seem to be more part of this team than I am."

"I came looking for you," you said, ignoring the jab.

"Well, that's new." He took another sip, then handed you the bottle. You accepted without comment. "Sorry. It's just — frustrating."

Silence filled the space between you.

"This," you gestured vaguely around. "All of this. It's kind fucked, if we're being honest."

He nodded, like that wasn't news.

"I hate it here," you admitted, pulling out a chair beside him.

"Then why?" He frowned. "Why do you keep doing this? Are you that in love with him?"

You wished you could tell him the truth. But Oscar wouldn't understand — you were already sure of that. And you knew better than to blow everything up for someone who would judge you for it.

"He's my best friend," you said. A half-truth, carefully delivered.

"I've tried," Oscar replied. "But I genuinely don't understand how that works."

A curve formed at the corner of his mouth. Almost a smile.

Almost. It looked more like pity.

"He doesn't respect you," he said quietly. "The things I've seen him do when you weren't around—"

"And how's that any different from what we did?" you shot back.

Oscar stared at you like you'd handed him a puzzle with a missing piece.

"The difference is — I didn't pick you up at some party for a quick fuck and pay you to disappear," he said, barely above a whisper.

He stopped himself. Confusion flashing across his face before he could hide it.

"Did you do that?" he asked. "This. With me. To get back at him?"

"Of course not," you said sharply. "If you had the slightest idea of what I am risking—"

He reached for your hand.

"Maybe we shouldn't be risking anything," he said, eyes dropping, "when the stakes are this high."

He pulled his hand back first.

"Thank you for checking on me," he added. "But you should go."

"Friends?" you asked, already knowing.

His hazel eyes lifted, locking onto yours.

"I can't," he said.

The door swung open. An assistant, walkie-talkie already raised in relief.

"Found him. We'll be there in a second."

Oscar leaned back in his chair. Closed his eyes for just a beat.

And whatever you almost had slipped out of reach.

~*~ 

Both phones ringing early in the morning should've been your first sign something was wrong. The way Lando's eyes went wide — like he'd just heard the juiciest gossip on earth — should've been the second. The three hundred plus notifications you'd woken up to were the undeniable third.

"Hey, so," he called from across the room, voice already walking on eggshells. "Please don't freak out."

"Oh, that definitely helps," you replied.

He handed you his phone.

Your jaw dropped.

"What the fuck is this?"

"Well," Lando started. "It's… us."

You slapped a hand over your mouth. "No shit, Sherlock."

There you were: caught in the hotel mirror, happy and very visibly ruined. The flash swallowed half of Lando's face, but not his bare chest or the white towel slung low around his hips. His arm was tight around you, your body bent over the sink, head turned slightly from the camera. Nothing but a towel wrapped around your hair.

The fogged mirror sealed it — intimate, unmistakable, and absolutely impossible to deny.

"If I had to guess," he continued, scratching the back of his neck, "it's from summer break. Greece."

"How did they even get this?" you asked. Horrified. Or maybe just deeply offended on principle.

"Mark says they're looking into it."

You tossed the phone onto the bed. "Mark knows?"

"At this point," Lando said calmly, "it's probably easier to ask who doesn't."

You groaned. "What did he say?"

"Team knows. They want me to talk."

"Great," you whimpered. "I'm now fake dating a Formula 1 driver and starring in a soft porn scandal."

Lando rubbed your back, trying very hard not to smile. "I mean. I'm shocked. Deeply. Traumatized, even."

You glared at him.

"But," he added quickly, "on the bright side — we do look hot as fuck, love."

You stared at him. Speechless.

"I'm just saying," he rushed on, "there are way worse photos of us that could've leaked."

"Please shut the fuck up," you groaned, throwing yourself face-down on the bed and pulling the sheets over your head.

"Honestly, it's not that bad—"

"It's a mirror selfie!" you yelled from under the covers. "Do you think they can tell we fucked right before taking it?"

Lando raised an eyebrow. "I don't think you're emotionally prepared for the answer to that."

Silence.

Then you peeked out from the sheets.

"…We do look fucking good, don't we?"

Lando smiled, already resigned.

"Absolutely."

~*~ 

Oscar absolutely should not have done this. He knew that. He was painfully aware of it, in fact.

And yet.

He'd spotted you shopping around Monaco a few days before the circus packed up for Texas, and had made a series of increasingly questionable decisions that ended with his foot stopping your apartment door from closing.

To be fair, the alternative was exchanging polite, awkward hellos during race weekends for the rest of the season. When he framed it like that, following you home seemed almost reasonable.

It was not reasonable at all.

You didn't notice him until it was too late. You'd been busy spiraling — professionally, emotionally, cosmically, the usual — and the sudden appearance of Oscar Piastri in your doorframe nearly launched your heart out of your chest.

"What the fuck are you doing?" you snapped, eyes wide.

Then you actually looked at him.

Flushed cheeks. Apologetic eyes. A man who knew he was approximately thirty seconds away from being murdered.

Your voice dropped to a whisper immediately. "What the actual fuck do you think you're doing?"

He hesitated. "Visiting a friend?"

Silence.

"For… a visit?"

You stared at him. 

"Since when are we friends?" You squinted. "Actually — since when do you know where I live? And don't you dare tell me someone leaked that too."

Oscar considered lying. It would've been elegant. Dignified. Entirely fictional.

"Depends on what you consider a leak," he tried, going for charming.

You didn't smile.

"I followed you," he admitted. "Alright? Can I come in before someone sees me and I ruin all of our lives in one go?"

You sighed, opened the door wider, and waved him in — immediately scanning the hallway behind him like a paranoid raccoon.

A photo of this would be catastrophic. A blind item? Nuclear.

"So," he said, glancing around your living room, hands shoved into his pockets. "This is your hiding spot."

"It's called an apartment."

"Smells like you," he added. Way too casually.

You froze. Then pointed at the couch. "Sit. Don't touch anything. I'll be right back."

You dumped your bags in the bedroom, splashed water on your face, stared at your reflection like it might offer guidance.

You can do this, you told yourself. You can have a normal conversation with Oscar Piastri without emotionally combusting.

Your reflection looked unconvinced. Honestly, fair.

When you came back, he was exactly where you'd left him — sitting stiffly, leg bouncing like it owed him money.

You sat beside him.

"So," you said. "What's up?"

He blinked. Looked at you. Looked at the floor.

"That photo," he said.

Your stomach dropped straight through the couch.

"What photo?" you tried, weakly.

"Don't," he said. "Not with me."

You leaned back, exhaling. "I didn't think you'd—"

"See it?" He almost laughed. "Yeah. I did. Believe me, I did my best to avoid it."

A pause. Something shifting in his expression.

"You looked happy," he said.

He stopped himself.

"Comfortable," he corrected. Like that was safer.

"This isn't fair," you said quietly. "You don't get to—"

"I know," he cut in. "Doesn't make it stop."

Your pulse roared in your ears.

"Why does it bother you?" you asked.

Oscar leaned forward, elbows on his knees.

"Because every time I tell myself to stay in my lane," he said, "something happens that reminds me you're not just around him."

He exhaled.

"You're with him."

You shook your head. "I don't know what you want me to say."

The silence that followed was thick enough to sit in. You shifted closer before you could stop yourself — not much, just enough that your knee brushed his. Oscar noticed. His eyes dropped for half a second before he straightened, like the contact had woken him up.

"This was a mistake," he muttered. "I shouldn't have come here."

"You're already here," you replied..

"Doesn't mean I should stay."

But he didn't move.

Your hand rested on his knee almost distracted. Oscar looked at it. Then at you.

"You make this very difficult," he said.

His hand lifted slowly — hesitating halfway, still deciding if this was a terrible idea. His fingers brushed your jaw, warm and careful. You didn't pull away.

"This is exactly what I was trying to avoid," he said, almost to himself.

"Then stop."

His thumb traced your cheekbone. He didn't stop.

"I'm sorry that photo went public," he said instead, voice quieter now. Redirecting with the precision of someone who'd decided the other direction was a cliff. "And I'm guessing you're not the one who leaked it."

"God, no," you said. "Absolutely not."

He nodded. His leg had gone still.

"Still," he said, eyes on yours. "Don't think for a second that seeing you like that didn't make me wonder what it would take to be the one next to you when you look that unguarded."

The room felt smaller.

You laughed softly despite yourself, your hand drifting to his chest without permission. You filed that away to deal with never.

"I'm glad you're here, stalker," you said. "I could use the company."

He huffed a quiet laugh. "What about Lando?"

"He's not around tonight," you said simply. "Doesn't mean we have to ruin our lives though."

Oscar didn't answer with words.

He closed the gap — one hand cupping your jaw, the other finding your waist — and kissed you. Unhurried. Like he'd made his decision and wasn't interested in second-guessing it.

You kissed him back. That felt like a decision too.

The kiss was soft at first, a gentle press that deepened into something profound — his mouth warm and inviting, his tongue slipping past your lips to taste you.

You sighed into it, your body melting against him, fingers threading into his hair to hold him close, as if letting go would shatter the moment.

His hand slid from your jaw down your neck, over your collarbone, tracing the curve of your breast through your shirt with feather-light touches that made your skin tingle. 

You arched into him, nipples peaking under the fabric as he cupped you gently, his thumb circling the hardened bud with care.

“You’re going to be the end of me,” he murmured, breaking the kiss to trail his lips along your jaw, pressing kisses to your neck, nipping lightly at your earlobe.

Your hands explored him with equal reverence, sliding under his shirt to feel the warmth of his chest, the subtle strength of his muscles toned from endless laps on the track. You traced the lines of his abs, feeling him shiver under your touch.

He captured your mouth again, the kiss turning deep, tongues dancing like they belonged together, hips shifting forward instinctively, his erection pressing against your thigh through his jeans.

When he pulled back, his forehead rested against yours.

"Who even are you?" he asked softly.

"You don't want to know."

He smiled against your mouth.

"Maybe I do."

You pulled him into a hug that surprised both of you. His arms came around you after a beat — tentative, then firm, like he was allowing himself something he'd been refusing for months.

"That's sweet of you," you murmured against his ear.

"I can be sweet," he replied. "I can be a lot of things."

And somehow, that felt like both a promise and a warning.

~*~ 

"I cannot decide how to react to this information," Lando confessed, running a hand through his hair. "I absolutely hate that for you. For us."

"I don't want to keep secrets from you, Lan," you said, heart hammering. "I can't do that."

"I know." Something tight flickered behind his eyes. "Oscar kissed you. Twice. And you liked it. And he's still walking around the paddock with Lily like nothing happened."

You breathed out loudly, unsure of what to say next.

"Thank you for telling me," he said, standing abruptly and heading for the door. "I'm going to fucking kill that little bitch."

"Lando, no!" You stopped him. "I'm telling this to my best friend Lando. Not my fake-boyfriend Lando."

"Has it ever occurred to you," he asked, exasperated, "that they are the same fucking person?"

He paced the room. You stayed quiet and let him.

Looking at it from a colder angle, he couldn't really call it betrayal. The whole point of the contract was freedom on both sides, and he had taken advantage of that more than once. More than you ever did.

But still.

"He has a girlfriend," Lando said finally, his voice landing somewhere between angry and tired. "A real, sweet, official girlfriend."

"I know."

"And even if I was okay with sharing—" He stopped himself, jaw tight. "Do you have any idea what it feels like to watch people speculate about something that's supposed to be mine? Even if we both know the truth?"

"I'm tired of pretending I don't want more than what I'm allowed to have," you said, taking a step back from his touch. "Aren't you?"

"Are you doing this to get back at me?"

You rolled your eyes. "I know it might come as a surprise to you, after almost three years of my life—" you started, sharper than intended. "But not every aspect of my silly little existence revolves around you, Norris."

"When did this even happen?" He ignored your jab. "Why didn't you come to me before it got messy—"

"What makes you think I wanted to avoid it?"

"Uh, I don't know, maybe keep our asses safe from the shit PR will give us?" He sounded genuinely annoyed now. "You have no idea how fast they can turn you into a villain in this business."

"You have to decide what your main concern is here," you said. "If you're more worried about how this makes you look—"

"Shut up." His eyes went sharp. "Don't you dare insinuate that I care more about optics than I care about us. About what we actually are to each other."

A silence stretched between you. Not comfortable.

"Does he know?" Lando asked, voice going neutral. "About the true nature of our relationship."

"Of course not."

"Jesus Christ," he muttered. He walked around the room once, twice, like he needed the laps.

You stayed still.

"How does this leave us?" he asked finally.

"I'm not leaving you," you said. "I'm not even saying I'll have anything with him. I just couldn't lie to you. We go way deeper than that."

"Does it change how you feel about me?" A beat. "About us?"

"I don't think so."

He stopped pacing.

"This was never supposed to hurt," he said, quieter now. "They told me to protect my image. No one told me how to protect you. I know I failed that."

"I didn't sign up to disappear when it gets uncomfortable," you said. "It doesn't have to change anything."

"But it sort of does," he said honestly. "I don't like sharing what keeps me sane. Even if I know I don't get to control it."

He crossed the room and grabbed your hand, pulling you closer. Pressed a kiss to the top of your head.

"Be careful, love," he whispered. "Not just with us. With you."

"I won't do anything too stupid."

You kissed his cheek. He held onto you a second longer than necessary.

"Don't make me compete with a straight man for attention," he muttered into your hair.

"You win most categories already."

"Good," he murmured. "Because if Piastri breaks your heart, I'm still killing that fucking dog."

He held you then — carefully, like you were the most important thing in the room. And then, with everything that made him Lando, he kissed you on the lips.

Sealing your dirty little deal once and for all.

~*~

The Texas heat hit differently in October. Dry, relentless. The kind that clung to your skin even when the wind picked up across COTA.

The paddock was already buzzing when you stepped out of the car. Cameras flashed the second Lando appeared beside you. He didn't hesitate — his hand slid into yours automatically, fingers lacing together like it had been rehearsed a thousand times.

Maybe it had.

You smiled for the cameras, tilting your head toward him just enough to sell the moment. Lando leaned closer, murmuring under his breath while his free hand waved at a group of fans.

"Remember," he said, "if I crash this weekend, you're contractually obligated to still pretend you like me."

"Don't worry," you replied. "I've survived worse acting jobs."

Journalists shouted from behind the barriers as you made your way to the garage:

"Norris, are you worried about internal competition?"

"Is it truly helpful to have your partner around at such a critical point of the championship?"

Lando pulled you tighter against his side, thumb brushing the back of your hand.

"I wouldn't even be here if it wasn't for her," he said, easy smile plastered on, photographers eating it up.

Half the paddock thought you were the most supportive girlfriend in Formula 1. The other half thought the same thing, just with more cynical intentions attached.

Neither version was the truth.

Across the garage, Oscar noticed anyway. He hadn't meant to look. But once he saw Lando's hand wrapped around yours — the way his body looked so comfortably pressed against yours — it was impossible to unsee.

That entrance alone made the McLaren garage tense from the start.

You did your best to keep a low profile and stayed near the hospitality unit while the mechanics swarmed the cars. Lando was already deep in conversation with his race engineer, gesturing sharply at the telemetry on a tablet.

That's when you felt someone step up beside you.

Oscar.

"Texas suits you," he said, voice low enough to be swallowed by the air guns in the pit lane.

"You've seen me in Texas for like five seconds."

"Still counts."

His eyes flicked briefly toward Lando's side of the garage.

"Busy weekend," you said, crossing your arms.

He exhaled through his nose. A faint, humorless trace of a smile. "Apparently."

"You two are fighting for a championship," you added. As if reminding him of the stakes would somehow restore the boundaries between you. A very optimistic theory.

"So I've been told," Oscar replied.

Silence. Heavy with everything you weren't saying.

He looked like he wanted to say something else — something that definitely didn't belong in a crowded garage — but a McLaren staff member called his name from across the room.

He didn't say goodbye. But as he turned to leave, his hand slid low against yours — just long enough for his fingers to catch your skin. Deliberate. Hidden.

You held your breath.

"See you around," he murmured without looking back.

"Yeah."

You watched him walk away, your stomach twisting into a tight, complicated knot. You gave yourself approximately four seconds to feel whatever that was, then filed it under not now and went back to looking like you belonged there.

You barely had time to get your heart rate under control before Lily appeared.

She walked into the hospitality unit looking bright and effortlessly pretty — a stark contrast to the thick, suffocating tension that seemed to follow you, Lando, and Oscar around like a bad smell.

"Hey!" She offered you a warm smile, scanning the room. "Have you seen Oscar? He said he was coming over after his media loop."

"He just went back to his side," you said, your voice coming out slightly tighter than intended. You forced a smile. "Do you want to sit?"

"Oh, gladly. My feet are killing me."

Before she could ask how your week was going, Lando practically stormed in. Finished with his briefing, and by the look on his face, it hadn't gone well.

He ripped his team kit collar open a fraction, dropped into the seat next to you with the energy of a man personally wronged by the laws of physics.

"If one more person asks me about team orders, I am going to launch myself into the nearest tyre wall," he muttered, throwing his phone on the table. Then, noticing Lily, his expression adjusted in a fraction of a second — smooth, charming, perfectly recalibrated. "Oh, hey, Lily. Didn't see you there."

"Rough morning?" she asked.

"The worst. Marketing wants me to wear a cowboy hat for the driver parade." He leaned back, arm dropping casually over the back of your chair. "Tell her I'd look ridiculous, love."

"You know damn well you're not allowed cowboys hats," you shot back.

Right on cue, Oscar walked back in. He froze for a microsecond when he saw all three of you, then his face smoothed into that unreadable mask and he took the empty seat next to Lily — which put him directly across from you.

Of course it did.

"There you are," Lily said.

"Media ran long," Oscar said shortly. He picked up a menu, thumb tracing the edge of the laminated paper. Not looking at you. Not looking at Lando.

"Lando was just complaining about the cowboy hats," Lily offered, trying to inject some lightness into the table.

Oscar flicked his eyes up to Lando's. The silence between them lasted a second too long.

"You should wear it," Oscar said. "Might distract people from your Sector 3 times."

Lando let out a sharp laugh, eyes going cold. "My Sector 3 is fine, mate. Focus on your own launch data. I saw your simulator runs. Brutal."

"Just keeping you honest," Oscar replied, entirely devoid of warmth.

You sat frozen between them, eyes moving from Lando's tight jaw to Oscar's white-knuckled grip on his menu.

"Anyway," Lily cut in, leaning forward with genuine, sweet concern. "I wanted to ask — are you guys doing okay? With everything that happened recently?"

Lando's eyes locked onto her. "What do you mean?"

"The photo," Lily said, voice full of pity. "I just wanted to say I'm so sorry. It's such a horrible invasion of privacy."

Across the table, Oscar went rigid. He didn't look up, but the muscle in his jaw twitched.

"PR is handling it," Lando said flatly, glancing at you.

"It just looked so unfiltered," Lily murmured, shaking her head. "You two are just — very physical. Very comfortable with your intimacy."

She paused.

"Oscar and I don't really do that kind of stuff."

"Lily," Oscar said. Low. A warning.

"I'm not saying it's a bad thing!" she rushed. "I just mean it must be exhausting to have something so personal exposed."

"It is," Lando said. His voice had dropped into something razor-edged. He leaned forward, eyes fixed on Oscar. "You'd be surprised how easy it is for some people in this paddock to forget that boundaries exist. On and off the track."

Oscar raised his eyes. The look he gave Lando was charged with pure, concentrated loathing. For a second you genuinely thought he might flip the table.

"Maybe we should go get changed," Oscar said instead, standing and knocking his chair back. He didn't look at Lily. He didn't look at you. "Engineering briefing."

"Oh. Okay," Lily blinked, flustered. "Sorry if I brought up a bad topic. See you guys later?"

"Yeah. See you, Lily," you managed.

The second they walked out, the silence left behind was deafening.

Lando didn't look at you. He stared at the empty space where Oscar had been sitting, fingers curling into a fist on the table.

"He's losing his mind," Lando whispered. Dark, satisfied, and furious all at once. "Did you see him?"

"Lando, stop."

"I'm not doing anything," he said, turning to look at you. "But if he doesn't keep his fucking hands off you this weekend, I'm going to make sure his championship ends right here in Austin."

You didn't say anything.

Because the worst part wasn't the threat.

The worst part was that some small, inconvenient corner of your brain noted that Oscar's hand on yours had lasted maybe three seconds — and Lando had somehow already noticed.

~*~

Both of them. Reckless and impulsive.

Double DNF.

The McLaren garage went dead silent. Zak Brown threw his headset onto the desk.

Ten minutes later, the back corridor of the motorhome became a warzone. You were already there when Lando stormed in, helmet off, slamming it into the wall.

"Are you fucking insane?!" he screamed as Oscar walked in behind him, unzipping his suit with frustratingly steady hands. "You divebombed me like it was personal!"

"You closed the door on purpose," Oscar shot back, voice finally cracking out of its usual monotone. He stepped into Lando's face. "You'd rather wreck both cars than let me past for one second!"

"Because you don't respect limits!"

Lando shoved Oscar's shoulder.

Oscar didn't hesitate. He grabbed Lando's collar and slammed him into the lockers. "Say another word about it. I dare you."

"Separate! Right now!" Mechanics and PR staff threw themselves between them.

Oscar let go. But his eyes stayed on Lando — and then, for just a second, they found you over his shoulder.

Raw. Unguarded. Gone before anyone else could catch it.

You looked away first. Made yourself smaller in the corner of that tight, suffocating room and tried very hard to be furniture.

It didn't entirely work.

~*~ 

The hotel corridor was quiet in the way that felt cruel after all that noise.

You were reaching for your keycard when a shadow blocked the light.

You didn't need to look up.

"Oscar," you breathed, turning around.

He looked exhausted. Still in his race suit.

"We shouldn't be doing this here," you whispered, checking the empty hallway. "If Lando sees you—"

"Lando is downstairs threatening to fire his personal trainer," Oscar cut in. He stepped into your space — not touching you, just closing the distance until thinking straight became optional. "I don't give a fuck about Lando right now."

"You two crashed," you reminded him. "The team is on fire. You almost got physical in the garage."

"Because he looks at me like he owns you," Oscar said, jaw tight. "Because I had to sit at that table and listen to Lily describe how comfortable you two look together."

The mention of Lily landed like it was supposed to.

"It's just a photo," you said, looking anywhere but his eyes. "An old one."

"Don't lie to me."

Not loud. Just certain.

"We haven't even properly touched each other," he said, "and look at me. I just wrecked two cars because I couldn't get the image of his hands on you out of my head."

Your throat went dry. "Oscar—"

"At first I barely talked to you because I knew exactly what would happen." His voice dropped. "I forced myself to look away. It's not working anymore."

His gaze fell to your lips for a fraction of a second. Then back up.

"I can't keep doing this," he said. "Not after tasting you."

You opened your mouth to tell him to leave.

His mouth found yours instead.

Rough. Urgent. Nothing like the patience he usually carried around like a personality trait. One hand in your hair, the other pulling you against his chest.

A chime from the far end of the hallway — elevator doors opening.

Panic spiked clean through the moment.

Without breaking the kiss, your hand found the door handle behind you. You pushed it open with your back and pulled him into the dark, slamming it shut.

The silence of the room swallowed you both.

Oscar didn't let you breathe. The second the door locked, he had you against it — hands on your hips, face buried in your neck, a sound escaping the back of your throat that you'd be embarrassed about later.

Later, you thought. Problem for later.

His hands slid to the back of your thighs and lifted you like it was nothing. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically.

He carried you to the bed.

He was desperate — you could feel it in every touch, the way his hands moved like he was trying to cover ground he'd been forbidden from for months. His mouth traced up your stomach, your ribs, your jaw, before finding yours again.

"Tell me to stop," Oscar whispered against your lips. "Say it now."

You didn't say it.

He pulled back just far enough to look at you — really look, the way he almost never let himself — and whatever he saw there made something in his expression break open.

Then he froze.

His hand went still. His forehead dropped to your shoulder.

Ten seconds of just his breathing, ragged and controlled at war with each other.

Then he rolled off you and sat on the edge of the bed, back turned, head in his hands.

"Oscar?" Your voice came out embarrassingly unsteady.

He stood up. Adjusted his shirt. Didn't look at you.

"Lily is here," he said, walking to the door. "I'm going back to my room."

He paused with his hand on the handle, looking back over his shoulder.

"Think about what you actually want," he said. "Because the next time I come into your room, I'm not stopping."

The door opened. Clicked shut.

Gone.

You stayed on the bed for a long moment, staring at the ceiling.

Right, you thought. Fine. Completely fine.

Sleep was not happening.

~*~

Lando was spent.

He sat on the edge of the mattress, head in his hands, blue bruises from the seatbelts already blooming across his collarbones.

You sat beside him without a word. After a moment, he laid his head on your lap, arms wrapping around your waist.

"I'm so sick of this," he murmured. "Of him."

You ran your fingers through his curls. Said nothing.

"Thank God you're here," he said into your stomach. "Honestly."

The weight of what you weren't telling him pressed down, heavy.

You had the perfect opening. Oscar outside your room. His hands. The door slamming shut. All of it.

You looked at Lando's exhausted, bruised shoulders.

"I'm here," you said instead, still touching his hair. "I'm not going anywhere."

Worst part? You meant it.

~*~

The noise at the Mexico Grand Prix was completely hollow to Oscar's ears.

Lando had won. P1.

He'd officially overtaken Oscar in the standings.

While Lando drowned in champagne on the podium, Oscar had slipped away early and gone back to the hotel. He'd lost the lead on the track. But standing in the dark of his room, the anger vibrating under his skin wasn't about the points anymore.

It was about him.

Your knock at midnight was quiet. Almost hesitant.

When Oscar pulled the door open, you were standing there still dressed for a party you hadn't wanted to attend, head spinning slightly from trying to keep up with Lando's frantic evening and the alcohol meant to numb the anxiety of it.

"Look, I—"

You didn't finish the sentence.

Oscar reached out and pulled you inside. The door slammed shut behind you, and before you could catch your breath, his mouth was on yours.

This wasn't like Austin.

No hesitation. No ten-second pause. Whatever restraint he'd forced himself to maintain for months had completely evaporated with Lando's victory lap, and what replaced it was something quieter and more dangerous than rage.

Focus. Like he'd made a decision and was done negotiating with himself about it.

"Oscar, wait—" you breathed against his lips. "Lando—"

"Has the trophy," Oscar said. His hands slid to the back of your thighs, lifting you. Your legs wrapped around his waist automatically, like your body had already agreed to things your brain was still debating. "He has the points. He can have the whole fucking thing."

He carried you to the bed.

"But he doesn't have this," Oscar whispered, his eyes dark in the dim light. His hand tangled in your hair, tipping your head back. "He doesn't have you."

Doesn't he, you thought — and then stopped thinking entirely.

He was desperate, but it was a desperation with direction. Every touch deliberate, every movement building toward something. Like he'd been running calculations for months and had finally, finally reached the answer.

"I've been losing my mind watching you," he said against your skin. "You did this to me."

You had approximately zero arguments against that.

When he finally pushed inside you, stretching you open, a sharp breath caught in your throat, swallowed instantly by his mouth on yours. The rhythm he set was relentless — driven by months of locked glances in garages and conversations that always stopped just short of the truth.

He didn't hold back. And he didn't look away.

Every thrust was deep, heavy, and desperate.

Every time you pulled him closer, his grip on you tightened as he buried himself deeper and deeper into you, chasing his release.

Every time your hips rose to meet his, something in his expression cracked open further — like he was watching something he couldn't believe was actually happening and refusing to blink in case it disappeared.

"Oscar, please, it's too much—" you gasped.

"Tell me to stop," he said, voice rough. "Right now and I will."

"We shouldn't—" Your fingers dug into his shoulders. "Lando's going to know—"

"Let him."

The two words landed like a verdict.

When you finally fell apart, Oscar followed — his body trembling as he spilled inside you, face buried in your neck, holding you so tight it felt like he was trying to make sure neither of you could come undone separately.

The silence came back slowly.

He didn't move away. He stayed, his head on your neck, heartbeat wild against your ribs. His hand spread flat over your hip — warm, possessive, completely still.

You stared at the ceiling.

Lando was king of the paddock tonight. Celebrating his P1 somewhere loud and bright and full of people who wanted to be near him.

Oscar had you.

And from the way his arms tightened around you — like letting go was something he hadn't budgeted for — he wasn't planning on pretending otherwise.

~*~

The tension didn't wait for the cars to hit the track in São Paulo. It arrived with the circus, hovering over the hotel lounge like a storm waiting to pick a victim.

Lando was walking around with a cocky, untouchable aura. Oscar had retreated into a cold, predatory silence. And you were doing what you always did in situations like this — working the room just enough to be present without being interesting.

You were good at that. Mysteriously, inexplicably good at that, considering.

Lando was at the bar, loudly debating something with George Russell, a laugh booming from his chest. Oscar was sitting with Lily across the room.

His eyes hadn't moved from you in ten minutes.

You finished your wine in one long sip and got up to leave.

Your foot caught the edge of a heavy rug.

The wine glass tilted. Your balance went with it.

A hand grabbed your forearm before you hit the floor.

Oscar.

For a fraction of a second, the world stopped. His hand stayed clamped around your bare skin, thumb brushing your pulse point, eyes locked onto yours with an intensity that had absolutely no business existing in a public lounge.

He didn't just catch you. He held you.

"Careful," he murmured.

"Thanks," you breathed, pulling away quickly.

You didn't look back as you walked to the elevators. You could feel him watching.

What you didn't see was Max Verstappen, leaning against a nearby pillar with a drink in hand and the expression of a man who had just been handed a gift.

He waited until Oscar walked past.

"Careful, Piastri," Max said, dry and amused. "Going after your teammate's girl?"

Oscar didn't stop walking. "It's not like that."

Max chuckled. "Sure, mate. Keep telling yourself that."

He took a sip of his drink, deeply unbothered by the chaos that only ever seemed to benefit him.

~*~

Later that night, the silence inside Oscar's room was loud.

Lily hadn't taken her shoes off. Hadn't sat. She stood with her arms crossed, watching him like she was waiting for something to confess on its own.

"You were quiet tonight," she said.

"It's been a long day." Oscar threw his room key on the table.

"It's been a long few months," Lily replied, tone carefully calm. "And don't insult me by pretending you don't know what I mean."

He rubbed his face. "You're imagining things."

"No," she said. "I'm noticing them. I notice how you look at her when you think no one's watching."

"Lily—"

"Do you even realize you're doing it?" Her voice cracked, just slightly. "Looking at her like that? I noticed how you reacted when she touched your arm. When you caught her. And I noticed you didn't pull away." She paused. "Everyone in that bar saw it. Max was laughing."

Silence.

"I'm not asking if you slept with her," Lily said. "I'm asking when you stopped being here with me."

Oscar stared at the floor. "It's complicated."

She laughed once. Dry. Bitter. The laugh of someone who had been prepared for a lot of answers and not this one.

"Funny. Because it feels painfully simple from where I'm standing." She took a breath. "I came here because I love you. But I won't compete with ghosts, Oscar. Or with women who don't even know they're being placed between us."

"She knows," he said.

The words left his mouth before he could stop them.

Lily's eyes snapped to his. Widening in the specific, horrible way of someone whose worst theory just got confirmed.

"Oh," she whispered. "So it's worse than I thought."

He stepped forward. "Lily—"

"No." She raised a hand. "Don't try to fix it tonight."

She grabbed her bag from the bed.

"I'm going home tomorrow. First thing."

Oscar frowned. "In the middle of the race weekend?"

"Yes," she said, standing tall despite the tears. "Because I refuse to sit in a paddock watching my boyfriend fall in love with someone else."

"That's not what's happening," he said. Too fast.

She paused at the door. Looked back at him one last time.

"If you truly believed that, Oscar," she said quietly, "you wouldn't look this scared."

And then she left.

The door didn't slam. That was almost worse.

Oscar stood in the middle of the room for a long moment, not moving.

He thought about texting you. Decided against it. Thought about calling Lando. Decided against that too, for obvious reasons.

He sat on the edge of the bed instead, in the quiet left behind by someone who had loved him cleanly and simply, and thought about how thoroughly he had complicated his own life.

He didn't regret it.

That was probably the most damning thing of all.

~*~

By Friday afternoon, the McLaren garage was toxic.

Lando was enjoying his moment as WDC leader with the energy of someone who had never once considered being humble about anything. The rumors and whispers from the night before had put Oscar on edge anyway, which meant the combination was particularly lethal.

During a break between sessions, you were sitting at a table in the hospitality lounge when Oscar walked in to grab a drink.

Lando, leaning back in his chair, tracked his teammate across the room with the focused patience of a man who had been waiting for an excuse.

"You've been paying a lot of attention to my girlfriend lately, Piastri," Lando said, loud enough to carry.

It sounded like a joke. His eyes said otherwise.

Oscar didn't turn around from the drink fridge. He grabbed his bottle, closed the door with a click, and finally looked at Lando.

"Someone has to," Oscar replied.

Flat. Calm. Entirely unapologetic.

Lando's grip tightened around his water bottle until the plastic crunched. The realization hit him slow and then all at once — Oscar wasn't backing down anymore.

You looked at the table and said nothing.

Which was, frankly, the only reasonable response to that sentence.

~*~ 

Sunday night in São Paulo brought suffocating humidity and a club that seemed to exist specifically to make bad decisions feel inevitable.

Interlagos had delivered its usual chaos. The result had only amplified the shift.

Lando had won. Oscar had crossed the line in a frustrated, silent P5.

On the track, Lando was untouchable. In the club, he was acting like it.

He was in full party mode — surrounded by mechanics, influencers, and people whose names he'd forget by morning. Turning over shots. Eyes bright with that specific dangerous energy that meant he'd be impossible to manage and completely charming about it.

He wanted you there. He pulled you into his side by the waist, pressed open-mouthed kisses to your lips just to make sure the room registered the claim.

But Lando also wanted the noise. He was pulsing with adrenaline and high on victory, so five minutes after kissing you he was already leaning into a circle of gorgeous strangers, enjoying the attention with the enthusiasm of someone who absolutely deserved it and knew about it.

He loved you. Tonight, he also wanted a taste of everything São Paulo had to offer.

He'd earned it. Allegedly.

You stood a few feet back, leaning against the wall, holding a drink you shouldn't be touching at this point of the night.

"Congratulations on Lando's win," a voice said near your ear.

George Russell. Entirely composed, which made him a stark contrast to basically everyone else in the room.

"Thanks, George."

"He's in a good mood," George agreed, taking a sip of his drink. Then his tone shifted — softer, but laced with something careful. "Tell me something. Are he and Piastri going to kill each other before Abu Dhabi? The vibe in the paddock is worse than Mercedes in 2016."

Your stomach did a violent flip. "It's just track rivalry, George."

George let out a low, dry chuckle. His eyes drifted toward the darkest corner of the VIP area, where Oscar was sitting alone, his gaze fixed on you with an intensity that was doing absolutely nothing for your blood pressure.

"I don't know, Y/N," George murmured. "Oscar looks like a man who lost the championship but won a consolation prize. And he hasn't taken his eyes off you all night."

You said nothing.

"The paddock is small and people talk. God knows Max doesn't shut up about it." He patted your shoulder. "Just be careful. Oscar isn't the type to play loud. But when he moves, he's precise. Don't let Lando get blinded by the champagne."

He melted back into the crowd, leaving you with a half-empty drink and a very full head.

You finished the drink. Left the VIP area. Went looking for somewhere to breathe.

The corridor leading to the private restrooms was dimly lit, the bass from the main room reduced to a dull vibration through the walls. You pressed your back against the cool tile and closed your eyes.

A shadow fell over you.

You opened them.

Oscar.

He didn't waste time. He stepped directly into your space, one hand braced against the wall beside your head, close enough that thinking became a courtesy you could no longer afford.

"Oscar, stop," you whispered, hands pressing against his chest. "Everybody is right outside, Lando is—"

"Busy," Oscar said. His eyes were dark. "You keep pretending like nothing's happening. Like you're happily in love with him."

"I am with him, Oscar—"

"You were under me in Mexico," he said fiercely. "You didn't look happily in love with him when you were saying my name."

Before you could argue, his mouth found yours.

Desperate. Hungry. The kind of kiss that had been building since Amsterdam and surviving on restraint alone.

You gasped into it, hands tangling in his shirt, your body doing that deeply inconvenient thing it always did around him — deciding on its own that this was exactly where you were supposed to be.

He groaned, pulling you closer.

Click.

The heavy door swung open.

You pushed Oscar's chest, breaking the kiss just as a shadow filled the doorway.

Lando.

Breathing slightly harder than usual. Eyes moving from your flushed face to Oscar, who hadn't stepped back — his frame still half-blocking you from view.

The silence in that corridor lasted approximately one thousand years.

Then Lando smiled. Slow. Sharp. The smile of someone who had just decided exactly how to play this.

"Oh, good," he said pleasantly. "My favourite Australian."

Oscar looked at him dead-on. "You say that like you know more than one."

Lando let out a laugh — dry, short, the humor disappearing the moment it arrived. He stepped forward until he and Oscar were inches apart, the air between them pulled taut.

Then he got around Oscar, reached past him, and wrapped a hand around your wrist — pulling you out from behind his teammate and into the space between them.

Both of them looking at you now. Different reasons. Same weight.

"You can't possibly think I don't know," Lando said to Oscar, voice dropping into something quiet and vicious, "about the extent of your relationship with my girlfriend."

Oscar's breath hitched.

A small crack in the composure. The first one.

The realization hit him fully — Lando knew. Had known, at least to some extent, this entire time. And you'd both let him walk through it blind.

Oscar felt the room tilt.

He had stripped himself raw, risked everything, spent months drowning in guilt — and both of you had been standing on solid ground the whole time.

Lando saw the moment the math landed. He leaned in slightly, voice dropping further.

"Guess we're not just fighting for points anymore," he murmured.

Oscar said nothing. For once, he had nothing.

"So maybe you want the whole room out there to know why our garage is falling apart?" Oscar said finally, the paddock and the championship and your silence crashing down on him all at once.

Nobody answered.

With one last look directed entirely at you — dark, unreadable, and absolutely not forgettable — Oscar pushed the door open and walked back into the club.

The silence he left behind was a different kind of loud.

Lando didn't drop your wrist immediately. He stood there, chest rising and falling, the adrenaline bleeding out and leaving only the complicated wreckage of what you two actually were.

He leaned his back against the wall. Looked down at you.

"Don't play him like this," you said, voice low. "Don't risk everything for an imaginary fight."

"He hates that you're mine," Lando replied.

"I'm not."

A faint, tired smile touched his lips. His grip on your wrist softened — thumb brushing your skin once before he let go.

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

The first and most important prèmiere of the film was scheduled to happen in London, so you were very much excited to get on the plane to attend it. You did your best to focus your energy on the event itself and not be worrying about a certain Chilean actor who may or may not even say hi to you. You didn’t reply to his text about it and neither did he send you another one. You didn’t feel bad, you were doing what you could to protect your feelings. Of course, they didn’t overbook the crew again so you had a couple hours alone in your room to get ready for it and you made sure you had a killer outfit on, just in case.

You made your way to the entrance, avoiding even going close to the red carpet. But, still, you saw him there. Being his gentle, funny, amazing self. Your heart skipped a beat just by seeing his smiley face. He looked so handsome, as usual. Fuck, he caught you staring at him. He winked at you, opening a bigger smile. You looked in another direction, blushing and walking inside the building already. 

There was a big room with some round tables to accommodate the guests and, later in the evening, catering and drinking. You didn’t stop there, going straight inside the theater room and finding a seat for yourself, way in the back. You said hi to some people, but mostly scrolled through your phone for what felt like forever. The room was getting busier and louder. Donna, the producer, and your friend Flo approached you with a gentle handshake, asking you to join the crew on the front row, which you did. Of course, there he was. So. fucking. attractive.

He came closer to you, with a huge smile on his face, and hugged you so tight. Your legs almost gave in, but you put yourself back together. It was a shame the way those months had passed and pretty much wiped out any chance you had to try to make it work. But you didn’t blame anyone, it was just life.

“You look gorgeous”, he whispered in your ear.

“Thanks”, you said as you moved away from him.

“Saved you a seat, sweetheart”, he showed you with his hand.

Just next to his, with a piece of paper printed with your name and a picture Pedro took from you back in one of your dates in Berlin. You had to control the smile forming on your face, you didn’t want to look like this silly, kind of in love girl. At the same time, you hated him a little bit, for growing apart but still making these cute little things.

“You don’t have to”, he told you, a bit uncertain.

You sat down, there’s no point of being mean or pretending you weren’t dying to sit next to him. Pedro and all the audience sat down as well, the movie started on the big scream. It was hard for you to pay proper attention to it, once Pedro was grabbing and rubbing your upper tights with his hand. Why did he have to add torture to it? He was amazing at the movie as well, your memories of the movie set taking over for a little bit during every scene you saw him perform. At the end, a long standing ovation. Pedro was shining, clapping hard to it as well.

Everybody went to the other room and sat around the tables. Pedro held your hand all the way there and that made you nervous, because the press was also at the event — the whole point was to promote it, after all. He made sure you were sitting at his table, before going to the improvised stage for the Q&A. Nobody seemed to care much about you, which was good, the room was loud and messy. Finally, the interview started. A couple of questions to Pedro, others to Donna and her partner. You were minding your own business (drinking alcohol) when a question got your attention:

“Even though your character didn’t have any love interest in the movie, you still looked very much in love, Pedro. Are you in love with your job or is there a different sparkle going on for you?”

“There was definitely a different sparkle going on for me during the shooting”, Pedro answered, looking at you out of the corner of his eyes. “But yeah, wasn’t in love with the job, actually, it was very challenging for me.”

They started going in another direction and you breathed out strongly. Why did he have to be so… Himself?

“I thought they were going to keep me there all night long”, Pedro said as he sat down by your side, a glass of whisky in his hand.

“You did great”, you complimented him with a smile.

“Nah, tough crowd today”, he replied. “You didn’t even look at me that much.”

You didn’t know what to say. You were a nervous trainwreck, that’s all.

“But I’m glad you came”, Pedro smiled. “I’m sorry the distance thing wasn’t working.”

“Yeah, it’s fine”, you really meant that. You didn’t consider him guilty of all.

“You seeing anybody?” He started deeply into your eyes, a pinch of jealousy inside his own.

“A lady never tells”, you told him. Not a single soul, but he didn’t need to know that.

“Well, I’m not loving it”, he laughed softly. “I meant to call you—”

“I’m sure you had your reasons not to, P.”

Silence.

“Should we say our official goodbyes tonight?” He proposed and you nodded. “Good, text me your hotel room number.”

The evening went on, everybody wanted a piece of Pedro. A couple hours later, you felt tired. The flight, all the human interactions, it was just enough for you. You got yourself a taxi and went back to the hotel, feeling accomplished after the premiere. It was the closing this project, and yourself, needed. You took a long, relaxing shower and went to bed. Pedro had your number and information, so he could’ve reached out if he wanted to. Being who he was wasn’t easy, so you couldn’t really be bad at him for anything. You had your feelings, he had his — and the real, grown-up world didn’t give a fuck about any of them.

It was 4am when you heard sounds around your room. You didn’t have to move or open your eyes, because soon Pedro talked to you:

“Hey, sweetheart. It’s me.”

He crawled into your bed, got under the blanket and hugged you. The heat of your body contrasting with his chilly, outside temperature. Even after 6 months, he still felt very inviting.

“I tried to leave early”, he promised close to your neck.

“Yeah, it’s okay”, you said quietly. “You’re the star, everybody wants a piece of you.”

“Lucky me I already had plans”, Pedro kissed you cheek. You crossed your arm though his neck. “But, still… I’m sorry it took me so long.”

“Just fucking kiss me already.”

He did as you asked. His strong grip on your waist, his tongue invading your mouth without second-guessing. It wasn’t just lazy sex, it was very… familiar. There was already this intimacy between you and it felt like not a day had passed since the end of the shooting. You were still laying down when Pedro came closer to your head with his hips and you began to suck his cock. You couldn’t take him all in, so you used your hand to help. You could see he was losing his mind over this, moving deeper and deeper. You controlled your breathing, doing your best to keep going longer for him and for yourself, because that was making your insides pulse.

“I’m so close”, he moaned as he took it out of your mouth. “But I’m not done yet.”

Pedro fingered you for a couple of minutes, really just to feel your wetness for him. He had pure lust in his eyes, but still, he was sweet and careful with you. You opened your legs wider for him and he positioned his cock at your entrance. He looked at you for a moment, making sure it was okay and you nodded. So he started thrusting, slowly but strong at the end. With one hand, he was supporting his body, and with the other one, he was rubbing your clit. You felt this warm feeling taking over your body.

“Fuck, so wet and warm”, he moaned with pleasure. “And so fucking tight.”

“Please, keep going”, you begged, his fingers doing wonders for you. The feeling starting on your under belly slowly growing.

“Wrappin’ around me so good, baby girl”, Pedro whispered, as he felt you squeezing him with your pulsing core. “Wanna feel you cumming while taking me all in.”

That was it for you, the climax just spreading all over your body, making you collapse. Pedro kept his thrusts, going a bit faster now. It didn’t take him much time.

“Imma fill you up.”

His whisper was followed by his loud moans. You loved to hear him expressing his feelings during sex, it was a complete turn on for you. So you kissed him deeply once he let his body fall next to yours. You were both tired and sweaty.

“Amazing”, he told you, petting your face with his hand.

“Yeah”, you agreed. “My legs are still shaking.” 

You both laughed a little bit. Then, Pedro stared at your eyes.

“Should I stay until the morning?” He asked. You bit the inside of your mouth.

“I guess it’s better for you to go, P.” 

It killed you, but you’ve come to terms with it. It is what it is and it will pass.

“Yeah, you’re right”, he said quietly. “You know, I really wished…”

“I know”, you stopped him. “Me too.”

Pedro gave you a final kiss on the lips and got dressed again. He opened the door to leave your room, but he stopped before exiting.

“I hope I’ll see you around then, princesa.”

The room was dark, except from the crack of the open door.

“Not if I see you first.”

THE END