lu

♫ ♪ ♬ ♫ ♪ ♬ ♫ ♪ ♬ ♫ ♪ ♬ ♫ ♪ ♬ ♫ [ fucking alarm! ]

“Fuck,” he hears a voice beside him groan.

You jolt upright like you’ve just been struck by lightning, and when you reach for your phone on the nightstand, your next “fuck!” comes out even more desperate.

There’s no time to waste. Your body is running on pure adrenaline as you bend down to grab your panties first, pulling them on with impressive speed, then your bra, your jeans, your shirt… Your movements are frantic, and Oscar has only managed to push himself up in bed enough to rub at his eyes and try to keep up as you whirl around the room like a hurricane, looking for your socks.

“What… what’s happening?” he asks, voice rough with sleep.

You don’t even look at him as you finally tug your socks on and jump off the bed, dropping to your knees to reach for the sneakers that somehow ended up underneath it.

“I got a text. I have ten minutes to get to work. Shit. It was supposed to be my day off,” you complain, tying your laces.

Your hoodie. Oh my God. How many layers had you even been wearing last night? Where is it?

Oscar gets up. Calmly, he walks to the other side of the room and picks up his hoodie, which had been hanging over the back of the desk chair.

“Here. Don’t worry about giving it back,” he says, holding it out to you.

Your shoulders relax a little, and your hands close around the fabric before you shrug it on.

“Sorry for rushing out like this. Last night was really good, Oscar. Seriously,” you say, already heading toward the bedroom door. In a second, you’re in the living room, slinging your bag over your shoulder, and then you’re already at the front door, running your hands through your hair. “I loved meeting you. Hope you have a great day. Bye, cutie!”

And you blow him a kiss.

Oscar, naked and slightly bewildered, gives you a lopsided smile and a little wave, watching as you rush out of his house and straight into whatever morning disaster had stolen you from his bed.

From that distance, he can see through the front windows, past the curtains, the moment you reach the curb and wave down your Uber. Once you’re inside that car and it’s pulling away toward whatever address your job requires of you, Oscar finds himself officially alone.

He clears his throat, as if someone might be there to witness his pitiful state, and turns on his heel, heading to the bathroom.

He can say with a certain amount of pride that he left you with something to remember him by. He’s a perfectionist, deliberate by nature, which means the marks he left behind won’t be visible to the world, nothing that would give away exactly what happened inside those four walls to anyone looking from the outside, but you’ll notice them. That’s enough for him. When you look at yourself in the mirror, there they’ll be: two on either side of your waist, four on your stomach, and the faint little trail along the inside of your thighs. Ah, yes. He remembers those. Remembers how his mouth ended up there, making you sigh louder and—

No. Hang on. That’s too much.

Oscar needs to turn on the shower. Cold setting.

The water comes down over him in a steady cascade, doing what it can to freeze those thoughts in his mind before they have the chance to become a far more immediate part of his bloodstream. And once that happens, there’s only one direction they’ll go. Down, down, down. And how humiliating would it be to spend the rest of the day in that condition?

Fuck.

Oscar Piastri is reliving the final moments of his night with an intensity that can’t possibly be healthy.

He presses his wet forehead against the wall and closes his eyes. He’s really trying… but his hand already knows exactly where to go.

The thing about Oscar is that he’s not an impulsive man. If anything, the opposite is true. Everybody knows that. Calm and collected have been the two words trailing after him ever since he became relevant enough for the media to care. It’s his thing. His whole brand, really. Oscar Piastri: Calm & Collected™.

Only once in his life has he taken that particular fact about himself and thrown it straight out the window, consequences be damned. How did that happen?

The night before, in what was a completely justifiable course of action, Oscar had been lingering in the corner of the club, near the bar, a glass of his favorite tropical yellow drink in hand, when your voice cut through the air:

“Is that any good?”

He turns, the rim of the glass still pressed to his lips halfway through a sip. The first thing he notices is the purple and blue light catching on the glitter dusted across your cheeks. It's an interesting look. Artistic, somehow. He finishes the sip and lowers the glass.

The long lashes framing your eyes are still there. So is your gaze. Steady. Unbothered. Fixed on him.

"It's alright," he says, leaning back against the wall.

A hum of approval leaves you as you step a little closer.

"I was thinking about getting a drink too. Got any recommendations?" you ask, using that sweet, faintly distracted tone accompanied by a small smile that seems to be saying far more than the words themselves.

"I'm not sure I'm the best person to be giving that kind of advice," Oscar replies, taking another sip of his drink.

You tilt your head slightly, your smile growing just a little wider.

"I thought you were an expert. You've been standing here for a while."

That gets his attention. Oscar tips his head back slightly, narrowing his eyes as though he’s trying to solve a particularly complicated case.

"You've been watching me," he says at last.

The mischievous smile spreading across your face is answer enough.

"Have I?" you reply, slipping past him to look over the selection of drinks displayed behind the bar.

It takes exactly ten minutes for Oscar to end up at the back of the club, your hands tangled in his hair, both of you kissing like it’s a competition to see who can be more impatient.

His hands are everywhere.

Mostly because he can't seem to decide where he wants to touch you first. Jesus Christ. He's never kissed anyone like this before. There's so much heat, so much urgency, that neither of you notices when his hand slides down to your ass.

You both notice when he squeezes.

And he definitely notices the muffled sound you make against his mouth.

"Did you drive here?" you ask somewhere between kisses.

"Taxi," he murmurs. "Alcohol."

"Hm. Good call."

His mouth finds yours again immediately.

A few seconds later—

"Your place?" you ask.

"Okay.”

So, yeah. Right. It had been a good start to a good night that ended a little too abruptly, but… well, that’s okay. Oscar isn’t even thinking about it. He’s definitely not thinking about how he would’ve liked to bring you into his kitchen for a nice cup of coffee, maybe make you scrambled eggs because it’s simple enough to pull off and still might somehow surprise you, and talk about what the rest of your week was going to look like and all that.

He’d kiss you again.

Well, he’d want to. Obviously. If you wanted to. After breakfast, of course. And then he’d take you to the shower and the two of you could… you know. Again. Yes. Right. He would like that.

As he makes his way over to the simulator, though, he goes back over the morning in his head. Tries to figure out what happened. Because you weren’t upset with him. You weren’t angry at him. God, what kind of massive ego would Oscar have to think that anything about that morning had been his fault? You got called into work on your day off, and even then, you were still sweet enough to blow him a kiss on your way out.

Knowing all of that, why is he still so disappointed?

Oscar turns on the simulator, waits for the screen to light up, and settles into the seat. When he lets out a slow breath, he makes himself a promise: he’s going to let it go.

At some point in the middle of the night, Oscar is sitting on the bed while you’re walking back from the bathroom. The only thing on your body is his t-shirt.

You stop halfway across the room, hands settling on your waist as you look at him with one eyebrow raised and a small smile on your face.

“What?” he asks, squinting at you.

You shrug and shake your head. Don’t say anything. You just climb back onto the bed and make your way over to him.

“I want to kiss you again,” you say, swinging one leg over either side of his lap before wrapping both arms around his neck.

Oscar arches an eyebrow too.

“I think you can kiss me again.”

“You think?” you ask, resting your forehead against his.

“I thought you were tired,” he murmurs, a small smile tugging at his lips.

“Oh, I lied,” you whisper, leaning in to press your lips to his through your own smile.

His arms wrap around your waist, and then his hands slip beneath the hem of the t-shirt, his fingers gliding slowly upward and sending shivers racing across your skin. And the two of you have touched each other like this so many times since you got there, but Oscar still hasn’t gotten tired of the sound that leaves your mouth when he reaches the middle of your back and pulls you even closer against him.

Maybe Oscar isn’t actually all that good at keeping promises he makes to himself, because it’s already halfway through the next day and you still haven’t texted him. He doesn’t want to think about it, but he does anyway.

That’s not even the worst part.

At some point that morning, while taking out the trash, Oscar realized the two of you never exchanged numbers. Of course you’re not going to text him. But even if you did have his number, would it really be a problem if you didn’t text him? Oscar likes to think not.

He calls Lando.

“Hey, mate!” Lando greets, sounding a little distracted. “You left the club pretty early that night.”

“Hey,” Oscar says back, pinning the phone between his ear and shoulder so he can wash his hands at the kitchen sink. “Uh, yeah. I… went home.”

Lando laughs.

“With a girl. I saw,” he says, and Oscar straightens up, clearing his throat.

“Right. Yeah. You… you saw her with me?”

“Of course, mate. You literally waved goodbye to me as a warning, remember?”

Yes, Oscar had forgotten that.

“Do you… Do you think you know who she is?”

“Like, if she’s an influencer or something? Mate, I don’t think so,” Lando says, and Oscar can practically picture him shaking his head. “Anyway, I’ve gotta go deal with something. But good for you, though. Glad you had fun. I know these shiny party things aren’t really your scene.”

A small smile tugs at Oscar’s mouth.

“Yeah. It was fun,” he admits.

“Right. And about the girl, if I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”

“Thanks.”

“No worries. See you, mate.”

And finally, the call ends.

Oscar locks his phone, slips it into his pocket, and heads into the living room. He drops onto the couch, turns on the TV, and tries, really tries, to focus on the action movie playing in front of him, where some woman is busy throwing herself from one building to the next.

The only problem is that she looks a little too much like you.

You’re sitting on top of him, hands braced against his chest. His own hands rest on your thighs, thumbs stroking over your skin while you look down at him, again and again.

“You’ve got so many freckles,” you say, lifting a finger to touch a few scattered across his chest.

Oscar nods, a tiny smile pulling at his lips.

“I do. I think it’s genetics mixed with sun exposure,” he explains without much thought, because that’s simply what he’s always assumed.

Your head tilts to the side as you reach up to touch the small constellation along his neck. Oscar swallows.

“I once heard this theory that freckles show up in the places where your soulmate used to kiss you most in a past life,” you say, continuing your careful little exploration as your fingertips brush softly over his cheek.

Oscar closes his eyes.

“I didn’t know that,” he murmurs.

You let out a small laugh and lean down to press a quick kiss to his lips.

“I think your soulmate must’ve loved you very much in your past life,” you say.

And just like that, the conversation is over, because Oscar is kissing you again, and you kiss him back without even thinking.

He’s been running for hours now.

Oscar glances at the time and, yes, a full two hours.

His hair is soaked with sweat, and his t-shirt is even worse. Honestly, he’s pretty disgusting, if he stops to think about it. But he doesn’t stop. He keeps running, slipping past people like a guided missile — except he doesn’t actually have anywhere programmed to go.

Oscar just runs.

He called his trainer earlier to say he’d be doing his cardio outside today, which surprised the man enough, but he said it was fine as long as Oscar actually did it. Of course Oscar was going to do it. He just needed to get out for a while.

The pace of his feet only starts to slow when he turns onto a familiar street.

It’s not really a run anymore, just a slow walk along the cobbled street of the shopping district where some of the best clubs in the city are tucked away. Not exactly the kind of place people go for a casual stroll, but no one in Monaco would question it — the country is small enough that any stretch of road can be justified if you try hard enough.

He stops in front of that club.

The one where he met you three days ago.

“Can I help you with something?” the bouncer asks, giving him the flat, unreadable look of someone who’s had to deal with every kind of drunk in Monaco.

Oscar blinks at him, a little thoughtful, because he doesn’t really know how he ended up there, let alone what exactly he wants to ask.

But he has to ask something.

“There’s a girl who comes here. We met a few days ago, and I was wondering if maybe she’d shown up again after that, or if… if she’s a regular. If you remember her,” he says.

The man just raises his eyebrows and waits.

Oscar describes you to him. First name, age, height, job, eye color, what you were wearing, the way your gaze looks, the makeup you had on… everything he knows.

Then he waits.

The bouncer shrugs.

“No clue, mate. A lot of people come through here.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. How could he not recognize you with a description like that? Of course, Oscar doesn’t say any of that. He just nods politely and says,

“Right. Thanks.”

That, apparently, is the end of his walk home. Oscar decides he’d rather take an Uber back.

With one arm wrapped around your waist, Oscar keeps you tucked against him. Your body is still full of little aftershocks, still humming with the kind of pleasure that hasn’t fully faded yet, leaving you with nothing but a deep, sleepy need to stay exactly where you are — warm, boneless, and held against him.

Oscar lets out a very, very satisfied laugh and slides his other hand down to your hip.

“You okay?” he asks, his nose brushing into your hair.

“Hmm… yes,” you mumble, stretching out the word in a soft, sleepy little sound that makes him tighten his arm around you. “I’m slowly coming back to the real world.”

“I’ll wait,” Oscar murmurs, and you nod against him. “We should probably take a shower.”

You snuggle in closer.

“Can we stay like this for a little longer?” you ask in a whisper.

How was Oscar supposed to deny you anything?

“Of course we can,” he replies, and you melt against him.

It’s been two weeks, and Oscar doesn’t think about that night anymore. Or about the fact that, somewhere in the city, you’re out there living your life. Maybe wearing his favorite hoodie — the one he’s probably never getting back. The idea is ridiculous, obviously, and not something he spends any real time dwelling on.

So he carries on as if nothing ever happened, which is how he’s ended up at the supermarket, standing in the pasta aisle with a thoughtful look on his face. He's pretending he has any clue what separates one type of pasta from another, even though he already knows he’s leaving with five boxes of spaghetti either way.

That's when a woman passes by him.

Oscar’s head snaps up, and he turns so quickly it’s almost embarrassing, because for one stupid second, he’s sure that—

Oh.

No.

She doesn’t look anything like… anyone he knows.

Oscar goes still for a moment, then turns back to his cart and drops the boxes of pasta inside, red as a bell pepper as he heads for the checkout.

“Hi… are you Oscar Piastri?”

He blinks, sliding the gas nozzle back into place before turning toward the little girl staring up at him with huge brown eyes.

“Sorry, she… she spotted you from over there and really wanted to come say hi. I hope we’re not bothering you,” her mother says.

The smile that spreads across Oscar’s face is slow, but entirely genuine. He shakes his head and glances down again, this time noticing the orange cap in the little girl’s hands, with the number 81 stitched across the front.

“I don’t actually have a pen on me to sign—”

“Here.” Her mother quickly holds one out.

“Thanks,” Oscar says, taking both the pen and the cap. “Alright, what’s your name?”

“Estelle.”

“Estelle? That’s a beautiful name,” he says, scribbling his autograph across the cap before handing it back to her.

Her mother lifts her phone to take a picture, and Oscar steps closer to the little girl, smiling as he raises a thumbs-up for the camera.

“Did you get it?”

“Yes, I did. Thank you so much, Piastri.”

“Yeah, thanks, Piastri! Hope you actually win next year, at least.”

Her mother looks instantly mortified, but Oscar just laughs as he hands the pen back to her.

“I’m hoping to win too,” he says, giving Estelle a friendly pat on the top of the head. “Soon.”

The two of them wave goodbye and start to turn away, and Oscar lifts his head to watch them go… only to catch sight, all the way across the station, of someone very, very familiar climbing into a car and pulling the door shut.

For one long second, he just stands there in the middle of the gas station.

His McLaren is still parked by the pump. A line is starting to form behind it. Fuck. There’s a line. But—

He blinks.

It’ll be quick. There are other pumps.

He doesn’t think.

Oscar bolts past the two girls in such a sudden rush that even the attendants stop what they’re doing to stare. He keeps going, one step after the other, because Oscar only ever runs like this when he’s training, except now he has somewhere to be, and you’re getting farther and farther away, and if he doesn’t catch you now, maybe he never will.

He needs to know how you are.

And you’re right there.

And he’s almost there. And your engine is already turning over and—

Oscar is completely out of breath.

He comes to a stop beside your car, one hand braced against the hood, the other on his knee. This is so wildly out of character for him that he nearly passes out from the sheer realization of what he’s doing and where he’s doing it. Jesus Christ. One second. Calm down.

Your door swings open. He knows because he hears it.

Oscar shouldn’t be this affected. He has athlete lungs. Twenty-five years on this earth without ever touching a cigarette.

Fuck.

“Oscar?” you say, your brow furrowing as you hurry toward him. “Oh my God. Oscar!”

Finally — and very slowly — Oscar straightens up enough to look at you.

“Are you okay?” you ask, your hands flying to his shoulders, mostly because he still isn’t saying anything and he’s pale as a ghost, which is starting to genuinely scare you.

But he just blinks. Looks down at your hand.

“I am,” he says with a nod. “I’m okay.”

You’re not entirely sure you believe him, but you let your hands fall away anyway. Back at the station, a chorus of car horns starts going off, and the attendants have gathered in a small cluster, all waving impatiently for him to hurry up. Oscar looks mildly horrified.

“Wait here, okay? Don’t leave,” he says, lifting a finger toward you even as he’s already moving. “I need to get my car out of there, but I’ll be right back.”

Your eyes blink once, but you… you nod.

Okay.

Oscar hurries back toward the gas station, murmuring quiet apologies to a few people on the way before finally making it to his car and pulling it out of the way.

Oscar comes back a minute later, shutting the door of his McLaren with a little more force than necessary before making his way toward you.

You’re still standing beside your car, arms folded loosely over your chest now, watching him with a look that lands somewhere between concern and confusion.

For a second, neither of you says anything.

Oscar clears his throat.

“So,” he says, a little breathless still. “Hi.”

You blink at him.

“Hi,” you echo, like you’re not entirely sure this qualifies as a normal greeting after whatever the hell that was two minutes ago.

His mouth twitches.

“Sorry about the…” He gestures vaguely behind him, as if that explains anything. “Running.”

Your eyebrows lift.

“Right,” you say slowly. “I was going to ask.”

Oscar glances away for half a second, then back at you.

“Yeah. No, that’s fair.”

And there it is — the smallest hint of embarrassment settling over his face, enough to make something warm flicker in your chest before you can stop it.

“I just—” He stops, exhales through his nose, and tries again. “I saw you getting into your car and thought if I let you leave without saying anything, I’d probably regret it.”

The way he says it makes you let out a breath.

“You idiot,” you say simply.

Oscar arches an eyebrow.

“You didn’t have to leave half of Monaco annoyed at you because of me,” you say, shaking your head before uncrossing your arms and stepping forward to wrap him in a hug. “This is how you’re supposed to greet someone, see?”

Shaking his head, he lets out a quiet laugh. Oscar isn’t even sure he’s allowed to do this, but he wraps his arms around you too, and the hug is a little awkward, a little clumsy — mostly because the two of you barely know each other and… yeah. You barely know each other. The thought makes him frown.

“How are you?” he asks, pulling away slowly.

You shrug.

“Normal. Fine. I’ve been working on a few new projects for uni this week,” you say, a little dreamily, gathering your hair in one hand as the wind keeps blowing it out of place. “I was actually on my way to get lunch. Do you want to come with me? It’s better than standing out here. My hair’s about two seconds away from sticking to my lip gloss and turning into a complete disaster.”

Oscar blinks because… did he hear you right? Lunch? You just asked him to lunch? As if the past two weeks hadn’t existed at all? As if they hadn’t been their own special little version of hell on earth?

“Yeah,” he says a little too quickly.

Then he clears his throat.

“Yeah. Sure. If you want.”

And because apparently he’s determined to make this worse for himself, he adds, a touch too late to sound normal:

“I mean— yes. I’d like that.”

A quiet laugh slips out of you at that, but all you say is,

“I’ll be right in front of you. No running this time, okay?”

As you walk back to your car, leaving Oscar behind, he rolls his eyes — but he’s smiling so hard it completely ruins the effect.

He drives slowly behind you, following your car through the streets of Monaco toward whatever lunch spot you had in mind. It’s not far, but it gives Oscar more than enough time to think. Or, more accurately, to sit there in a state of mild disbelief. For one brief second, he genuinely considers the possibility that he’s hallucinating. Maybe this is a dream. Maybe he hit his head somewhere between the petrol station and the parking spot. Maybe this is one of those bizarre out-of-body experiences people talk about, because up until today, you had been nothing more than a very good memory in his head — and now you’re leading him to lunch. Lunch. A thing you invited him to. With your own mouth.

Despite everything, Oscar really had thought there was a decent chance he’d never see you again.

By the time you pull into a parking space and step out of the car, he’s still sitting behind the wheel of his own, staring at you from that short distance like he’s trying to come up with some logical explanation for why this is happening at all. You walk over after a second, leaning down just enough to tap twice against his window.

“Come on,” you say.

Oscar drags his tongue over his bottom lip and nods, like that somehow makes him look less like a man who’s currently being led around by divine intervention.

As you walk into the restaurant, you head in front first to speak to the host, explaining that the reservation had originally been for one, but that you had a last-minute guest. He looks ready to say that won’t be possible — right up until he catches sight of Oscar and his eyebrows lift. Alright, then. He can come in.

You nod, and the two of you are led to your table, Oscar offering the man a grateful nod of his own while still biting the inside of his cheek, because he still hasn’t quite gotten used to how easily doors open for him.

And then, finally, you’re seated. One across from the other.

Oscar hadn’t actually thought that far ahead.

Your hand goes straight for the menu, and Oscar tries not to look at you too much. Predictably, he fails. Your lashes stay lowered as your eyes move from one option to the next, widening with interest whenever something catches your attention and narrowing again whenever something sounds questionable enough to make you pull a face. Your cheeks are pink, and you tap the edge of one nail against your tooth while you think.

“Do you eat seafood?” you ask after a moment, still scanning the menu.

“Yeah,” Oscar says. “Why?”

Now you finally look up at him.

“Because I kind of want the shrimp bucket,” you say. “But it’s way too much food for one person. Do you want to split it with me?”

A small smile appears at the corner of his mouth.

“Yeah,” he says, nodding once. “I’d like that.”

You smile too and close the menu, then lean forward to rest your cheek against your hand.

Now it’s your turn to look at him. At his hair, his soft face, the freckles scattered across his skin…

“It’s been a little while since that night, hasn’t it?” you say. “If I’d known you were going to be here, I would’ve left your hoodie in the car.”

Oscar shakes his head.

“I told you not to worry about that.”

You smile faintly.

“So how’ve you been?” you ask. “Did you go back to the club? You said Lando likes going there.”

“Not really,” Oscar says. Not in the way you mean. “Lando’s more into that sort of thing than I am.”

You nod.

“Right.”

“What about you?” he asks. “Did you go back?”

“No, no. I haven’t had time,” you say. “Like I said, these projects have completely taken over my life lately—”

A waiter appears beside the table, and you glance up with a quick smile.

“Oh, hi. We’ll get the shrimp bucket, and…” Your eyes flick back to Oscar. “What do you want to drink, Osc?”

Osc.

His smile widens, just a little.

“The berry Italian soda, please,” he says. “Non-alcoholic.”

You nod and turn back to the waiter.

“And mine can just be strawberry, please.”

The waiter writes it down, and you thank him softly before he walks away.

“I love this restaurant,” you say, glancing around before your attention catches on an elderly couple tucked away in the corner. Oscar notices the little smile on your face and follows your gaze.

They’re adorable. The man is holding an analog camera, and his wife is posing like someone who knows, without a doubt, that she’s adored.

“They look happy,” Oscar says, tilting his head slightly.

Your nose scrunches with a smile as you turn back to him.

“They really do. They come here all the time.”

He lifts an eyebrow.

“So you’re a regular.”

A tiny smile tugs at your mouth.

“I’m a creature of habit.”

That earns a quiet laugh from Oscar.

“I’ve never been here before,” he says, glancing up at the decorations hanging from the ceiling. Everything about the place feels so… oceanic. A wash of blue and white, starfish painted along the walls, dark wood everywhere.

You grin.

“Yeah, they really commit to the theme.”

Oscar’s mouth twitches.

“I’m a creature of habit too,” he says. “I usually stick to the restaurants in the city centre.”

Your eyes widen.

“The ones that are basically lit entirely by candlelight?”

He shrugs.

“They’re charming.”

That pulls a soft laugh out of you.

“I’ve never been to any of them. People have recommended them to me, but I just never got around to it.”

“Maybe we—” He stops himself, already knowing exactly where that sentence was headed. But Oscar pushes on anyway. “If you ever think it sounds nice, maybe we could go there sometime. I imagine it’s better with company.”

Seeing the look on your face, Oscar realizes with a flicker of nerves that you’re actually considering what he said. And when you nod, all soft expression and soft eyes, he feels his shoulders loosen.

“I’d love that,” you say.

A small smile tugs at the corner of Oscar’s mouth.

“Yeah?” he says, like he just needs to hear it one more time.

Your smile deepens.

“Yeah.”

If Oscar could, he’d probably put this afternoon somewhere near the top of the list of the best days of his life. He can’t quite explain why, but maybe it has something to do with the fact that two weeks of waiting have finally led him here — to the realization that you’re still the same person who laid your head on his chest and asked for five more minutes.

How exactly is anyone supposed to recover from that kind of experience?

Well. Oscar doesn’t have an answer.

The question only gets worse over Italian sodas and fried shrimp, when you point at the sauce on his cheek with a laugh. The table is full of laughter after that, and the two of you talk about everything. And when you lean in to hear his answer to whatever question you’ve just asked, Oscar almost lets himself believe you keep asking and asking and asking just because you like the way he explains things.

Later, when you lead him to the back of the restaurant to show him the view of the sea, you point at a gull gliding back and forth overhead and say,

“That’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen.”

But Oscar looks down at you and, for the first time that afternoon, feels the urge to disagree.

The days pass easily.

You don’t do anything out of the ordinary. Work, home, university. University, work, home. Lunch squeezed into whatever break the day happens to give you. The same routine, the same schedule, the same familiar little rush from one place to the next.

But now there’s something extra tucked into the middle of it all — a nice surprise that, if you’re being honest, you really hadn’t seen coming.

Ever since that lunch with Oscar, when you gave him your number so he could actually arrange the dinner the two of you had talked about, things have been… fun.

Which isn’t exactly shocking. He is nice; you already knew that much. You’d spent a night together, after all. A very intense night, actually. Intense enough that every now and then, when the memory sneaks up on you at the worst possible moment, your cheeks go warm because you genuinely don’t know who you were that night. Some insatiable little menace must have taken over your body. It’s the only explanation that makes any sense.

You hadn’t meant for any of it to turn into more than that. A handsome guy at a bar, one good night of sex to work the tension out of your system after a string of exhausting days and the thousand things you always seem to have on your plate, and… well. That was supposed to be it. A solid plan. A very reasonable plan.

Then Oscar had quite literally run after you and nearly passed out in the process, leaving you a little stunned and far more charmed than you should probably admit.

So now, apparently, this is your life.

On your way into work, you stop halfway across the courtyard because a gull is circling overhead, and your first thought, naturally, is that Oscar needs to see it. You pull your phone from your pocket, angle the camera upward, and snap a picture before sending it off with the caption:

look. they’re following me now.

He replies two minutes later.

have you considered the possibility that they’re spying on you?

You lift an eyebrow, adjusting your bag on your shoulder as you head for the door and type back:

gulls aren’t spies. pigeons are.

His answer comes through almost immediately.

have you ever seen a baby gull?

And honestly, you don’t have a response to that. Not one that matters, anyway. All you can do is laugh under your breath as you pull the door open, because no — now that he’s mentioned it, you’ve never actually seen a baby gull in your life.

“Well, look who’s in a good mood,” Bonnie, the woman at reception, says.

You glance up, still smiling as you make your way toward the staff room.

“Just having a good week,” you reply.

And you’re not lying.

The day goes by nicely. Work is exactly what it’s always been too, nothing's new. The schedule is predictable, your break happens at the same time it always does, but there’s something particularly entertaining about knowing that, at around four in the afternoon, you can pull out your phone and text someone that Susan from finance is cheating on her husband with Robert, the man who delivers the chemicals for the photo developers.

Oscar seems especially horrified by the replies he sends back, and when he says that maybe he should tell Susan’s husband, you let out a laugh so loud that the girls in the booth immediately tell you to keep it down. You nod, covering your mouth with one hand as you text back, you’re getting me into trouble here. He answers almost immediately with a simple okay, sorry, and somehow that’s enough to leave a small smile lingering on your face.

Yes. Yes, things have been nice.

His break is almost over, which means you won’t be in the same city for much longer. Soon enough, he’ll go back to travelling the world in his tight little racing suit — as you so kindly pointed out to him. Oscar had smiled at that one and made sure you knew it by sending back a bright little 😁.

This gives you an idea.

It’s a silly one. Probably a little more compromising than you’re giving it credit for. But you and Oscar are friends now, aren’t you? And you’ve already slept together once. It was good. Very good. So what harm could a second night together really do, when he’s about to spend so much time away? It wouldn’t be anything new. If anything, it might even help. Oscar has an exhausting job. You have an exhausting job.

It takes him fifteen minutes to reply to your suggestion with a simple okay. Then it takes him an hour and a half to show up at your door.

Glancing around before opening it, you suddenly wonder if you might’ve backed yourself into a corner a little. It’s not as though you were trying to be subtle about why Oscar was here, but maybe the low yellow lighting and the slow music are making the whole thing feel a touch more deliberate than you meant it to. A flicker of embarrassment runs through you, and you hurry over to your phone, biting the inside of your cheek as you hit pause.

Okay. Better. Your shoulders loosen, and you head for the door.

“Hi,” you say, shifting your weight from one foot to the other as you pull it open.

Oscar looks ridiculous.

Ridiculously attractive, to be specific.

You’re not blind. You knew that from the first time you saw him leaning against that wall at the club, all soft eyes and unfairly pretty mouth. And when he gives you that crooked little smile, whatever lingering doubt you had evaporates on the spot.

This was absolutely the right decision.

God, you’re a genius.

“Hi,” he says back.

Your eyebrows lift, just a little, because suddenly you’re not nervous anymore. Not really. What you don’t know is that Oscar’s heart is beating so fast it might actually give up from exhaustion at any moment.

You tilt your head toward the inside of the house, silently inviting him in.

The door clicks shut behind you as you head for the couch. Oscar follows, glancing around with that curious, slightly charmed look on his face, but in the end, his attention settles back on you. He walks over and sits beside you.

“So…” he says, flicking you a quick glance. “Do you want to talk?”

The little look on your face already answers for you, but you say it anyway.

“We already talk all the time.”

Oscar laughs.

It’s low and warm and quietly melodic, and then he reaches for you, because suddenly he understands that he can. That he’s allowed to. That you want this just as much as he does. Christ, you invited him here.

You shift closer and swing your legs over his hips, and you know he loves that. He told you so that night. He told you so many things and nothing at all, and somehow, you remembered every single one.

“I want to kiss you,” he says, his eyes dropping to your mouth.

“I think you can kiss me,” you reply, repeating the same thing he’d said to you nights and nights ago.

His smile widens.

“You think?”

“I’m pretty sure you’re not tired, so I’m not going to keep following the script. I haven’t worn you out yet,” you murmur, lifting your hands to his cheeks.

And Oscar becomes quite certain that he could die right there and still be perfectly happy about it in the afterlife.

He leans in, and he already knows exactly what to do.

You part your lips for him straight away, because this kiss was never supposed to be soft. No. It was always meant to burn.

Fuck. Yes. This is it. This is exactly what Oscar had been looking for for the past two weeks, and when you push his head back against the sofa and take over the kiss with an intensity that makes his grip tighten around your waist, he’s fairly sure he’s just been launched into another dimension.

One that smells like you. Feels like you. Has you everywhere.

This is casual, Oscar reminds himself. Just one more night before he leaves. Normal sex. With someone he trusts. A way to let off steam. Right. Of course. Sure.

Yes. He knows that.

He eases you back against the couch. Oscar is in control now. Or at least, that’s the plan. But the second he presses into you and hears that hungry little sound disappear into his mouth, he forgets what the word control is even supposed to mean.

You’ve just gotten out of the shower. Together.

Now you’re lying on your side, facing Oscar, wearing the hoodie you stole that morning before leaving his place — and he’s quietly losing his mind over the fact that it doesn’t smell like him anymore. Now it’s just you.

He’d love to steal it back, though not because he misses it.

“What are the next few weeks going to look like?” you ask softly, your index finger tracing absent little patterns over the freckles on his chest.

Oscar slips a hand beneath the hem of the hoodie and rests it on your waist, and you immediately pull a face when his fingers meet your skin.

“Your hand is freezing,” you complain.

He just laughs.

“Two races back-to-back,” he says, his thumb stroking over your waist, “and then two weeks without one.”

Your eyes lift to his.

“Two race weekends in a row?”

Oscar nods.

“And you like that?”

He raises an eyebrow.

“The racing part?”

You nod.

A small smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.

“It’s my favourite thing in the world,” he says.

Your fingers pause over his chest.

“What does it feel like?”

You shift a little closer into the bed, settling in as you wait for his answer, your eyes fixed on his. Oscar bites the inside of his cheek for a second, thinking, then blinks up at the ceiling.

“I think…” he says slowly. “I think it’s probably the closest anyone can get to real freedom.”

Your expression softens.

“And maybe a little like flying,” he adds. “If flying came with lower back pain.”

A laugh slips out of you.

“It hurts that much?”

“Oh, yeah.” He nods. “Feels like someone stuffed me into a sardine tin and then stretched me out with medieval torture equipment.”

That makes you laugh properly.

“Wow. Sounds lovely.”

“It is,” Oscar says, smiling. “I told you. It’s my favourite.”

Your expression softens again, and without really thinking about it, you nudge your forehead against his shoulder in a quiet little request to be held. Oscar immediately wraps an arm around you.

“Then I think you need to sleep, you sardine-tin masochist,” you murmur, your eyes already drifting shut. “It won’t do for McLaren’s best driver to show up exhausted.”

He goes still for a second, breathing a little mechanically.

“Sleep here?”

“Hm.” You tuck yourself in closer. “I’m not about to kick you out after you gave me some of the best orgasms of my life for the second time. That would just be rude.”

The heat that rushes into his cheeks is so immediate he’s half-convinced there might actually be smoke coming out of his ears.

“Oh my God.”

You burst out laughing and melt further into him.

“You’re so puritanical when you talk. It’s adorable.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

“I’m not.”

“Hm. Alright, then. Say something outrageous.”

Oscar thinks. Really thinks.

“Sex.”

You gasp.

“Wow.”

Now it’s his turn to laugh, low and helpless, as he pulls you in a little tighter.

“Go to sleep,” he says.

“Okay,” you mumble, already halfway there as your body goes soft against his.

And Oscar can’t quite believe this day is real — that you, of all people, are curled up against his chest, wearing his hoodie while you drift off to sleep.

When he closes his eyes, he already knows exactly what he’ll be dreaming about.

The two race weeks go by fast, but not kindly. Oscar feels every second of them.

Neither of them turns out quite the way he would’ve liked. In one, both he and Lando end up with DNFs. In the other, he drags home a hard-earned P5 in the rain after starting P9, in what had already been one of the worst qualifying sessions imaginable — helped along by three DNFs ahead of him and an overtake dramatic enough to earn its own replay. The whole thing is such complete chaos that Oscar isn’t entirely sure how he makes it out alive.

In the middle of all that, though, even knowing he’s exhausted from briefings, late-night team meetings, and complaints that never seem to go anywhere, Oscar still finds one way or another to reply to you.

He loves the voice notes you send him, especially the ones where you tell him that one wet corner he took nearly sent your heart straight out of your chest. And then, naturally, you decide to drop a bomb in his lap.

A photo.

You’re wearing a McLaren shirt you bought, one exactly like his. His number on the front. His number on the back. Big enough to leave absolutely no room for interpretation. The “fuck” that slips out of Oscar is so loud that half the garage turns to look at him. He actually has to apologise.

And when he finally gets back home, you call him and ask if he wants to celebrate.

“I’d love to,” he says, setting his suitcase down by the wall. “What exactly are we celebrating?”

“Your marriage to P5,” you reply. “I saw people on Twitter saying you’re very attached to that position. Apparently you only cheat on it with the occasional P7.”

Oscar shakes his head, but a helpless laugh escapes him anyway.

“That’s ridiculous,” he says. “People should mind their own business.”

You hum.

“Rude. Your fans won’t like hearing that you’re this badly behaved.”

“And are you planning to tell them?”

“Only if you don’t agree to go out and celebrate with me,” you say. “I’ve got an idea, and I’d hate for it to go to waste.”

Oscar goes soft immediately. He still has no idea how to say no to you.

“Alright,” he says. “Let’s do it.”

“Yay.”

With a small smile still tugging at his mouth, he hangs up and goes to get ready.

“When you talked to me for the first time at the club, what was your first thought?” you ask, peering at him over the enormous witch-hat-shaped cotton candy in your hands.

Oscar pretends to think about it, but he already knows the answer. He reaches over to tear off a piece of your cotton candy, and when you immediately protest with an indignant, “Hey!”, he says,

“I thought, who’s this lunatic asking me for drink recommendations?”

“Lunatic?!” you gasp. “My God. You’re so rude.”

A quiet little laugh slips out of him, and by then the two of you are already making your way toward the shooting stall, because apparently that’s the next attraction you’ve decided you need to learn how to play.

Oscar hadn’t even known there was a festival in town with a fairground attached. It had been a long time since he’d been to one of these.

“Do you realise you’ve called me rude twice today?” he asks, clearly amused as he hands the tokens over to the guy at the stall.

You set your cotton candy down on the little ledge, take your toy gun, and shrug.

“Maybe you should reflect on that.”

“Me?” he asks, picking up his own.

“Yes, you. You’re the one being rude.”

Oscar laughs and ducks his head, squinting through the sight. You copy him, bending down a little beside him. When you fire your first shot, one of the bottles topples over immediately. Oscar misses by half an inch.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” he mutters, straightening up to see what went wrong.

“Ha! Okay. Again,” you say, already adjusting your stance for the next shot.

In the end, Oscar gets two strikes, and you only manage one.

You decide immediately that this is so, so unfair and inform him that, as compensation for the absolute tragedy of your performance, he’s going to have to give you the giant dolphin he won. Oscar complains, obviously, but somehow still ends up carrying two absurdly oversized stuffed animals — one enormous heart and, of course, the dolphin you’d already claimed for yourself — while you tug him along by the elbow toward the photo booth.

Oscar loves seeing you like this. All bright-eyed and happy, wandering around the fair like an overexcited little kid.

You slide onto the bench inside the booth, pull the stuffed animals in between the two of you, and then reach for Oscar’s hand to get him to sit down beside you.

“Do a good pose,” you warn him before pressing the start button. “And none of that thumbs-up thing you always do.”

“What’s wrong with—”

“Look!”

You grab his cheek and squish it, forcing his mouth into a pout while you do one of your own.

The next photo catches Oscar mid-laugh, with you wearing the most delightfully mischievous little smile. Then there’s one of both of you looking straight at the camera, and another where each of you is hugging one of the stuffed animals.

In the end, the two of you somehow end up at the top of the Ferris wheel, entirely because it was Oscar’s idea. Nothing could be more cliché than this, he’d thought. But then you were leaning over to look at the city below, pointing off into the distance with a bright little, “I can see my house from here!” and Oscar decided he didn’t care even a little bit.

At some point during the ride, though, things get a little out of hand. Because you turn to him with a look that means absolutely no good, then lean in close to his ear and whisper an idea so scandalous that the only thing Oscar manages in response is biting down on his own lip before kissing you hard and letting his hand drift somewhere very, very dangerous.

Oscar doesn’t do things like this. And, if you’re being honest, neither do you.

But when your mouth falls open and you have to hide your face in the curve of his neck to muffle the sound trying to escape, you find yourself thinking that maybe — yes — you could get used to doing things like this.

Of course you fuck that night. And the night after that. And the one after that, and the one after that too. What started as a one-night thing after the club — no strings, no expectations — turned into a second night with no strings attached, and then into weeks of no strings attached, until suddenly you have no idea what’s going on anymore.

Because now you’re lying in Oscar’s bed, and tomorrow he has to leave for a race week, and all you can think about is how much you don’t want to be here without him.

His eyes are closed, and he looks peaceful in that way only Oscar ever seems to manage. In that way you’ve somehow learned to recognise, and—

Oh, fuck.

You’d rather not think about it, so instead you just close your eyes, curl your arms around him, and breathe in the soft scent of the cologne he wears — the one that, somewhere along the way, became your favourite.

When you wake up, it’s to the sound of Oscar moving around the room, gathering his things and carrying them out to the living room.

And you can tell he’s doing it as slowly as humanly possible so he won’t wake you, because the room is still dark and he’s trying to see everything by the light of his phone torch alone.

“Morning?” you mumble, rubbing one eye with the back of your hand.

Oscar stops mid-step, looks over at you with his head tilted slightly to one side, and smiles.

“Morning,” he says. “Did I wake you?”

There’s a faint note of guilt in his voice.

You shake your head and yawn, reaching out to tug him closer by the hand.

“You’re leaving already?”

He nods and comes back to sit in the empty space beside you. Your hand curls around his forearm.

“And you weren’t even going to say goodbye.”

Oscar wrinkles his nose.

“I didn’t want to interrupt your sleep.”

“You were going to leave me lying here in your bed while you went off travelling,” you say. “Don’t you protect your belongings?”

A quiet laugh slips out of him as he glances down at the fingers absently stroking his arm.

“Of course I do. But half of them are already at your place, so…”

You hum.

“Fair enough.”

Your eyes are still heavy with sleep, and your grip on his arm loosens a little, but you lift a finger and tap your forehead.

“I want a kiss here.”

Oscar smiles like an absolute fool and leans in. Honestly, how can someone be this needy? He presses a kiss right where you pointed.

“Here?” he asks, and then drops one onto your cheek. “I’ll leave one here…” Then the other. “And one here too.” The tip of your nose. “Here.” And finally, your lips. “And one here.”

You’re smiling by then, one hand curled around the back of his neck, and when you open your eyes properly, you tilt your head to the side and nod.

“That’s better,” you say. “Now you can go.”

He leaves one last kiss on your forehead before getting to his feet.

“But I’ll be back,” he says. “You won’t even have time to miss me.”

Oh, but you will. You definitely will.

“Okay,” you murmur.

And when Oscar finally leaves, you let yourself go limp against the bed, staring at nothing as you wonder what the hell you’re supposed to do with your life now that you’ve somehow managed to ruin everything.

He’s absolutely brilliant that weekend.

You watch Oscar cross the finish line from pole position with the giant stuffed dolphin hugged to your chest, and the very first thing you do afterwards is grab your phone and text him:

DIVORCE FROM P5!!!!!!!!! 🎉🎉🎉🎉

Watching the podium celebration is a little harder. Mostly because, honestly, how is he allowed to look like that while the Australian anthem is playing?

Half an hour later, he replies with a simple:

celebration?

And you send back whatever you want! before promptly dropping onto the rug on your back and staring up at the ceiling.

You’ve been doing that a lot lately.

As if the ceiling might suddenly decide to give you some kind of answer. It never does. Not even one.

Outside the restaurant, the one he promised he’d take you to, tucked into the middle of the city and glowing softly with candlelight, Oscar takes your hand.

He’s wearing a suit. He hates suits, but he told you he put one on because, once, you mentioned seeing a photo of him in one and thinking he looked really handsome. So now he’s standing there in a suit he doesn’t even like, his fingers threaded through yours like this is the easiest thing in the world.

Like it doesn’t pull at something deep in your chest.

He reaches for your chair and waits until you sit so he can gently push it in, then takes the seat beside you, not across from you, beside you, and orders for both of you, wine included, because tonight is a real celebration, isn’t it?

“Pole position,” you say, propping your head up on one hand as you look at him. “That deserves a proper celebration.”

Oscar has so much to say about it.

About the race weekend, about the way the team helped him get there, answering every question you ask mostly because you like listening to him explain things. He talks and talks, and all you can think is that you have no idea how people still insist he’s quiet, or reserved, or hard to read, because no one gets this version of him. Not like you do.

And in the end, when he finally runs out of things to say, he just looks down with a small, lovely smile and says,

“Yeah. Pole position. Pretty cool, huh?”

A soft laugh slips out of you as you look at him. Honestly, he’s unbelievable.

“Yeah,” you say, all fondness. “Pole position is very cool.”

He lifts his eyes to you and squints a little.

“You’re making fun of me.”

“Am I?” you ask, and he leans in closer.

“I don’t care,” he says, and steals a quick little kiss that makes your stomach turn over.

The food arrives, and the conversation keeps going.

It’s the same easy rhythm that always leaves you warm all over, full of butterflies, the same dry little jokes that make you laugh far more than they probably should, day after day after day, and it’s… perfect. Everything about it is perfect.

Then his hand disappears beneath the table and finds yours again, threading your fingers together like it’s second nature by now, and you look at him as you swallow hard.

Defeated. Ruined. Your heart in pieces.

He looks back at you, and you… You wish that look could stay forever. You wish it meant exactly what yours does.

By the time the two of you step back outside, the whole thing feels almost cinematic: a street in Monaco at night, all soft yellow lights and a couple dressed far too well for their own good.

“Osc?” you call, turning to look at him.

“Hm?” he says, stopping immediately so he can listen.

How are you supposed to say this without making a complete disaster of yourself in the process? Your eyes are already threatening to spill over, and you have to blink hard and tip your chin up just to keep the tears where they are.

“I—I…” you start, your voice already trembling as it fights to stay steady. “I don’t think we can keep doing… this.”

Oscar blinks, and you watch his shoulders drop.

“What?” he asks, patient, waiting.

But you don’t want to explain. You don’t want to talk. Your mouth is already wobbling into a cry, one tear slipping free despite your best efforts, and you’re lifting your fist to wipe at the corner of your eye while Oscar is about two seconds away from panicking.

“This,” you say helplessly. “Casual. I don’t want to force anything, but I can’t… I can’t—” You swallow hard, trying to breathe through it. “I can’t keep doing this casual thing with you. Going to your place, wearing your clothes, walking around holding your hand and seeing you wear… wear something just because you know I like it…” Your voice drops, smaller now, barely holding together. “And keep pretending that…”

His chest rises and falls, quick and shallow. Oscar is still waiting.

You lower your voice until it’s almost a whisper.

“Keep pretending I’m not in love with you.”

Oscar goes completely still, like his whole body is rebooting in real time.

He lifts a hand, asking for a second, and you — who were quite literally crying a moment ago — sniffle and stare at him, suddenly very confused by the reaction. He scratches the top of his head.

“Can you…” he starts, clearing his throat. “Can you say that again?”

Your arms fall uselessly to your sides. You blink once. Then again.

“I…” Your voice comes out small and uncertain. “I can’t keep pretending I’m not… in love with you?”

His eyes widen. He clears his throat again, bites at the tip of his thumb like he’s trying very hard to hide a smile, and says,

“You know, this is actually kind of funny…”

What?

“Because I—” He swallows hard. And then he looks at you, all soft around the edges. “Oh, my God…”

He lets the breath out of him slowly, tucks his hands behind his back because they’re shaking, and then finally…

Finally.

“I’m in love with you too.”

And now it’s your turn to stop functioning entirely.

“W-What?” you ask, blinking at him as you try, and fail, to make sense of any of it.

Oscar just shakes his head.

His hand comes to rest at your waist, and right before he kisses you — right before his mouth finds yours in a way that says far more than either of you has managed all night — he murmurs softly,

“I’m in love with you. Like a complete idiot.”

And somehow, all at once, everything falls into place. You hold onto him as you kiss him back, your knees going weak beneath you.

“Fuck casual,” he whispers when he pulls away just enough to speak.

A soft laugh slips out of you.

“Oscar…”

“My God,” he murmurs, smiling so helplessly it nearly does you in.

You’re grinning by then, all warmth and relief and something so fond it almost hurts, and you kiss him again. And again. And one more time, just because you can.

“My Oscar?” you whisper back.

He rests his forehead against yours, looking for all the world like a man who’s lost a battle and doesn’t mind one bit.

“Your Oscar.”

“OSCAR PIASTRI NEW GIRLFRIEND?”

That’s the giant headline currently making you smile so hard your cheeks hurt. Oscar notices immediately and, naturally, becomes suspicious.

“What are you looking at?” he asks, eyes still on the television as his fingers drift lazily through your hair, now that you’re stretched out with your head in his lap.

You don’t answer. You just turn your phone around so he can see the screen.

Oscar glances at it, lifts an eyebrow in a very poor attempt at pretending not to care, and then — about two seconds later — a little smile appears at the corner of his mouth.

“You like that,” you say, thoroughly entertained.

He looks down at you, still absentmindedly playing with your hair.

“You would too,” he says, far too pleased with himself, “if you had a girlfriend like mine.”

You let out an offended little huff and drop your phone onto the couch before lifting your face to glare at him, though it’s hard to look very irritated when your heart is trying to melt out of your body.

“I can’t make fun of you when you’re being all cute like that.”

A second passes. He doesn’t say anything.

Then another.

“I think we should do a hard launch.”

You go still.

“Since when do you know what a hard launch is?”

Oscar shrugs like this is a perfectly normal thing for him to say.

“Do you want to?” you ask, suddenly a little shy. “Tell everyone, I mean.”

He nods.

Your smile sneaks back immediately, and you hide your face against his stomach before he can see too much of it.

“You get shy too, you know,” he murmurs.

“Shut up.”

Oscar laughs softly and bends down to steal a kiss from you anyway.

oscar is pretty sure you wear these dresses to torture him. like you're secretly working for one of the other teams, wearing this dress to distract him. make him lose focus on the race.

"focus, oscar," you say without looking at him, too busy trying to put your earrings in.

he doesn't say anything, eyes racking over your body as you're slightly bent over the table to get closer to the small mirror in the room. the australian feels his palms getting damp at the sight of just how nice your ass looks in the dress.

fuck, that dress fits you like a glove.

"i'm trying, but you don't really make it easy," he says with a deep breath. you let out a small laugh before you're turning around to face him. striking a small pose to show off your outfit.

"but i wore this dress just to help you focus," you tease, walking over and sitting on the edge of the bed next to him. you wrap your arms around his, hugging it close to your body as your chin rests on his shoulder. "do you not like the dress anymore, osc? would you rather if i just... take it off?" your breath is hot against his ear, sending a chill straight down his body and to his dick.

"if you take that dress off now then neither one of us is leaving this room," he says, turning his head so you press your lips to his. you give him a few chaste kisses, but you don't pull away. and neither does he. oscar is quite fond of the feeling of your lips against his.

"then focus, pretty boy," you say, pulling away just enough to bop his nose with your painted fingernail. oscar looks at you with half-lidded eyes – dropping down from your face to your exposed collarbone and he just has the faintest glimpse of your cleavage.

yeah, he thinks, easier said than done.

when the two of you arrive at the paddock later, oscar has to stop himself from just completely pulling you into his side as you both walk towards the mclaren hospitality. he glances over at you – hoping to every driving god above that the million of cameras don't catch him – just to see that silk fabric of your dress moving with you as you walk. your bag hangs from your shoulder, swinging slightly as your hand comes up to adjust your square style sunglasses that blocks out the bright european sun.

oscar likes to call them your retro squares every time he sees you pull them out.

"if you keep looking at me like that then you're going to ruin your image, osc," your voice – low and soothing, snaps him out of his thoughts.

"i wasn't looking at you," lies and you both know it.

"sure you weren't," you say, turning to meet his eyes, your retro squares – yep, he did it – hiding your eyes, but oscar knows you've got the mischievous glint to them. you always do when you tease him. "we'll see what your fans say when they post and repost a thousand videos of you looking at me instead of where you're going."

there it is.

"you know," he starts, fingers brushing just barely against yours, "if you keep bullying me then i'll leave you at home."

you gasp softly and the sound alone does something to oscar. fuck. "you wouldn't dare. you would miss me too much."

he doesn't deny it and the small smile he's trying to bite back doesn't help his case either. especially when his arm comes out behind you as you both walk up the stairs to hospitality. and, of course, oscar doesn't miss the chance to let his hand wander – giving your ass a firm squeeze.

"that's not focusing on your race," you tease, looking at him from over your shoulder.

"i'm aware."

oscar has twenty-two minutes before he has to be in the garage, putting on his helmet, and getting in the car. that means he has twenty-two minutes to put his focus on you before he has to focus on driving at 200 kpm.

"ah, osc~" your voice is airy, gone all the teasing energy from earlier as oscar trails his lips down your neck. his hands gripping your hips tightly before moving to splay against your back to anchor you to him. your own hands running through his hair with one and gripping his fireproof shirt.

oscar let out a small groan against your skin when he felt you do an extra hard tug on his hair. his lips stop at the neckline of your dress before he kisses back up – he stops when his lips are just centimeters from yours. he gives you his signature lopsided smile as he kisses you.

seventeen minutes before he has to be in the garage. he should be doing anything other than kissing you, but when you press up against him oscar can't think... concentrate... focus on anything but you. your lips moving against his, and he's sure that your lipstick is probably smearing against his lips.

oscar could really care less.

"oscar! mate, hurry up you've got thirteen minutes before we have to be in the garage!" the voice of arthur, oscar's trainer, sounds from the other side of his driver's room door.

oscar lets out an annoyed groan against your lips which makes you in turn smile and laugh. you pull away from the kiss, and he notices that your lipstick is completely gone from your lips. which means...

"gosh, osc," you laugh, thumb coming to wipe away your lipstick that managed to smudge onto his own. "so messy," you tease with a fond smile that makes oscar's stomach flutter. "what happened to trying to focus on the race?"

"not my fault you make it hard to focus on anything but you," he confesses, leaning over to rest his forehead against your shoulder.

"oh, so its my fault you can't focus?"

"yep, totally you're fault," he tells you as he moves to look at you. "you and this dress."

"i thought you liked this dress?"

"i do, that's why i can't focus. you look to good in it." oscar presses another kiss to your lips as his hands run up and down your sides.

knock! knock! "oscar! come on!"

"you should go before you get in trouble, osc," you tell him, running your hand through his hair in order to tame it just a little bit.

oscar sighs before he's standing up, adjusting his race suit that sits at his hips. "i expect a nice reward when i cross the finish line."

"oh? and what reward would that be?" you ask, head tilting to the side in a rather innocent manner despite you already knowing what oscar wants.

his eyes drag down your body once more, like he's trying to memorize your body in that dress before he has to get into the car. he then bends down, hands resting against the back of the couch and caging you between him and sofa. your faces inches from each other.

"i have a few ideas – most of them involving you and this dress on the floor. cheer me on, okay?"

"always. now go get 'em."

“so cheesy,” you groan, but it lacks any malice. 

oscar simply laughs. he pulls you back into his hold until your back meets his chest. you spin until you’re both facing the sunset, watching the silhouette of a few birds cutting through the sky. their cries fill the otherwise quiet beach. 

he leans in, pressing a chaste kiss against your temple. you find yourself smiling along, enjoying the serenity of the moment while it lasts. oscar startles when the water brushes against his bare feet. he jumps, hands finding your waist as he clings to you. your hands find his shoulders in return. you can feel the warmth of his chest and his slowing heartbeat. “are you okay?” 

oscar flushes beneath your gaze. heat floods his neck and runs to the tips of his ears, tinting the skin a soft shade of pink. he nods sheepishly, taking a small step back towards the sand. “the water’s cold.”

“oh, poor oscar,” you tease. you raise a hand, pushing a stray strand of hair back into place. the wind had rustled the careless style leaving a few pieces of hair sticking up at an odd angle. oscar rolls his eyes but leans into your touch nonetheless. “is it too cold for you?” 

he wraps his arms around you tighter, hands tracing the curve of your waist until they come to rest against your hips. your breath hitches when his fingertips dip just beneath the hem of your bottoms, teasingly running his nails against the hidden skin beneath. your own hand falls lower on his chest, now pressing against his sternum. 

oscar leans in until you can feel his breath ghosting against your lips. your own heartbeat pounds in your ears, blocking out the sound of the birds chirping nearby and the slow hum of the tide. your eyes flutter shut when his nose brushes against yours. oscar smirks. “maybe you should warm me up,” he murmurs. 

you part your lips to reply but oscar is faster. his left hand finds the curve of your jaw, cradling your face as he tilts to the side. his lips meet yours with fervor. they’re soft against your own from the mint chapstick he had applied hours earlier. he tugs you closer with his right hand, stepping back into the cold water and pulling your body flush against his own. 

your own hand curls into oscar’s hair. your fingertips weave through the overgrown strands at the nape of his neck, gently tugging as you fight for dominance. you’re rewarded with a quiet noise that sends heat through you. still, he doesn’t let up, teasingly running his tongue against your bottom lip. 

you pull away with a gasp, lungs burning for air and lips newly swollen. oscar smiles. his cheeks are flushed and his hair is even more dishevelled than it was earlier. the sun has almost completely disappeared. darkness slowly begins to fill the sky as its light dips beneath the curve of the earth. 

“let’s go home?” 

“yeah,” you nod, breathless. your hand falls from the name of his neck to rest against his shoulder. his skin feels hot beneath your palm. you take half a step closer, tugging oscar closer so your lips nearly brush against the shell of his ear. “so you can finish what you started.” 

notes: please leave feedback if you enjoyed!! f1 reqs are open and greatly appreciated <3 written for ME after whatever the hell happened in canada, can someone unhex alex albon please, experimenting with more suggestive endings kinda sorta, this is set in melbourne btw i didn't make that clear but oh well

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"I'm sorry, can you repeat that?"

"I need you to pretend to be my girlfriend until the season ends."

You're sure he hit his head really hard. He must have a concussion. He must have.

"Piastri, no one's going to believe that."

"Not with that attitude, they won't."

You scoff, staring at him in disbelief.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Oscar Piastri, who you can't stand since freshman year, when both of you joined your respective teams.

Oscar Piastri, asking you to pretend to be his girlfriend until the season ends.

What the actual fuck?

"Did you hit your head?" You finally ask, leaning closer to look at him across the cafeteria table, eyebrows furrowed with confusion and a hint of worry. "Are you okay? Are you maybe hallucinating right now?"

He rolls those brown eyes of his as if you're the one suggesting the craziest thing the whole campus has ever heard.

"Look, I just need the guys to get off my back. I need them to stop saying I'm married to cricket, you need the band, why not?"

"Why not?!" You repeat, still checking his face for any concussion signs. "Piastri, if you just need your stupid friends to stop commenting on the fact that you're a virgin, maybe just go ahead and fuck someone," your voice turns bitter as you hiss out the next words, "I'm pretty sure any girl from the stupid band you keep stealing from me would be up for the challenge."

"First of all, I'm not a virgin," he glares at you when you snort, "second of all, I don't want a relationship. I want to focus on my degree and on the cricket team. That's the point of getting a fake girlfriend, I don't have to put any effort into it."

You wonder if he'd let you do a quick examination to make sure he's actually not concussed. He must be.

"No one's going to believe that," you shake your head, repeating your words from before, "it makes absolutely no sense for us to start dating out of nowhere. We can barely stand each other."

"Well, why would anyone think we're fake dating in the first place? It's not exactly common."

"Yes, because it's fucking insane," you lean even more towards him, still shaking your head in denial, "and why me, of all people? We're not friends. Why the fuck would you want to fake date me?"

"Because I'll definitely not put any effort into it if it's you, so it's not going to affect my real priorities."

You're not offended.

Okay, maybe a little bit.

"No."

He furrows his eyebrows, and you wonder how the fuck he has the nerve to look confused, "no?"

"For half the band? For one competition? No. That's not worth it."

He blinks.

"Okay. The entire band."

"No," you cross your arms and lean back against your chair, eyebrows rising as you stare at him, unimpressed, "I've done most competitions without them. It'll suck, yes, but still not worth it."

Piastri pauses. The air between the two of you is filled with tension, as it usually is. It feels like a battle, and the two of you bargain like politicians like you always have.

"Every competition for the rest of the season."

That grabs your attention.

"Every competition?" He nods and your eyes narrow with suspicion. "Every competition? Every round through nationals? Every single one?"

He nods again.

"Even if there's an important cricket game on the same day?"

His nose twitches in annoyance at the question. "If we get through the quarter and semifinals and the finals are on the same day, we split the band."

You stare at him. Wonder for the fifth time if he's having some sort of psychological crisis. If he's concussed.

The band for every competition for the rest of the season.

You see, getting the band to play at a game or a competition is a privilege team captais fight tooth and nail for. It boosts morale, hypes up the teams, and usually makes the opponent feel a little more tense.

If there were two games or competitions in the same day, fucking Charles Leclerc, who all the team captains jokingly called band captain, liked to say it was first come, first served.

And you and Oscar Piastri had been fighting over the university band ever since you got into college — and God, was it a losing game for you.

Sure, there's a slight chance other teams may need the band on the same days the two of you did, but it never usually happens. Other sports have games and competitions on other days of the week.

Cricket and swimming are the ones that share Sundays.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

"So we get the entire band for the rest of the season and split the band if you guys get to the finals."

"We will get to the finals, but yes."

There's a quiet beat as you just look at him, thinking, pondering.

"And we just have to date until the season ends?" You uncross your arms slowly.

"Fake date."

"Don't get technical on me now, Piastri."

You think you see a shadow of smile on his lips before it disappears.

"Yes, just for the next two months or so, and then you're rid of me. We can act like none of this ever happened."

"Okay," he perks up at the word, but you shoot his hope down quickly, "I'll think about it," he deflates, "I can give you an answer on Thursday."

He lifts one of his eyebrows at you.

"Charles won't like it if he has to change plans for the band too close to Sunday."

You stand from your chair, already grabbing your backpack from the floor while he watches you. You look down at him.

"That's Leclerc's problem. Thursday, Piastri."

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liked by alexandrasaintmleux, kikagomes and 1,478 others

yourusername practice day❤️

tagged: alexandrasaintmleux, kikagomes

kikagomes love youuu ♡ liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux ay ay captain 🫡🫡🫡 ♡ liked by yourusername

freshman1 sooo cool!!

freshman2 YESSSS

pierregasly amazing work from our girls!!!

↳ kikagomes darling don't say it like that it sounds weird af ♡ liked by yourusername

francolapinto I leave early ONE DAY and you post pictures without me. I see how it is.

↳ yourusername yes that's exactly how it is!!!!!

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oscarpiastri Good work today as always, keep pushing

landonorris LESGOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

olliebearman THE QUARTER FINALS ARE OURS BABYYYY

freshman1 sooo cute

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"Okay, so we need to set some ground rules," you tell Piastri later that evening, when you meet at the campus café to discuss the details of this mess you've gotten into. "And we can't be long, because I have to be up at 5 for tomorrow's practice, so try not to waste too much of my time."

"You know, if you're going to be my fake girlfriend, I think you'll need to be a little nicer to me," he raises his eyebrows at you, crossing his arms and watching quietly as you order a cappuccino at the counter.

"Alright, I'll be nicer to you in public," you answer when the barista starts making your order, turning your body away from the counter and towards him, "what else?"

His eyes narrow in suspicion.

"You're serious about setting rules."

"Obviously," you roll your eyes, "I'm not letting you just do and say whatever you want about this fake relationship of ours, Piastri. I don't trust you like that."

He hums in acknowledgement, the quiet whirring of the coffee machine comfortable inside the warm establishment.

"Fine. You can't tell your swimming friends the relationship is fake."

Your eyes widen. "Piastri, I can't keep that from them. This is for your friends, not for mine, and those guys see me basically every day and know me better than everyone, even the freshmen — they're not gonna believe me if I say we just started dating out of nowhere.”

"We’ll make up a love story, I don't know," he shrugs, "but they can't know. Alexandra would tell Charles, who would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone, and then my plan would be ruined."

You sigh deeply before nodding, uncertain. You’re not sure how you feel about lying to your swimming friends — your best friends.

… but he is right. Alex would definitely tell Charles, who would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone.

"Okay. Alright, okay. I'll figure it out."

The barista calls out your name and you turn to grab your hot drink, smiling at the barista before turning to Piastri again.

"Aren't you gonna get anything?"

He shakes his head. "I don't drink coffee."

"You engineering freak," is your muttered answer, moving towards one of the small tables and immediately sitting down, watching him as he sits across from you. "Anything else?"

He seems to think it over for a second, gaze going from you to the coffee machine behind the counter and then back to you again.

"If any of my game dates don't match yours, you'll have to go watch me play. Supportive girlfriend and all."

"Well, only if you watch my swimming competitions as well," you twitch your nose at him, bringing the mug to your lips, "supportive boyfriend and all."

You don't notice the way his eyes focus on your mouth as you take a long sip. Piastri clears his throat loudly, looking away. You don't notice how a light flush paints his cheeks either.

"Sure, I can do that," he nods, clearing his throat again before his tone takes a condescending turn, "what about you? No rules?"

"Oh, I've got many rules," your smile is so forced even the barista, from the other side of the café, can see through it, "first things first, I want flowers. Once a month, at least."

His eyebrows shoot up.

"I told you I didn't want to put in any effort."

"I literally couldn't give less of a shit," you take another sip, clearly unimpressed, "I told you you're not going to be a deadbeat fake boyfriend. There's only a couple of months until the season ends, you can do flowers."

He sighs loudly, leaning his back against the chair and staring at the ceiling.

"Of course you'd be a high maintenance fake girlfriend."

"Don't piss me off, everyone knows I wouldn't have a disinterested boyfriend," your eyes are filled with amusement, "you have to make me swoon, Piastri. I wouldn't date someone that isn't willing to sweep me off my feet."

"Sweep you off your feet, got it," his eyes lingered on the curve of your smile, "go on."

"Okay," you set the mug down, "you have to pick me up from swimming practice every morning."

"Are you serious?" He all but moans, staring at you in disbelief. "You guys practice at the crack of dawn."

"It's called discipline," you snap back, "yes, I'm serious.”

He groans.

“Fine.”

“And you have to post me somewhat regularly. I'm not willing to be someone's secret fake girlfriend."

He sighs again, but nods in agreement.

"And you can't fuck anyone while we're doing this. I mean, not that I think you're capable of fucking anyone, but I don't want any gossip about getting cheated on."

He scoffs at the insult, but doesn't seem too offended.

"I wouldn't do that to you," he rolls his eyes, "obviously."

Piastri watches surprise flicker through your features.

You’re vaguely aware that Piastri isn’t devil on Earth, much less that bad of a guy. Still, you don’t expect the readiness of it — the obviously, the consideration. It sends a tingle through your chest.

You elect to ignore it.

"You have to volunteer at my lab."

"What?"

"We don't have enough volunteers for our current research," you shrug as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, taking another sip from your drink, "I'd clearly make my boyfriend do that for me. It's nothing much, we'll just make you run and do a few exercises. You'll be fine. And, at last — no kissing."

Piastri lifts his eyebrows.

"No kissing?"

"Oh, don't look at me like that," you kick him beneath the table, rolling your eyes when he glares at you, "I don't want to kiss you, period."

"That's gonna ruin our plan," he shakes his head, brow furrowed, "what, I win a game and don't kiss my girlfriend in celebration? That's ridiculous."

You ponder it for a second. A slight breeze comes through the window and you sigh at the feeling. Piastri watches it carefully.

"Okay," you concede, "you can kiss me after the finals, if you win and I'm there."

"That's ridiculous," he repeats. "Just the finals?"

You nod.

"Just the finals."

He sighs tiredly, running a hand through his hair.

"Fine, okay. But you have to be nice and affectionate with me when we're in public, even if we don't kiss. Hold hands, hugs, all that stuff."

"You're really greedy for someone who didn't want to put in effort, you know?" You lean forward slightly, eyes focusing on his.

"Aren't you the one who wants to be wooed?" There's no friendliness in his teasing, and you roll your eyes again.

"Oh, you're not gonna woo me. You'll just act like you can, Piastri."

He scoffs.

"I guess we'll see about that."

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✶✶✶

"You know, you have a pretty nice car."

He does. The seat is cushioned to no end, the drive is almost silent, and, even though the music volume is low, you can tell the sound is insanely good.

You wouldn't be able to say what car it is, but it did make your eyes widen when it stopped by the pool's entrance, and the silence is so awkward you can barely handle it.

Not that you feel any joy in talking to Piastri, of course. Still, the discomfort of it all is getting to you.

"Thanks," his tone is dry, but you can hear the hint of confusion in his voice.

Maybe he's as surprised as you are that you're trying to, what? Start conversation with Oscar Piastri of all people?

"How was practice?"

Your eyebrows shoot up at the question. His furrow. Neither of you expected him to keep the conversation going either.

"It was okay," you answer carefully. It feels weird to talk to him without trying to start a fight. "We're taking a rest day tomorrow so we aren't too tired for the competition on Sunday."

"Cricket takes two rest days before games," he mutters, eyes on the road.

"Are you trying to compete with me over rest days, Piastri? I didn't ask."

Well, there goes not trying to start a fight.

You're not sure why you do it. He's being exceptionally polite, and he got out of the car to open the door for you even though no one could see it, which was, perhaps, the weirdest thing that had ever happened to you.

He'd actually shown up, as well. Right on time as practice ended. You don't even think you told him what time you'd be done with swimming for the morning.

Maybe you just feel defensive. Maybe you just don't know how to act in this situation, don't know how to talk to him.

His gaze flies towards you for a mere second before focusing on the campus streets again.

"You're insane," his expression doesn't even change when he says it, and somehow that makes it worse.

Well. You started conversation and then immediately shut him out the moment he tried to keep it going.

Maybe you are insane, and you definitely feel a little bad about it, but not enough to apologize or say anything else.

The last minutes of the ride are spent in that same awkward silence. When he stops the car, you move to open the door on the passenger side, but he moves quicker — in a couple of seconds, he gets out the car, around it, and opens the door for you.

You gape at him like a fish out of water as you slowly get out the car, his hand still firmly gripping the handle.

You look around. He drove you back to your dorm building as you had asked, and only a few students walk nearby, most of them not even noticing the two of you. Some stare.

He closes the door as you sling your backpack over your shoulder.

"You don't need to do that everytime," you mutter awkwardly, feeling heat creep up your cheeks, "I can open the door by myself."

Once more, Piastri is quicker than you. He leans down and plants a quick kiss on your warm cheek, ignoring the surprised gasp that leaves your lips.

"You're insane, but you also prohibited me from being a deadbeat fake boyfriend," he shrugs, but you see the way his mouth curves in a smirk at your startled reaction. "Have a good day."

And, in a second, he's back in his car and driving away.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Opening doors and kissing your cheek.

A sophomore you're pretty sure plays in the university band flashes you a smile as she walks by, but you don't acknowledge it nor do you move. You just watch his car get smaller and smaller as he drives it away.

God, you should not have agreed to this.

✶✶✶

You're very particular about competition days.

You joined the swimming team mere months after you started university, and it felt like a much needed outlet for any frustration you felt towards everything else going on in your life. Pre-med was no joke, and you were known for being either at the pool, at the library, or at the PT research lab.

Married to swimming and school work, just like Piastri's friends say he's married to cricket. You try not to dwell on that similarity.

Swimming is where you feel most at ease — it's where you can finally breathe, funnily enough, and mornings feel incomplete without it.

Of course you're passionate about the sport. More than passionate, if your frequent angry outbursts at Charles Leclerc are anything to go by.

You see, it isn't always Piastri's fault that the band doesn't show up to swimming competitions. The cricket and swimming calendars don't always align and, even though they do align enough to annoy the shit out of you, you have to admit Piastri can't take the blame every single time.

Sometimes they have to be somewhere else, sometimes they have their own competitions, and there was even a time or two when the university dean asked them to play at a board event. It all culminates in the fact the band hasn't shown up to any swimming competitions all season, which pisses you off to no end.

The swimming team has never gotten this close to nationals, at least not in recent history. This might be the most important competition day ever since you joined the team, bright-eyed, shy, excited.

You take your breakfast like you always do — not too light to be hungry, not too heavy to vomit into the pool, a lesson freshman you had to learn the hard way. You stretch before you even leave your dorm and you check your backpack a thousand times to be sure you haven't forgotten anything, rechecking for your lucky swimming cap a thousand times more.

When you finally meet the rest of the team at the state pool, your hands are trembling more than a captain's hands should. Alex and Kika are bursting with energy, and Franco all but jumps in his own spot. The new freshmen look ready to throw up.

"Okay," you clear your throat when your voice cracks, nerves fighting to get the best of you, "this is our most important competition to date."

"Damn, no pressure," Franco mutters, shrugging when you glare his way. For a semi-freshman, you're always surprised by how much shit he says.

"If we win, we go to nationals. The band is here," you wave towards the bleachers by the side of the pool, directly next to the other teams, which you suppose is purposeful, "and everyone expects us to do at least somewhat well."

"Again, no pressure," Kika rolls her eyes with amusement and directs a soft smile to the freshmen, "we'll just do our best."

"No," you shake your head, tightening your fists to stop their trembling, looking at each and every person in your team with determination as you take in a deep breath, pushing away your anxiety, even if you still feel it, "we'll do more than our best, and we'll win. We're fast as fuck and the best swimmers in the world and this competition will be a breeze. Leclerc will play trumpets on their ears and they'll be no match for us."

Alex lets out a laugh at that, but some of the freshmen puff out their chests.

"I believe in each and every one of you," you nod. "Don't let me down, and I won't let you down either. Now, let's get ready to win."

The team lets out cheers, clapping as they start moving toward their spots around the pool, some stretching, others sighing and trying to shake out the nervousness.

"That's why she's the captain," you hear someone mumble, and feel almost guilty over how untrue that sounds.

Saying it is one thing, believing it is entirely another.

If there's someone feeling the pressure, it's you. You, who committed to being team captain before you were even a senior. You, who pushed every teammate to their limit during pratice every morning. You, who agreed to fake date your archnemesis to make sure you'd have a supportive audience at this pool.

Minutes later, the whistle sounds.

You can still hear the band with your head underwater.

✶✶✶

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri and 9,987 others

swimteam Congratulations to all of our athletes for absolutely DOMINATING all swimming categories on the state competition today and therefore qualifying to NATIONALS!

And shout out to our captain @.yourusername for setting the new state record for the 800m front crawl category ❤️

yourusername FUCKING LOVE YOU GUYS I'M SO HAPPY!!!!!!! ♡ liked by swimteam

oscarpiastri What a great job from the team! ♡ liked by swimteam

↳ kikagomes 👀

francolapinto first full season and already going to nationals maybe i'm a good luck charm? ♡ liked by swimteam

pierregasly YESSSSSSS ♡ liked by swimteam

charles_leclerc Congratulations to the team! I'm so grateful I was there to witness this ♡ liked by swimteam

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yourusername feeling actually insane. what a crazy fucking weekend. thank you guys for everything @.swimteam ❤️ WE'RE FUCKING GOING TO NATIONALS

also thank you @.charles_leclerc and the whole band for being there, couldn't have done it without you

kikagomes BEST CAPTAIN THE WORLD HAS EVER SEEEEEEEEEEN ♡ liked by yourusername

freshman1 you are THE GOAT ♡ liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux OH HELLO STATE RECORD HOLDER ♡ liked by yourusername

oscarpiastri Beautiful work babe ❤️

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↳ alexandrasaintmleux hmmm hi?

↳ landonorris mate???

↳ yourusername ❤️

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When you leave the pool on Tuesday, Alex and Kika walking beside you, Piastri is already waiting outside.

Piastri is waiting outside with flowers.

You stop dead in place at the sight, gaping at him as you hear Alex and Kika gasp.

Not any flowers, either. Pink camellias and a few white gardenias, all wrapped up in brown paper and a nice white bow. He smiles at you so wide when he sees you that you feel your cheeks grow warm.

"There's my girl!" He walks towards you in wide strides, immediately leaning down to kiss your face. You just stare as he puts the delicate flowers into your hands and turns his head toward your friends. "You guys did great on Sunday. Are you excited to go to nationals?"

Alex and Kika can't seem to speak, staring at him in utter shock as you look down at your flowers.

You suppose you did ask for it, yes. You didn't expect him to deliver, though, at least not like this. Perhaps some simple roses. Maybe daisies.

The silence stretches. Piastri clears his throat.

"Well. Should we... Go?" He looks at you when he asks it, uncertain, but you just look down at the pretty bouquet sitting between your hands.

He says your name quietly and that's what snaps you back into reality.

"Yes. Yes, of course," you shoot a smile to your friends, barely registering their shocked glances to each other, "I'll see you tomorrow, guys!"

The girls watch as he opens the door for you and walks around the front of the car to get into the driver's seat, waving at them before closing his own door.

"So," the car starts to move, "how was practice?"

You blink down at the flowers, and then back up at him.

"You got me flowers."

"Yes, I did," he nods and glances at you, "I didn't know which ones you liked, so I just picked the ones I thought looked nicer. Are they okay?"

You look down at the flowers again. Beautiful, fresh, colorful, staring up at you brightly.

"You could've just gotten roses or something."

"Nah," Piastri shakes his head, eyes focusing on the road, "roses are too basic, and we've already come to the conclusion that you're high maintenance."

"That's..." you open your mouth to speak and find yourself at a loss for words, "thank you?"

"Don't thank me yet," he glances at you again, "I have a favor to ask you."

You groan, setting the flowers down on your lap as your stare at him, grateful for the sudden annoyance that can distract you from how fucking flustered you are.

"Another one, Piastri?"

"Look, Lando is throwing a party this weekend to celebrate our quarter finals, since we couldn't celebrate on Sunday after getting the news that Jack won't be able to play for the rest of the season. I've told him I'm seeing someone, so they said I should bring you."

"Someone? You haven't told them it's me?" Your eyes narrow at him, gripping the flower stems a little tighter.

"No, I thought you'd prefer it if we told people on your terms," he glances at you again, "hence why the party could be a good place for it."

For what feels like the thousandth time during this car ride, you blink at him.

"That's surprisingly considerate."

He rolls his eyes.

"I am considerate, just like I am nice," you watch as he sighs, "you can invite the swimming team if you want."

"I never took you for a party guy," your eyes turn to your flowers again, chest tightening at how lovely they look, at how the colors complement each other.

"I'm not," Piastri agrees, and your focus moves to the way his hands turn the steering wheel, taking a right, "but it'd be awkward if the team captain doesn't go to the team's celebration party, you know? And, again, it'd be a good place for us to make it official."

"Make it fake official," you mutter, forcing yourself to look back at the flowers.

You don't miss the way his lips curl into a teasing smile. You hate the way your face tingles with warmth.

"Don't get technical on me now, L/N."

A chuckle escapes you, and his smile grows wider. He turns a left and you notice you're on your street.

"Fine," you sigh tiredly, "but you're picking me up for that too."

He laughs back and, for some reason, you hate it.

"Of course."

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

"You know, you could've just said we needed to meet to align what story we're telling everyone, you didn't need to scare the crap out of me."

"Oh, don't be so dramatic."

You throw a pillow at Piastri, who sits on your desk on the other side of your room, chair moved so he can look at you. You huff when he catches it.

"Besides, if it was something worth getting worried about, you're not exactly the person I'd be texting. We're not close like that."

You think you see hurt flicker through his expression, but it's gone before you can be sure.

Piastri has never been in your dorm room before.

Your roommate is out for the day, and never in his life did Piastri think he'd ever be alone in your room with you.

The dorm is surprisingly untidy. For all your talk of discipline, there's clothes hanging from the desk chair, a little pile of shoes on the floor. Your desk table is a complete mess — papers everywhere, books on top of each other, your sunglasses too close to the edge. By the desk, there's a duffle bag filled to the top with clothes, a couple of swimming goggles, a clean swimsuit, and an assortment of swimming caps.

"The party is tomorrow night," you remind him, "I won't be able to escape Alex and Kika there. What are we gonna tell them?"

"Well, I don't know," he crosses his arms, not a hint of emotion on his tone, "maybe you just fell for my crazy charm and begged to go out with me?"

You laugh so loudly the sound rings in his ears, and Piastri can't help but smirk.

"No one is going to believe that," you shake your head and he doesn't take it personally, "we need to think of something better."

There's a beat of silence as the two of you try to think of a good story to explain how, miraculously, you got together.

You and Oscar Piastri. Well, that would be hard to explain, wouldn't it? You hadn't liked him for years now, and what could have possibly changed that?

"Maybe we kissed at Gasly's party a month ago," he suggests, and you arch your eyebrow.

"The one where you looked uncomfortable the entire time and left early?"

He tilts his head in surprise. "You noticed?"

"I mean—not like that," you roll your eyes, but there's no denying the warmth on your face, "I just saw you a couple of times, that's all."

There's another beat of silence, and you wonder if you can swallow back your words and choke on them.

"Okay," he nods slowly. "Maybe you saw me leaving, went after me to see if I was okay, and we kissed."

"Why would I check up on you?" You blurt out and immediately wish you could swallow those words, as well.

"Because you're nice to people," he says quietly, looking away from you, "so maybe you were just being nice."

It's stupid, but you feel a pang on the left side of your chest.

"Yeah, okay. That seems fair," you swallow, and your throat hurts, "I was drunk and you looked sad and pitiful, so I kissed you."

There's a slight lilt to his lips. "You kissed me?"

"Obviously," you match his small smile, "I wear the fake pants in this fake relationship, Piastri. I kissed you."

He lets out a snort and your smile widens.

"Sure, okay. What then? You asked me out?"

"No, I didn't," you lean back against your bedrest, head turned to look at him, "I kissed you and you were so overwhelmed with joy that you asked me out on the spot."

Piastri really laughs this time, and you allow yourself to grin at him. He notices and grins back.

"Did you say yes?"

You shrug, but the smile stays on your face. "If you looked pitiful enough, I might have."

"Oh, so you only accepted because I looked pitiful?" The teasing tone to his voice sounds nice. You've never heard it from him, not without any annoyance behind it.

"Obviously," you throw another pillow at him and he catches it again, "I have a soft spot for sad men."

He throws the pillow back and you catch it clumsily. He shakes his head and lets out another chuckle. "Of course you do."

"We hung out in secret for a while," you keep the story going, resting your chin on your hands as you look at him, thoughtful, "I wasn't sure if it was serious or not, and you're married to cricket."

He nods, still smiling. The flowers he gave you on Tuesday are on top of your bedside table, he notices, inside a jar filled with water and still holding up. They bring some color to the space. He feels flattered you actually still have them.

"Maybe—" he hesitates, face falling, and you gesture for him to continue. He clears his throat, "maybe that day when you messaged me about the band, my favor was for you to be my girlfriend officially."

You study him for a second. The deep brown eyes, his strong jaw, his lips no longer forming that smile you were growing to enjoy. He looks a little embarrassed, a little uncomfortable, just like he had that night at Gasly's party. Some strange part of you wants to see him grin at you again.

"That's a good idea," you nod slowly. "Would make the timeline add up."

"Exactly," he nods back.

That awkward silence settles in again, the one that fills his car when he drives you back to your dorm, the one that swims between your text messages.

You don't know what it is. There are times when you talk and laugh and chat like normal people — acquaintances, at least. Other times, it seems you've never met before, like you just have no idea how to act with each other.

You don't know how to act with each other. It's been years of angry glances, sarcastic answers, underhanded compliments. Mainly from your part, you realize, even though you know for certain that he has gone after his way to get the band when he knew you wanted it for a swimming competition.

Even then, is that sufficient reason for the weird relationship you two have always had?

Piastri seems to be asking himself the same questions, because the next words out of his mouth are, "why do you hate me so much?"

You blink at him, surprised by the question.

"I don't hate you, Piastri."

"I mean, you sort of do," he crosses his arms again, almost as if trying to make himself smaller, "I know you're... Intense, but you don't seem to have this much of a problem with other people."

You think it over for a few seconds. It's true. While you've had issues with almost everyone in the student athletic association and in band, with Piastri it's always been personal — it's not just sports and business like it is with others.

"I mean, you do make it your mission to steal band from me all the time."

He shakes his head, "you know it's more than that. Yes, I do try to steal band from you every Sunday. I know how much you like the band, and in a selfish way I guess I want to upset you in the same way you upset me by— I don't know, just being mad at me all the time."

Your eyebrows furrow and your voice goes a little quieter. "It upsets you?"

"Of course it does."

You look at him closely, his arms still crossed, clearly uncomfortable sitting in your dorm, asking you questions that haunted him since freshman year.

"It's stupid," you murmur, and he immediately leans forward to listen, interested, "you pranked me in freshman year."

Piastri looks at your startled, eyebrows shooting up. "What?"

"When we started university," you start, feeling so embarrassed you wish you could bury yourself in a hole, "I met you at one of those welcome cocktails, do you remember?"

He nods, confused.

"Well, we talked a bunch that night. I had a lot of fun. I thought you were really cute, too," you look away, the embarrassment increasing tenfold as you avoid his gaze, cheeks glowing red, "so I asked for your number, and you gave me a fake one. I tried to text you and it just didn't exist. Never felt that humiliated in my life," you laugh humorlessly, "I know it's stupid, but I just could never really like you after that. It was awful because you were always so nice to everyone, and I didn't understand why you did that. You could've just said no, you know? And then the following year I became more involved with the swimming team and you were just a dick about the band. So yeah, I guess that's how it started."

When you finally gather the courage to glance at Piastri again, you don't think you've ever seen him look this confused in his life. It makes you feel even more embarrassed, the way his eyebrows furrow with no understanding.

"I remember that night," he concedes, and then shakes his head in denial. "We talked, and I gave you my phone number and you never reached out until sophomore year, when we started talking—well, when we started fighting over the band."

It's your turn to look confused.

"No, you didn't give me a real number, Piastri. I had to get your number from someone else later."

"I did not give you a fake number," his voice is solid, firm, and he stares at you with certainty. "Maybe you heard one of the numbers wrong due to the party noise, or I mixed something up, I had just changed numbers at the time. But I did not give you a fake number. I wanted to talk to you."

You stare back at him, unsure on how to answer. You weren't hurt by that anymore — it happened years ago and, at this point, you didn't care. But it was the starting point of your distaste towards him, and it had tainted the first following interactions. The image of him that stuck with you had been that one — smiling Piastri, sweet and polite, giving you hope and butterflies and a fake number, a dead end.

Polite enough to not be cruel to your face, to let you feel the humiliation and embarrassment on your own on the next day, seeing every message refuse to go through.

And to know that that wasn't what had happened? That maybe it had all been a silly misunderstanding, and you held a grudge over nothing?

Well, that was awkward.

"I—well, it doesn't matter," you try to shift the topic, letting out an uneasy chuckle, "it was years ago, and it's not like I'm still upset at you because of that. Nowadays, my only issue with you is the band and the fact that you're always a little shit about it."

"It does matter," he presses, and you notice the way his finger grip the edges of your desk chair so tight his knuckles go white, "it matters to me. I did not give you a fake number. It wasn't a prank."

"Piastri—"

"I promise you I didn't. I wouldn't have done that, even if I didn't want you to have my number, and I did."

"Piastri, it's fine," you insist, still avoiding his gaze, "I can promise you I'm over something that happened when we were 18." You pause. "But it's good to know you didn't do it on purpose. Makes it a little less embarrassing, I think."

He doesn't answer, just studies you quietly. Maybe he's waiting for something. You're not sure what it is. Your heart beats loudly inside your chest. You suppose this shouldn't change anything, but it does.

Not the fact that he didn't mean to give you the wrong number, no, but the fact he cares so much about it. About you knowing he wanted to talk to you, that he gave you the right number, that he waited for you to text him.

"So," you clear your throat, face flaming red, "the party this weekend."

✶✶✶

liked by yourusername, landonorris and 3,215 others

oscarpiastri incredible night out with my girlfriend, the state record holder for 800m front crawl

tagged: yourusername

yourusername LMAOOOO

yourusername looking good piastri ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

↳ landonorris dating the guy and still calling him by his last name my man can never win

↳↳ yourusername it's my brand at this point

francolapinto still can't believe you refused to kiss for the camera i just wanted to capture this monumental moment

↳ yourusername weirdo

username1 can i say that as a fellow colleague i ALWAYS thought you guys would look cute together ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

kikagomes CUTIESSSSS ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 2,741 others

yourusername coffee date

tagged: oscarpiastri

kikagomes the hard launch i can't ♡ liked by yourusername

kimiantonelli you guys are like parents to me ♡ liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux did you guys go grab coffee immediately after the party 😭😭😭

↳ yourusername perhaps

oscarpiastri ❤️❤️❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername ❤️❤️❤️

username1 power couple ❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername

landonorris i can't believe you guys are really dating we thought he was lying ♡ liked by yourusername

✶✶✶

A week later, Piastri waits for you to get ready for lab after bringing you to your dorm.

"I said I'd volunteer to help with your research," he explains when you stare at him quizzically, shruging as if it's just obvious.

And you guess it is. He did say he'd do it.

Besides, getting a ride to lab does feel quite nice. The awkwardness and silences from that first week seem to be dissipating slowly after you two managed to actually enjoy being together at Lando's party, even if you didn't do much besides dance with your friends and let him put his arm around your back a few times. You ask about cricket, he asks about swimming. He tells you about his engineering degree and how excited he is to get a job in the market, and you tell him all about doing physical therapy as pre-med and about how much work you're putting into it. He listens. He asks questions.

You find yourself enjoying those few minutes between the pool and your dorm more than you ever did. Worst of all, you find yourself looking forward to the way he laughs.

You're not friends, per se. You barely text outside of quick "I'm here" or "waiting for you" messages when he comes to pick you up, and your conversations don't ever stray much from your sports and your classes.

But it's nice to talk to him normally, to talk without feeling like there's a ticking bomb waiting for you to start an argument. You don't even feel angry or irritated at him anymore, not even when he jokes around too much or says something stupid.

When you arrive, your colleagues are absolutely ecstatic that you’ve brought them what is, essentially, a lab rat. Piastri barely introduces himself before they have him hooked up to a bunch of wires, monitoring his body’s responses as they make him jump, run, and do a thousand little exercises, moving his arms this or that way, flexing his legs.

You have to admit his calm demeanor and politeness are somewhat captivating. He’s extremely nice to everyone in your lab, and he asks them for details and information on your research, which, as everyone knows, is enough to make any academic’s heart soar.

Oscar smiles softly at you whenever you’re the one to come check on his wires, tell him to move in a specific manner. He obeys solemnly, calling you “doctor” and chuckling when you roll your eyes at him, unable to mask your grin.

Your colleagues make him promise to come back in the following week. He laughs and agrees, planting a kiss on the top of your head and telling you to text him when you get home before leaving.

You still have a smile on your face after he's gone, making notes and studying the data with a lightness on your chest. When your professor clears her throat and your eyes meet hers, your face is bright.

"So, that was your boyfriend, huh?" She smiles knowingly, looking you up and down.

"Yeah," you smile back, glancing back at the numbers and lines on the lab computer, "you know me, I had to force him to volunteer."

She chuckles at your answer, leaning her hip against your work desk.

"I can tell he really likes you," you turn your face towards her again, "just by the way he looks at you. You've got that man hooked, Ms. L/N." She claps your shoulder. "Good luck with that data, let me know when you're done so I can look it over."

You try to smile back, try to take it in stride. She gives you a wink before walking away, asking someone else a question and leaving as if your heart wasn't breaking a little bit.

Oscar must be good at this pretending thing, if even your lab professor thinks he's in love with you. You do nothing but smile a little more at him and actually look him in the eye, while he's the one giving you cheek kisses, opening doors for you, and laughing at every joke you make.

You're not sure why it bothers you, but it does. A lot.

✶✶✶

Another week later, you're preparing for the first round of nationals.

And Oscar has started to visit your dorm.

The first time it happens, it's a Monday. During the ride back from the pool, he asks if it'd be a good day for him to volunteer at the lab again, because he did promise he'd come back and he isn't sure if he'll be able to do it another time. You tell him he can wait for you to get ready inside your dorm instead of outside, in the car. Your roommate is leaving for her morning classes when the two of you arrive and shoots you a knowing look when she closes the door behind her, but doesn't say anything.

You don't say anything either. You just let him into the messy room, let him sit on top of your bed and between your pillows, let him ask questions about some of the books on your desk.

He keeps coming back, starts coming in after swimming practice and driving you from your dorm to the physical therapy building as well. You start asking questions back. What's his favorite book, is his dorm also a little untidy, who's his favorite teacher.

You tell him about your lucky swimming cap — the only one you wear during tournaments, the one you can't compete without, the one you check your duffle bag for a million times before leaving your dorm on competition days.

He tells you he has a lucky pair of socks for cricket games.

"Do you wash them?" You ask him then, wrinkling your nose, a smirk on your lips.

"Only when we lose," an amused grin covers his face, and it opens up with laughter as you gag, throwing a pillow at him that he quickly catches.

"You're nasty," your whole face scrunches up with disgust, shaking your head as if trying to shake the information away.

"Hey!" He objects between chuckles, smile bright. "If it works, it works."

Around the same time, the lingering touches start. You suppose it makes sense, considering the fact you're technically dating.

Oscar starts sitting with you on the cafeteria, holding your hand on top of the table, leaning his shoulder into yours. The tender kisses don't stop, they increase in frequency — on your cheek while he waits for you to get into the car, on your forehead when he leaves you after lunch, on the top of your head while you're hanging out with others.

You don't go out on dates. You don't have to — everyone knows how busy your lives are, so no one questions the way you're never seen out for dinner. Even then, it feels adequate. You're seen together everywhere, and you actually show up to one or two cricket team night practices to watch them play and wait for him before he drives you back to your dorm after a hard day.

Neither of you mention the way his hand sometimes searches for yours while he drives. Neither of you mention the fact he kisses your cheek even when there's no one around.

You're not sure when Oscar Piastri went from your archnemesis to your sort of touchy friend. You're not sure when you started texting him about annoying teachers, boring assignments, muscle aches from swimming. But you do, and he answers every time — he entertains you, makes jokes, asks questions, complains about his own classes.

Oscar Piastri becomes your friend.

And he isn't there during the first round of nationals because the cricket team has a friendly game to practice for the semifinals in the following week, but he texts you a string of four-leaf clover emojis for good luck and asks you to send him a picture wearing your lucky cap, which you do with a big smile on your face.

Oscar is nice, and considerate, and funny, and charming. He's more on the quiet side, yes, but he's so expressive and attentive that you just can't help but think that, if he didn't steal the band so often and you hadn't developed a grudge from a misunderstanding, maybe you could've been friends through the entirety of your graduation years.

Maybe this could've been real.

You try not to dwell on these thoughts, but it's impossible. You can't stop yourself from looking forward to the small kisses, the hand holding, the hugs, the car rides, the lunches, the talking in your dorm. The lines become blurry — how much are you really friends, and how much is it just pretending?

✶✶✶

"So, you and Piastri, huh?"

You look up from your duffle bag, hair still dripping wet with pool water.

Alexandra stares at you from a few feet away inside the locker room, drying herself calmly. Some of the other girls chat, energized from a productive practice and the good results from the first round of nationals, and none of them pay attention to you.

You clear your throat.

"Yeah," you look back down, trying to find the clean shirt you know is somewhere among the mess of your belongings, "Piastri and me."

Alex closes her locker carefully before walking closer to you, tone careful.

"Why didn't you tell me anything? I mean, you're my best friend, and I never thought—" she furrows her eyebrows in something between frustration and confusion, "I guess I just didn't see it coming."

"Oh, come on," you try to smile it off, finally picking up your shirt and standing straight to look back at her again. Your chest clenches for a reason you can't quite explain, "why are you asking me that now? We've been together for, what, a month?"

"I have to admit I thought it was a joke," she crosses her arms, "you've never liked the guy, and you didn't mention it even once."

"Of course it's not a joke. I mean, if it was, why wouldn't I tell you?" You cross your arms again, feeling strangely defensive even though you knew from the start that it would be difficult to hide the truth from Alex and Kika, specially Alex.

They knew everything about you. Why didn't they know you had been apparently seeing Oscar Piastri for an entire month before the two of you were officially dating? You didn't have an answer for that. They would've known if it was real.

"I don't know. Why didn't you tell me you were going out with him?" Her eyebrows furrow further, asking the exact question you don't kno how to answer. "I just don't understand why you kept it a secret. It's not like I would judge you or tell anyone or anything. You know that, right?"

"Of course I know that," your fingers tighten over the shirt they're holding, "I—it was just complicated. I didn't know if it was just a casual thing, you know?" You lean into the excuse you and Oscar had thought of weeks ago. "And he was too preoccupied with his degree and cricket and everything. I didn't want to make a big deal out of it if it wasn't anything serious."

"Oh, please," Alex rolls her eyes, "are you kidding? If you guys have always looked at each other the way you do, there's no way you thought it could be casual."

For a second, your entire body tenses, brain sending out sirens inside your head. You blink, and Alex looks at you expectantly.

"I—hum—what do you mean?" is all you can muster, feeling your face grow warm.

"You're joking, right?" She stares at you like you're stupid. You feel like it. "That man looks at you as if you hung the sun, the moon, and the stars in the sky. Whenever he has lunch with us, he just has eyes for you the entire time. Even when other people are speaking, he just keeps stealing glances at you. And you may not even notice, but he goes bright red whenever you smile at him. And the door opening? The cheek kisses? You cannot fool me into thinking you ever thought it could be casual when he's clearly head over heels for you."

A beat passes by. You just stare.

"And that's not even mentioning the way you look at him," she continues pointedly, "it's like he's the funniest, most brilliant person in the world, when, come on, he's nice, but he's still just Piastri."

"Oscar doesn't look at me like that," you answer late, mouth not quite catching up with your thoughts.

But did he? You never noticed. Did he look at you like that? Was he looking at you like that the whole time?

Was it even real? Did he look at you like that because he's supposed to be your boyfriend or because he actually couldn't help it?

No, it had to be because of your whole scheme. Oscar—Oscar was just now becoming your friend, he didn't—he couldn't—

Despite her growing irritation, Alex couldn't help but smile softly.

"He's really got you hooked, huh? I didn't think you'd ever be able to actually call him by his name."

Oh.

When did you start calling him Oscar? When did he become Oscar in your thoughts, and not just Piastri?

Did you look at him like that?

As if sensing your trouble, your phone starts to buzz. When you look down at it, laying on top of your open bag, his name pops up.

"He's... waiting for me outside," you stare up at Alex again. "I need to change and go."

"Look, you're my best friend," she repeats, small smile falling, "I just feel like there's something weird in all this, and I want you to know you can count on me, okay? I wanna hear all about this love story of yours. I just—I'm just really confused, honestly. Why didn't you say anything before you two started dating?"

Your phone buzzes again. You lean down to grab your bag, gesturing randomly towards the door.

"I'm gonna go change. I'll see you tomorrow."

"Why are you leaving like this?" She calls out, but you're already moving.

"I'm not," you call back, walking backwards so you can look at her, "I just can't do this right now."

You disappear before you can hear her response.

Ten minutes later, you're inside Oscar's car. He looks you up and down, your hair still dripping wet after running out without properly drying it, your eyebrows furrowed in deep thought, your mouth a straight line.

"Is everything okay?" He asks as he closes his door and starts the car.

"Alex cornered me to ask why I kept our relationship a secret from her."

You watch the way Oscar tenses.

"What did you say?"

"I didn't say anything," you shrug, looking out the window, "I sort of just ran away and left her at the locker room."

He snorts at that, and even though you still feel tense, you can't help but smile at the sound.

"Why would you run away?" He asks with amusement, shaking his head.

"I didn't know what to say!" You throw your arms up and, despite yourself, you feel the panic and discomfort from the conversation with Alex wash away in his presence, smile lingering on your lips.

"You could just tell her what sounds more believable," he suggests, but the smirk on his lips makes your eyes narrow teasingly, "that you fell for my unbelievable charm."

You laugh and he grins, glancing at you from the driver's seat.

"Oscar, no one would ever believe that."

You move your eyes from the window to his face, finding his own eyes mid-glance towards you. He sees your smile.

For the first time, you notice the way his cheeks turn pink.

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

When Oscar parks his car in front of your dorm building on Saturday, you’re already waiting for him, face warm as you watch him grab his phone to text you, barely aware of your figure standing outside. He’s usually the one who waits for you.

You watch him look towards the sidewalk lazily. You notice that he’s already in his cricket uniform, shoulders straight, ready for the game. His demeanor is calm, but you’ve heard him grumble enough to know how important this is to him — how much he wants to win.

The moment his eyes meet yours, you watch him blank, skin growing impossibly red as he looks you up and down.

You’re wearing his jersey. His number. His name on your back.

The moment Oscar sees you, he’s usually out of the car, opening the passenger door. This time, he stares. You almost feel self-conscious under his wide gaze, his mouth open, expression painted with surprise and something you can’t quite read.

For a moment, you think it’s awe.

You aren’t sure that's not just wishful thinking.

He snaps out of it when you start walking towards the car, stumbling over himself as he climbs out of the driver’s seat to open your door. His fingers touch the small of your back as you turn it to him while you get inside, and it sends an electric current through your spine. He closes the car door and walks over to get into his seat.

Oscar sits down, turns his head to stare at you again, skin bright red, eyes wide. You feel yourself shrink under his intense gaze.

“Do you… not like it?”

His eyes widen even further.

“What? No, I—hum—you—that’s my—hum—” somehow, his face grows even redder, and he clears his throat before speaking again, finally taking his stare away from you. “You look great. I’m—yeah. I love it,” he starts the engine and grips the steering wheel so hard his knuckles turn white. Your eyebrows furrow slightly, but a feeling akin to amusement starts to crawl up your throat, warmth creeping up your chest. “How—where—”

“I asked Norris if you guys had a spare jersey so I could surprise you,” you answer calmly, watching the way his jaw works, the way he stares straight ahead as the car starts to move. “He told me he had the perfect one.”

He looks flustered.

And, God, you enjoy it. You savor it. It makes your heart soar.

Oscar Piastri is gripping the wheel, deep scarlet, stumbling over his words because of you.

You don’t dwell on what it means. You try not to think too hard about it or about how much you like it. But you notice the way he keeps stealing glances, the way his neck burns red whenever he looks at you, the way he can barely speak the entire drive.

Oscar Piastri is your archnemesis.

“Beautiful, loving, and supportive girlfriend, huh?” You tease after a couple of minutes, turning your head to look at him. Somehow, his face turns an even deeper red.

“Shut up,” he mumbles in response, unable to hide his sheepish grin when you cackle at his answer.

And it's at that moment that you realize it, sitting on the passenger seat, watching him grin, wearing his colors, his jersey, his number, wishing he had his hand on your thigh the same way he did when the two of you gave Kika a ride after practice on Wednesday.

That moment while he groans something about annoying swimmer getting on my nerves and glances your way just to find you already studying him, while his fingers flex against the steering wheel, while he looks you up and down and blushes again at the sight.

It hits you hard, makes your breath catch, turns the corners of your vision fuzzy.

You're not sure when it happened, you're not sure how. You could barely stand him and, a month later, he's the one who makes you laugh, who gets you to relax after tense days with a cheek kiss and the sound of his voice as he drives you around. A month ago he was just Piastri.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Oscar Piastri, who has pissed you off at every given opportunity since freshman year, who stole band every Sunday, who was never anything but annoying.

Oscar Piastri, who sits on the desk chair inside your dorm and catches every pillow you throw at him.

Oscar Piastri, who the colleagues in your lab adore and call their favorite volunteer.

Oscar Piastri, who smiles at you and lets his hand linger on the small of your back and kisses your forehead to say goodbye — never your mouth, because you told him not to. Never your mouth, and he still manages to make the soft kisses against your temple feel more intimate than any make out session you've ever had.

Fucking Oscar Piastri. Just Oscar.

You're not faking anymore.

✶✶✶

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yourusername MY BOY IS GOING TO FINALS BABYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYYY (still unsure how this sport works tbh)

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↳ kimiantonelli hoping the swimming gods listen to you

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✶✶✶

You're very particular about competition days, and Oscar Piastri being attached to your hip feels like the weirdest and most welcomed disruption in the entire world.

He carries your bag for you while you find the rest of your team, cleans your swimming goggles when you aren't looking, kisses the top of your head softly before you put your lucky cap on, squeezes your hand when he finally has to leave your side.

None of it feels fake and most of it happens when you're sure no one else is looking. None of Oscar's friends are here to take note of how kind and caring he is towards you, except Charles and Pierre, who are both too busy with their own girlfriends.

It makes the soft spot he's been carving for himself inside you bigger.

The band is there, yes, but his cheering is the loudest thing you hear whenever your head comes up for air.

He doesn't need to do all of that. He does it anyway.

You don't dominate — the team does well enough, managing a few podiums, but no wins.

It's not the best prospect for the final round. You know so. The team knows so. You speak briefly about it, tell them it was good enough, that you'll train harder and do better next round.

Even then, Oscar hugs you close when you can finally go up to him, already out of your swimsuit and into warm clothes, pressing a kiss against your temple, and you feel any worry in your body melt away.

"You guys did amazing," he reassures as he holds you close, and you snort.

"You don't know much about swimming," you retort, but there's no bite to it.

"Well, I know the front crawl categories are only in the final round, and that's your specialty, right?"

You smile softly against his shoulder, breathing him in for a second before taking a step back.

"We'll see," you sigh as his hands linger on your arms, thumbs circling slightly, "it's a shame you won't be there. You were almost louder than the band."

Oscar chuckles at your teasing, and you almost miss the way his skin turns pink as he looks away from you, putting his hand on your back and starting to guide you towards the exist.

"About that, there's been talk about bringing the cricket finals forward by a week or so. I'd be—well, I'd be free to come, then."

You blink at him, but his eyes stay straight ahead.

"What? Isn't that really uncommon? Why would they do that? Did something happen?"

He clears his throat.

"I asked."

You blink at him again, stopping right in place. He takes a single step before he notices and turns to you.

"You asked?" You repeat, eyebrows furrowing, heartbeat skyrocketing.

"I did," he answers sheepishly, hand coming up to scratch at the back of his neck, "I just—I'd like to be there. For the final round. And I'd like you to be there for the cricket finals as well."

You feel the air leave your lungs, heart ramming against your ribcage. He finally meets your gaze, and the look in his eyes is so intense you feel worried your legs might give out underneath you.

"Why?" Your voice cracks in the middle of the word, and his eyes turn impossibly soft. The sight makes your heart flip inside your chest, fingers trembling.

"You know why," is his quiet answer, hand reaching out so his fingertips touch yours, sending an electric current through your body while he keeps looking at you like that — like there's no one else in the entire world, like this is the most important thing ever, like this is real.

You open your mouth to speak when Franco calls your name from a couple of feet away.

The two of you look towards the sound to see Franco, Kimi, Alex, and Charles walking your way. You ignore the way Alex's eyes narrow, try not to remember she can probably read your expression like a book.

"Captain!" Kimi smiles as the four of them come to a halt in front of the two of your, "the band invited us to grab a bite together after this. Do you wanna come? Piastri too, obviously."

"I—yeah, sure, why not," you let out a breathy laugh, chest feeling impossibly tight. You can't get yourself to look at him properly, body tingling at the way you can feel him stare at you. "Oscar?"

He clears his throat again, but his voice comes out raspy. "Yeah, yeah, of course."

If anyone notices the tension between you, they don't mention it. Kimi asks if Oscar could give him and some of the other freshmen a ride, and you don't say anything while your fake boyfriend, who apparently asked the cricket organization to reschedule the final game's date for you, drives you and a bunch of freshmen to a restaurant nearby.

Neither of you mention it afterwards either, when he drives you home and the two of you are quiet for the entire drive.

You don't let him open the door for you when he parks in front of your dorm building — you almost throw yourself out of the car, ignoring the way he calls your name as you grab your duffle bag and speedwalk to your building.

You don't go straight to your dorm. Your mind is racing and you don't want to interact with your roommate right now, so you sit down in the building's empty lobby and breathe.

And then you do something you don't expect yourself to do.

You call Alexandra.

✶✶✶

"Why the fuck would he ask you to fake date him?"

"I don't know!" You throw your hands in the air, hair still sticky with pool water as Alex stares at you from the other side of the screen, shaking her head in disbelief. "He said he wanted his friends to stop annoying him about being married to cricket or something like that."

"I don't buy that for a second," she rolls her eyes, "why would he ask you of all people? No offense, but it's not like you guys had a good relationship or anything."

"I don't know, okay?" You repeat, throwing yourself back on the lobby's couch. "I don't know. I just wanted the damn band, and then he had to—I don't know, open every door for me and kiss my cheek. I don't know."

"Okay," you can hear her breathe deeply, "okay. I guess the reasoning behind it doesn't matter anymore. You're in love with him."

Your cheeks grow warm.

"I think 'love' is too strong a word, Alex."

"Is it now?" She rolls her eyes again. "If it's just a crush or whatever, why are you freaking out?"

"I'm not freaking out."

"Sure."

A quiet beat passes by.

"What are you gonna do?"

You sigh, closing your eyes tightly, hand coming up to your forehead.

What are you going to do?

"I don't know. Maybe I should call it off?"

"Maybe you should tell him."

Your eyes open wide and you sit up on the couch, glaring at the image of Alexandra on your screen.

"Are you insane? I can never do that."

You watch her shrug.

"Why not?"

"It's all fake, Alexandra," you answer as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, "he's gonna think I'm fucking crazy."

"You are fucking crazy," she points out, not even reacting to the way you huff, "you accepted to fake date a guy you couldn't stand just for band privilege and then proceeded to fall in love with him. That's fucking crazy."

"Thanks," your tone is bitter, but she takes it in stride.

"But he's even crazier for asking you in the first place, for doing all of this. I think you should tell him."

You sigh again.

"I don't know. He's become sort of a friend, you know? I don't want to make things weird as fuck."

"Things will be weird as fuck regardless when you fake break up. Things are already weird as fuck now," you chuckle humorlessly, and her voice softens, "look, I told you that day in the locker room—he looks at you like you're the only person in the whole world. You're telling me he's changing game dates for you when you know doing that is a pain in the ass—for fuck's sake, he probably likes you too and this hasn't been fake for a while."

Another quiet beat passes by as you roll her words over inside your head.

“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” She finally asks when you don’t answer, a hint of hurt on her tone.

“Oscar said you’d probably tell Charles, and Charles would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone. Afterwards, everything felt too complicated.”

Alex offers you a sad chuckle.

“I—well—maybe.” She sighs. “I won’t tell anyone now, though. Not when I know what you actually feel for him.”

You sigh back.

“Thank you.”

✶✶✶

You don’t tell him.

You can't. Whenever you try, his eyes meet yours, and it feels like throwing a rock on a dormant volcano, like taking something good and staining it.

You don’t tell him on Tuesday, when he picks you up after swimming practice and the two of you have gone back to sharing awkward silences. He doesn’t come up to your dorm when he drops you off. You don’t ask him to.

You don’t tell him the following days, when he tries to start a conversation and every one of your answers feel hollow, even when you don’t mean them to.

You have a couple of weeks before the season is over and this scheme ends. The thought hits you like a truck, almost harder than the realization that you had feelings for him in the first place — how is it gonna be after it’s done? Are you supposed to pretend it never happened? To act like friends? To act like it hadn’t become real for you? How would you tell your friends that things between the two of you are done? How would you tell yourself?

These questions haunt your every waking moment to the point you can barely look at him.

So you don’t tell him. And you just hum in acknowledgement when he mentions that they did bring the cricket finals forward, so he’ll be able to watch you swim during the final round of nationals, and you keep not inviting him up to your dorm and slipping out of the car before he can react.

And it's supposed to be fine, right? Because you couldn't stand him before, and it's all fake, and it's stupid to be upset by it.

Except you are upset, and none of it feels fake, and you actually miss the fragile friendship you were building before everything seemed to go wrong.

(And was it even fragile, really? It didn't feel fragile when he made you laugh so much your eyes got teary, when you smiled at each other inside his car, when he held your hand, when he kissed your face, when he spent time with you in your dorm, in the lab, around campus. Was all of that fragile? You aren't sure.)

What you don't expect is for Oscar to be waiting for you with a bouquet of baby's breath and red tulips, feet tapping against the concrete as he stands next to his car when he shows up to pick you up for the cricket finals.

"Oscar..." you sigh deeply at the sight, and your chest clenches when his face falls at your tone.

You’re wearing his jersey again, his name hanging from your back like it means something. It does mean something.

He notices it immediately — eyes traveling up and down your figure, face growing pink despite the awkwardness of it all. He clears his throat before speaking, arm already moving to open the passenger door for you.

“Ready?”

You swallow dryly before nodding.

Less than a couple of minutes later, the two of you sit in dead silence as he starts the car. You look down at your flowers.

Baby's breath and red tulips. You can't help but notice that, once again, he didn't go for plain roses — which would've been fine and were just what you expected. You didn't even expect him to actually meet your "flowers once per month" requirement.

But, God, he met every requirement and then some.

“So,” Oscar clears his throat again, bringing your attention back to him, “are you excited?”

You hum. “I—yeah. Are you?”

“Yes,” he nods with so much intensity you can’t stop a small smile from forming on your lips, “We have worked really hard to get here.”

“You have,” and it’s so awkward it pains you after an entire month of easy conversation, exchanged smiles, loud laughing. “You’ll do great.”

“Are you okay?” The words blurt out of him as if they’ve been lodged in his throat for a week, which they probably have been. “You’ve—you’ve been… Distant. All week.”

“I’m fine,” is your firm answer, leaving so little room for question that Oscar only manages to glance at you before focusing back on the road.

The rest of the drive is spent in awkward, awful silence. You study your flowers — fresh, bright, sweet, beautiful, so much more than you ever expected. He studies you — wearing his jersey, so close yet so far away, quiet in a way you haven’t been in weeks.

When you arrive at the cricket field, he opens your door for you and tells you to leave the flowers inside the car so you don’t have to carry them around. You place them down carefully, trying not to damage the petals or the leaves, and you walk side by side until you have to part ways — Oscar, towards the rest of his team, you, towards the bleachers.

As usual, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek as goodbye. There’s no one there to see it. Your hand reaches out for his.

“Good luck,” you say quietly, squeezing his fingers against yours, “you’ll do great.”

He nods once, game nerves starting to build underneath his skin. He kisses your forehead this time. There’s still no one there to see it.

“I’ll see you after the game.”

“Okay,” you hum, pulling him for a quick hug before you slip away towards the stands.

The match starts less than half an hour later. You sit close to the band, so low on the stands you’re basically level with the field, a couple of feet away from the grass. You wave to Leclerc before leaning forward as the game starts. 

Oscar and the others start fielding, which you’ve learned means they need to keep the other team from scoring. Oscar yells out orders and directions as they move across the field — you watched him do it during the semifinals, and it still feels weird to see him change like that. Your soft-spoken Oscar, taking command of the team with so much naturality no one can even question it.

When it’s finally their turn to bat, your body is so tense from the expectation you can barely breathe. You know Oscar tends to be one of the last few batters, but even from the bench he calls out to his teammates, cheering when they bat well, cheering when they score another run.

You find yourself cheering as well, singing alongside the band, rooting as Lando manages to score 4 runs and Ollie scores 3. There are a few times when Oscar turns to look at the stands from his spot on the bench. You meet his gaze and he smiles, nervous but excited.

It takes quite a few minutes before Oscar gets back on the field. He’s wearing a jersey that looks exactly like yours, helmet well positioned on top of his head. You cheer louder when he steps on the grass, and he turns to look back at you. You shoot him a thumbs up and, even though everything is weird and awkward, he still grins.

And you still cheer.

His teammate bats first. The two of them manage to cross each other 3 times before the other guy gets bowled out, and your eyes keep traveling to the scoreboard.

As well as the team has done, they’re still outscored by 5 runs. As Oscar prepares to bat, you hold your breath. You’re already rolling the motivational speech inside your head — you guys did great, second place is still amazing, you’ll get it next year — when Oscar hits the ball.

And it flies outside of the oval field.

You don’t know much about cricket. You know it has some similarities to baseball. And you know what a fucking home run looks like.

You’re already screaming when the bench and the bleachers explode in cheers, the six points effectively winning Oscar the cricket championship.

It takes a couple of minutes before the referee declares the end of the match, and you watch with a grin as the players on the bench run towards the field, jumping on top of each other as they celebrate the win. The band claps and cheers beside you, and you glance at them before looking back towards the field and seeing Oscar running straight towards you.

Your heartbeat picks up immediately, and you’re already standing up, already leaning on the barrier that separates the audience from the cricket field when he reaches you, hands coming up to your waist as he pulls you towards him, hugging you tight.

His uniform is damp with sweat, and he holds you for a few seconds before jumping over the barrier, getting dangerously close, fingers reaching up towards your jaw, eyes looking down at your mouth before looking back up into your eyes.

You expect him to just do it. You told him he could, right at the start of this mess, if they won the championship. When they won, he had corrected you.

Instead, he whispers, out of air, his breath caressing your lips, “can I?”

The question undoes you in a way you could never prepare yourself for. It makes your heart burn, your skin flush, your body tingle, and you barely feel yourself moving — you just watch it happen. Your hands come up to the collar of his jersey, and, in a second, you’re pulling him in, shoving your mouth against his with an urgency you’ve never felt before in your life.

The world melts away. You can only feel Oscar’s hands on your jaw, then on your waist, then tangling in your hair. His firm body presses against yours, and he tastes of salt and sweat, and you don’t want it to end.

It lasts a second, a minute, an hour. Either way, it’s not enough.

When he pulls away, your lips follow, chasing his. It’s the cheering from the team that snaps you back into reality, the hoots and delighted laughs that make your cheeks burn red as the boys start clapping each other on the back, throwing cricket balls at Oscar in celebration.

You let out a laugh that comes out like a breath, and he grins boyishly at you in a way that turns everything around you golden — his hair, his eyes, the sky, the feeling in your chest. He kisses your cheek tenderly before turning towards the team, jumping the barrier again and throwing himself at them. You smile as they all bump into each other, jumping in place and cheering.

After that, time stretches. You chat with Charles as the boys go into their locker rooms to shower and change, and, when they come out, you hear them talk about throwing a celebration party next Friday, about Instagram posts and trophies and the next season. 

Oscar smiles warmly at you when he reaches you again, pulling you against his side as he says goodbye to the others and starts guiding you towards his car, hand lingering on the small of your back.

The flowers are still waiting for you on the passenger seat when he opens your door. You take them carefully, placing them on your lap as he walks around the car, slips in, and starts the engine.

He starts speaking as soon as the car starts, going nonstop about the game and how fun it was and how happy he is that they won, that you were there, that the band was there, that they’re the cricket champions. You smile brightly at his enthusiasm, but then something inside you dims.

The season is over.

He doesn’t notice the change in you until he parks the car right by your dorm building. When he does, he seems to quiet down as well, studying you hesitantly before asking for the first time since you stopped inviting him, “can I go up with you?”

You release a tired sigh, unable to look at him, focusing on the flowers on your lap.

“You don’t have to, Oscar,” your voice is quiet, sorrowful, “the season is over.”

It hits him at that moment, his face falling before his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“No, it’s not. You still have the final round of nationals next weekend.”

“Oscar,” it sounds like begging, but you don’t know how else to say it, “the deal was for you. The season ended for you. We don’t need to drag this for another week,” your eyes sting, “it’s over.”

An awful silence takes over the car. The two of you just sit there, and you feel something like grief settle in your chest.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet, tentative. “It doesn’t have to be.”

Your head snaps up to look at him, face contorting with warning. “Oscar.”

"Can we talk? Upstairs?"

His words sound so raw, so vulnerable, that it makes something inside you break.

"Please?" He adds, and it just makes everything worse.

You sigh again, voice as quiet as his.

"Okay."

Tension builds between the two of you during the elevator ride up to your dorm, and you let out a relieved sigh when you see your roommate isn’t home for the day, leaving the small room empty.

You're still holding onto your flowers as you sit down on your bed, side by side, your fingers gripping the green stems as he turns his head to look at you.

"So," he starts after a few seconds of awkward quiet, "what's up with you?"

You blink at the question.

"Nothing," you answer, and you can taste the lie on your tongue.

"No, it's not nothing," he shakes his head in denial, eyebrows furrowing, studying you intently — the way your body is tense, the way your knuckles hold the flowers, the way you keep avoiding his gaze. "We were doing fine, and now you can't even look at me. Back there — we kissed, and for a second it felt like everything was fine and we could be friends, at least, and then you start talking about ending things and being distant again. What's wrong? I feel like I'm dating a ghost."

"Well, except you're not dating anyone, right? Maybe that's the problem."

Oscar blinks down at you.

"What?"

"We're not dating," you answer, gripping the stems so tight you can feel its ridges marking your palm and fingers, "that's the problem. I—," you stop yourself, face growing hot with embarrassment.

In a moment, his entire demeanor changes. His body tenses up, his fingers flex against his thighs.

"Why?" He leans towards you with so much intensity you can't help but meet his stare, heartbeat picking up at his eagerness, the way his expression seems to beg for something you can barely understand. His voice is low, and it sends a pleasant shiver through your spine. "Why is that the problem?"

"You know why," your voice cracks right down the middle, and you swallow dryly, "you know why," you repeat, clearly this time, breath hitching as he leans even closer.

"I—," he answers quietly, and you can't take your eyes away from him, from the way he looks back at you. He clears his throat, "don't do this to me."

"Don't do what?" You whisper in return, suddenly hyper aware of how close he is.

"Don't— don't make it sound—," Oscar shakes his head almost as if he's waking himself up, leaning away from you. You let out a breath as space grows between you. "Why haven't you been talking to me? Why have you been ignoring me for the entire week?"

You sigh deeply, finally able to look the other way.

"I got too attached," you admit, hands fidgeting with the flowers before you sigh again and stand up to lay the bouquet on your desk. "I didn't—I don't know how to deal with that."

You left the bed hoping it would help with the weird tension hovering around the room. It doesn't.

He stands up, following you around the dorm, and, when you turn your back to your desk, he's right there, arms crossed, looking down at you. He's not as close as he was before, but he's close enough to make your heartbeat skyrocket again.

"And why didn't you say anything? Why did you let me kiss you like that if you—if that’s how you feel?"

"You know why," you say for the third time, fingers gripping the edge of your desk table. "I didn’t want to ruin it when it’s so close to ending. I didn't want to—"

"Admit it wasn't fake anymore?"

You stop. You stare at him. He stares back.

"Yeah."

He lets out a shaky breath.

"You mean that?"

He looks uncertain, almost hopeful. Something about it makes your heart burn inside your chest, quiet but insistent. It feels like it's meant to happen — like every road, every argument, every smile, every touch, every laugh led to this, to this moment, to the way Oscar stares at you as if you're holding his heart in your palm, as if he's begging you not to crush it.

And he's holding yours in his.

"Yes," your answer comes out like a prayer, airy and fearful, "I haven't been faking it for a while."

He chuckles quietly, and the sound turns your insides molten. His hand comes up to your jaw just like it had in the cricket field, and he cradles your face hesitantly, afraid of being pushed away.

"I don't think I was ever faking it at all,"  he confesses, and your breath hitches when his nose touches yours, "I think I've been in love with you since freshman year, when we talked at that cocktail party and I spent weeks wishing for you to call."

You watch him intently. He breathes in deeply.

"You swept me off my feet the day we met and I just couldn't get over it, even when we didn't get along well. I guess the reason I even asked you to pretend to be my girlfriend is because I couldn't imagine even pretending to have feelings for someone else."

You smile softly and watch the way his cheeks turn pink at the sight. It immediately weakens any resolve you might have, any doubt, any fear.

"Good", is all you whisper in return, and then you slot your lips against his once more.

This time, it isn’t urgent, quick, or rushed. Oscar sighs into your mouth, and the feeling sends sparks down your spine and up your neck, something hot and sweet running through your veins.

He hums when your fingers come up to tangle themselves in his hair, and the hand that isn't holding your jaw moves to your waist, gripping you firmly but delicately, strongly but carefully.

His lips travel down to your neck, leaving a burning trail on their wake, and you tug at his hair lightly, making him sigh again.

"So much for 'no kissing', huh?" He mumbles against your neck, and you can't help the snort that leaves you before your hands move to his collar, pulling him away from your neck so you can look at him.

"Shut the fuck up, Piastri," and then your mouth is on his again, feeling the way he smiles cheekily against you and then feeling the way his smile dissolves as your tongue touches his lip.

He sighs once more when your tongue touches his, arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer. Your bodies collide, and you can feel every inch of your skin burning.

You kiss him again and again and again until both your lips are red and swollen, until his hands travel under your shirt, until his hair sticks up in five different directions.

You can't stop yourself. You don't want to.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Oscar Piastri, in love with you since freshman year.

Oscar Piastri, kissing the air out of your lungs, holding you close, sending sparks through your body.

Oh, you're in too deep.

✶✶✶

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There are plenty of things Steve regrets—a running list that gnaws at him in the quiet hours, the kind of thoughts that coil around his ribs and squeeze just enough to remind him they’re there.

He regrets his high school persona, with a shame so visceral it still makes his fucking skin crawl; God, the hair gel alone should’ve been classified as a war crime. He thinks about it when he passes the Hawkins High parking lot, when he catches a whiff of that godawful Axe body spray Dustin insists on dousing himself in, and when some old classmate gives him that look—the one that says,  I remember who you used to be.

But this?

This isn’t regret. No, that's too small, too flimsy a word for the way his chest caves in when he catches the scent of your perfume already clinging to his shirt. The vibration of your hum—low, amused, content—as you agree with something Robin says (fuck, what was Robin even talking about? Politics? Movies? That weird new video game?) travels straight through his chest like the most beautiful kind of devastation.  You’re right there, tucked against his side like you belong there, your warmth seeping into him like he’d hollowed out a space in his torso just for you. It’s not regret that winds around his throat like a noose he’d gladly tighten himself.

He regrets not visiting Aunt Cathy in Little Rock before she passed. She’d sent him those lumpy handmade sweaters every Christmas, each one uglier than the last, and he’d never even thanked her properly. Just a grumbled "Thanks, I guess" tossed into the receiver during some obligatory holiday phone call, already distracted by whatever party he was missing. Now, the last one she ever made—a pea-green monstrosity with lopsided orange reindeer, mustard-yellow accents that could blind a man, and sleeves so long they swallow his hands whole—sits neatly folded in his bottom drawer. He can’t bring himself to wear it. Can’t bring himself to get rid of it, either.

He regrets getting careless last summer, leaving that half-smoked joint on his nightstand like an idiot before his parents got back from Tokyo. His father’s lecture about "the dangers of marijuana" had been particularly rich coming from a man who kept Cuban cigars locked in a humidor like they were fucking crown jewels. (Not that Steve cared. Not that he ever cared what that man thought—except, well. Except.)

But those were warm-up acts.

Minor-league regrets.

The main event? 

The heavyweight champion of his fuck-ups?

The gold medal, hall of fame, once-in-a-lifetime screwup that’ll haunt him to his grave?

This.

This is one of those moments people invent time machines to undo. The kind of mistake that makes men swear off alcohol, religion, and women all at once. There’s a fire somewhere inside him, but it’s not the good kind—not the warm, crackling hearth of something real. It’s the sputtering, desperate flame of a match held too close to skin, the kind that leaves blisters if you’re not careful. His brain has rehearsed this moment so often that muscle memory takes over as his thoughts are stuck. He still interjects at the right moments, laughs at the right beats, and plays the perfect doting boyfriend with terrifying precision. The irony is a blade twisting inside him: after so long of pretending not to love you, now he’s being judged on his performance of pretending to.

God, Robin really has the uncanny ability to turn his world upside down without even meaning to. When she first brought it up, her words had been going a mile a minute, tripping over each other like a drunk gymnast, her mouth running faster than her brain, and he should’ve known right then:

Category Five Disaster.

Code Red.

Abandon All Hope, Ye Who Enter Here.

"—so… I suggested we could go on a double date to make it more, y’know, casual." Her grin hadn’t wavered, even as you blinked at her, slow and uncertain. "What does this have to do with us, Robs?" you finally asked, voice laced with the same wary suspicion that was crawling up Steve’s spine like a particularly persistent spider. 

"Because you're the ones we're going on a double date with, duh!" She had beamed, absurdly pleased with herself, looking for all the world like she’d just solved cold fusion. "Whoa, whoa, whoa."  He had cut in, holding up a hand like a traffic cop. His pulse hammering—a wild, traitorous thing. He had shoved it back down into the dark where it belonged. "I don't know what delusional world you've been living in, Buckley, but we—" He jabbed a finger between you and himself with more force than necessary, "—are not dating."

The words tasted like acid on his tongue, burning all the way down.

Which was stupid.

Because it’s the truth. 

You’re not dating.

You’ve never dated.

Except in his head.

And it's fine.

Totally, completely, achingly fine.

Except—

Except for the way his breath stutters in his chest when morning light catches you just right, turning your features golden and ethereal like some Renaissance painting he’s not devout enough to worship.

Except for the way he’s painstakingly catalogued every variation of your laugh—the inelegant snort you immediately try to smother with your hand, the full-bodied one that makes you double over and clutch your stomach, the quiet, private chuckle you reserve exclusively for his dumbest jokes, and the one that somehow makes him feel like he’s won the goddamn lottery.

And now Robin wanted him to casually drape his arm over your shoulders like he had any right to touch you so familiarly?

To press a kiss to your temple and act like his heart isn’t trying to beat its way out of his chest like it’s making a prison break?

To call you "sweetheart" with all the easy affection he’s been choking back for months, the pet names piling up behind his teeth like an infatuated dragon hoarding woeful treasure?

That wouldn’t just be dangerous—that's downright suicidal.

It’s handing a loaded gun to his weakest impulses and praying he has the self-control not to pull the trigger.

But he’s backed into a corner with no exits, no clever quips, and no patented Steve Harrington Charm™ that can talk his way out of this.  If he refuses, Robin’s going to poke and prod like a determined archaeologist at a dig site until she uncovers the pathetic fossil of his crush, dusting it off for the whole world to see. If he agrees…

Christ.

He might as well just drop to one knee right here in the food court, ring made from a soda tab, and confess every embarrassing, lovesick thought that’s kept him awake at 3 a.m. for months. 

"—come onnnn, you two both owe me one!"  Robin had continued to whine, limbs flailing so dramatically she nearly sent her Diet Coke flying. Her foot connected with Steve’s shin under the table—a sharp kick that would’ve hurt if his entire nervous system wasn’t already short-circuiting. He shoved her away with a grumble that did nothing to hide the panic clawing up his throat. So he fixed her with his best withering glare—but it looked more like a man facing the gallows. "This isn’t the same as eating the last of the takeout, Robs."

"Oh, but it is," she countered, stabbing a finger in his direction with enough force to displace air molecules. "You literally stole my last egg roll—which, by the way, was clearly marked with my initials—"  (Steve mouthed 'psycho' at you over his shoulder — because seriously, who the hell initials their egg rolls? His reward was that poorly suppressed grin of yours, the one that makes his stomach perform acrobatics worthy of Cirque du Soleil. The way your lips quirk unevenly, one side rising higher than the other in that lopsided smile he's come to crave, eyes crinkling at the corners like you're trying to contain sunlight — he could write sonnets about that expression if he knew anything about poetry beyond what he'd skimmed in senior English) "—you said, and I quote," Robin went on as she adopted a terrible impression of his voice, all lowered pitch and exaggerated bravado," 'I'll pay you back someday.' Well, guess what, Harrington? Today is someday."

And yeah, okay, maybe he had said that. In his defence, he was running on three hours of sleep and enough caffeine to kill a horse, and Robin had been mid-panic spiral about never finding love. But this? This was way beyond their usual favour economy of borrowed five-dollar bills and shitty closing shifts — this was playing Russian roulette with his heart as the bullet.

"And you," Robin whirled on you next with the terrifying focus of a bloodhound catching a scent, accusation dripping from her pointed finger. "Promised to help me 'get the girl' after the whole Dallas Cowboys cheerleader fiasco. This," she declared, slapping both hands on the sticky food court table with finality, "is me collecting."

Your mouth fell open in protest—tongue darting out to wet your lips in that unconscious gesture that's starred in approximately seven hundred of his late-night fantasies—before snapping shut again as you came up empty. He watched the debate play out across your features: the furrow between your brows, the way your teeth worried at your bottom lip. Every expression was a language he'd become fluent in without meaning to. Steve could practically hear the gears turning in your head, the same way they were grinding in his own skull.

His gaze flickers to you—always to you, like a compass finding true north even when he wishes it wouldn’t. God, what heinous acts did he commit in a past life to deserve this particular hell?  You and Robin are his best friends—his people. The ones who stayed up with him getting high and laughing at shitty B-movies, your thighs pressed together on the couch until the lines between friends and something more blurred in the haze of weed and sleep deprivation. He still remembers the way your head eventually lolled against his shoulder, how he’d sat there, paralysed by the possibilities. 

You’re the ones who were there for him when he shattered after his parents’ last nuclear fight, when the silence in that too-big house threatened to drown him. Your arms around his shaking shoulders, your voice soft in his“ ear—“You’re better than they’ll ever be, Steve.”

He’d almost kissed you that night.

Almost.

The memory still haunts him like a ghost he can’t exorcise: your face tilted toward his in the dim glow of the porch light, your breath hitching when his thumb brushed your cheek. For one reckless second, he’d let himself truly imagine it—closing the distance, swallowing your gasp, letting the dam break.

You've seen him at his worst—red-eyed and ugly with grief—and you stayed. Wrapped yourself around him like human armour against the world, your heartbeat steady against his back when his own couldn't find its rhythm. That alone should have been enough. Should have cauterised this stupid crush before it took root like some invasive weed cracking through concrete. Should have reminded him that what you have is too precious to risk for something as reckless, as temporary, as fleeting as romance. But then came that first perfidious flutter in his stomach months ago, that stupid, hopeful zing when your laughter curled around him like smoke from one of Robin's clove cigarettes—sweet and intoxicating and impossible to ignore. He'd written it off immediately as his brain's latest attempt to ruin something good (a speciality of his, really), except the feeling didn't fade. It grew, fed by every accidental touch and lingering glance until it became something monstrous and beautiful and utterly inescapable:

The way you'd bite your lip when concentrating, unaware of how his gaze snagged on the motion like fabric catching barbed wire, how his fingers twitched with the need to tug it free, to soothe the indentations with his tongue.

The way you'd stretch in the morning light after crashing at his place, the hem of your shirt riding up just enough to reveal that sliver of skin above your hipbone—a soft crescent that made his throat go dry, that made him ache with the knowledge that he could reach out, trace the dip of your waist with just one fingertip—but he won't, he can't, because you're trusting him to be better than that.

The way you'd sigh his name when tired, dragging out the last vowel like it was something precious, something yours, and he'd have to clench his jaw so hard his molars ached against the urge to beg you to say it again, again, just like that, maybe against his mouth this time, maybe with his hands on your—

Now he's trapped in this sick parody of everything he's ever wanted—your body warm against his on the couch, your smiles sweet and fake, your touches choreographed for an audience like some grotesque puppet show. Every time he whispers "babe" (a word that tastes like sacrilege in his mouth), every time he laces his fingers with yours and pretends not to notice how perfectly they fit together, every time he pulls you closer under the guise of selling this lie (just because he can, just because for these stolen moments, you let him)—it's all salt in the wound.

And he knows this is the closest he'll ever get to having you—playing pretend for Vickie's benefit, his heart drumming against his chest with every touch he's not allowed to mean. Because even if—if—there is some part of you that feels it too (that invisible magnetic pull, that quiet hum and deep vibration when his fingers brush yours like a struck tuning fork), there are just too many variables. Too many landmines are hidden in this no-man's land.

Maybe he'd get a few weeks of heaven before you realised he wanted way more than you ever could. Maybe he'd find a way to screw it up like he always does, condemning himself to a lifetime of awkward pauses and avoidant glances every time your paths crossed. Or worse—maybe, maybe, even if you fell for him as badly as he's fallen for you, this dream he's conjured up would still be an impossible standard. A fantasy no real person could live up to, least of all a washed-up king with nothing but a handful of half-kept promises to his name.

But his performance opposite you is working too well—the Romeo to your Juliet (star-crossed and bleeding out), the Heathcliff to your Cathy (ruined and howling on the moors). The world watches staged romance through rose-tinted glasses, seeing only what it wants to see. Stolen glances mistaken for tenderness rather than theft. Casual touches interpreted as affection instead of self-flagellation. Devotion is heard in the harmony of your laughter rather than the dissonance of his slow unravelling.

These have never been love stories.

This has always been a tragedy dressed up as romance—all the warning signs painted over in pretty pastels. There's no happy ending waiting in the wings, no last-minute reprieve where the audience learns it was all a bad dream. Just the whirlwind of maybes and the inevitable collapse, the credits rolling over two people who used to know how to look each other in the eye.

Steve knows doomed narratives like he knows the scars on his knuckles—intimately, painfully. Could chart their progression from meet-cute to catastrophe with his eyes closed. He can pinpoint the exact moment the script flips—in the arch of an eyebrow, the hesitation before a touch. He's lived this story before and knows all its variations by heart.

His fantasies might be vivid.

But the reality is crushing.

The effortless synchronicity you two normally share is already gone, replaced by something jagged and electric—every glance a live wire threatening to burn everything down, every touch a lit fuse that comes dangerously close to the gasoline running in his veins. It's like dancing on a knife's edge where every step could either cut him open or set him free. The hesitation terrifies him—the way his fingers twitch toward you instinctively before he remembers with a gut-punch of awareness: he's allowed to touch you now. 

Supposed to, even.

But God, it hurts.

Because it's not real.

And yet—

And yet he'll drink the poison willingly if it means he could stay in this play with you. Would let the curtain fall on him mid-scene if it meant pretending, just for one more night, that this might actually end well. He can tell you feel it too by the way your fingers linger a second too long on his wrist—just enough to feel his racing pulse. By the way, your breath hitches when he tucks a loose strand of hair behind your ear (for the bit, he reminds himself, even as his skin burns where you touch like he's been graced by something holy). By the way, your eyes keep finding his in the dim light, dark with something he doesn't dare name.

And then, like fate itself is laughing at him, Vickie leans forward with margarita-slick lips, her eyes bright with tipsy curiosity. The question hangs between you all, innocent and devastating.

"How did you two first start dating?"

Perhaps it's the tequila loosening his tongue, or the way the overhead lights reflect in your eyes like distant stars, or he's just so goddamn tired of lying that the truth starts clawing its way up his throat. Whatever the reason, the story spills out before he can stop it.

"It was the night of Robin's last birthday."

His voice is rough, scraped raw by the memory as he looks at you—seeing the ghost of that night superimposed over your face now. The way your nose had scrunched when you laughed at something stupid Eddie said. How he'd counted every one of your smiles like a man keeping track of his last breaths.

"We were both drunk, but not falling-over drunk. Just... loose. Happy." He doesn't say how beautiful you looked that night or how your laughter had turned into something he wanted to bottle and keep forever. Doesn't mention how he'd gone home and pressed his forehead to his bathroom mirror, begging his reflection to get it together as his hands shook.

"You kept leaning into me—shoulder against mine, knee bumping my thigh. Normal shit." His throat bobs like he's swallowing glass.

"But then—" God, he can still feel it—the weight of your palm on his chest through his thin shirt, the way his heart had leapt like a fucking dog on a chain, wild and desperate. The way you'd noticed.

"—You put your hand on my chest and said—" ‘Steve,’ you'd murmured, voice thick and slow with gin and something sweeter, ‘your heart's going crazy.’ Like it was a fascinating scientific discovery. Like you hadn't just signed his death warrant.

"—something stupid." He huffs a laugh, sharp and humourless.

"And I just... knew. Right then."

Knew he was fucked.

Knew he'd never recover.

Knew he'd rather live in this harrowing limbo of almosts and not-quites than risk losing you entirely.

Robin is staring at him now, her expression a mix of dawning horror and pity.

She knows. 

Knows this isn't part of the act.

Knows he's just handed you his still-beating heart on a silver platter.

And you—

You're looking at him like you've never seen him before. Like he's just peeled back his flesh and exposed every pathetic, yearning part of himself.

That's when you rip the script right out of his hands.

Within a second, your lips are on his—actually, wholeheartedly on his—warm and slightly sticky from margarita salt, tasting of lime and something sweeter. It’s slow and deliberate and agonising in its gentleness, the way your hand finds the nape of his neck like you’ve spent nights tracing the curve of his spine in the dark, memorising the way his breath hitches when your fingers brush just beneath his hairline. Time stretches, warps into an alternate reality where your sigh vibrates against his mouth like a second heartbeat.

Somewhere in the back of his mind, a voice whispers, This is a mistake. There’s no coming back from this.

And then, too soon, before he can even properly react, it’s over.

Steve is pretty sure he just died and went to heaven. Or hell. At this point, he can’t tell the difference anymore. Now that he knows what you taste like—now that he knows the reality is a hundred times better than any of his desperate daydreams could have conjured—it takes every ounce of self-control not to drag you back in and ruin himself completely. His hands twitch at his sides, fingers curling into his palms just to keep from reaching for you. There’s a heat crawling up your cheeks, lashes fluttering like you’re caught in a storm. There’s an uncertainty in your eyes he’s never seen before—which is rare, because Steve has every expression you’ve ever made meticulously catalogued in the neat file cabinets of his brain: the way your nose scrunches when you’re trying not to laugh, the way your lips press together when you’re annoyed but pretending not to be, and the way your eyes soften when you think no one’s looking.

But this look—like you’re caught between absolution and damnation, like you’ve just stepped off a ledge and aren’t sure if you’re falling or flying—he doesn’t know it. Doesn’t know how to read it.

Doesn’t know if he’s supposed to reach for you or let you go.

He’s spent years perfecting the art of smooth exits and practiced charm, of knowing exactly when to lean in and when to pull away. But right now? With you?

After all this time of carefully rehearsing his lines, he’s been thrust into an improv scene in front of a live audience, and for the first time in his life, Steve Harrington has stage fright.

A beat passes.

Then another.

The silence stretches, suffocating.

His heart lurches, heavy with possibility, and he’s not sure he can survive the fallout if he’s wrong.

The rational part of his brain—the part that still remembers how to breathe—tells him this is just another layer of the performance. That you kissed him because it was easier than finding the right words, because the script demanded it, because, of course, you’d commit to the lie rather than let it crumble in front of Vickie. Of course you’d give him the one thing he’s always wanted without letting him know if he’s allowed to want more of it.

But the part of him that’s hopelessly, ruinously in love with you?

That part doesn’t care.

It will take whatever scraps you’re willing to give him—every staged endearment, any kiss that isn’t real but feels like it could be. And all those careful promises he made himself (don’t ruin this, don’t cross the line, don’t fucking dare fuck this all up) are gone, incinerated in the wake of your lips on his. The Library of Alexandria his heart has built for you is collapsing in flames, and you’re the one holding the torch. Every boundary he’s painstakingly written down in careful self-denial blackens at the edges like ancient parchment tossed into the wildfire.

But he’s just as much to blame.

He lit the match the moment he said yes  to this charade.

And God help him, he’ll let the fire turn him to ash if you’ll just stay this close a little longer—with those eyes that see straight through his constructed bullshit to the raw foundation beneath. Like his thoughts are a precious collection of first editions you’re desperate to read but are worried will fall apart in your hold before you get the chance to finish the preface. Like he’s something worth keeping close rather than the human equivalent of a ‘kick me’ sign taped to the universe’s back.

Like maybe—maybe—you’ve noticed the way his breath hitches when you enter a room and finally decided you like the power more than you fear its implications. He’ll choke on the smoke of this fantasy and pretend it’s oxygen if it means breathing the same air as you for just a few more seconds. He’ll gladly let his lungs blacken with the residue of this exquisite cataclysm, swallow every burning ember of inevitability if you’d just let him.

He’s leaning in again before he realises it—drawn like a moth to the flame, knowing it will kill him but too starved to care. The barely-there hitch of your breath is all the encouragement he needs, his body moving on autopilot, already addicted to the way you—

"That’s so romantic!"

Vickie’s voice shatters the moment, fracturing the fragile illusion into a thousand glittering shards.

You jerk back, blinking rapidly like someone waking from a dream, and Steve’s stomach plummets.

Right.

Romantic.

Not devastating.

Not life-altering.

Not I’ve been in love with you, and that kiss just rewired my fucking DNA.

Just… romantic.

The Rosaline he never stood a chance with—except in this version, he doesn’t move on, doesn’t get over it. He’s stuck in the first act of hardship, perpetually wondering, perpetually trying, while the audience watches with pity. In this version, he burns as time slips by in a haze of forced laughter and brittle smiles, but Steve’s internal clock is jammed—stuck on that single, breathless minute when your lips were on his and the world stopped.

He catches you staring every so often, your lips slightly parted like you’re holding back words—or maybe waiting for his. And there’s Vickie, still chattering away, blissfully oblivious to the way the air between you two has gone thick with everything unsaid.

It’s dangerous, this hope. Because if it isn’t fake for you either, if that kiss meant something—

But before he can even begin to untangle that thought—before he can decide if he’s terrified or thrilled by the idea that you might feel it too—Robin grabs his wrist and yanks him up towards the kitchen under the flimsy guise of "helping refill the snacks". The second the door swings shut behind them, she whirls on him, her voice a hissed whisper.

"What the hell was that, Steve?"

He doesn’t pretend to misunderstand. He can’t. Not when the memory of your mouth on his is seared into every synapse, not when his pulse hasn’t slowed since the moment you pulled away.  Robin’s eyes are wild, her hands gesturing erratically as she steps closer, backing him against the wall like she’s about to interrogate him. Steve opens his mouth—to argue, to deny, to something—

"I don’t know," he admits, running a hand through his hair—tugging at the roots like he’s trying to channel Munchausen, like he could physically pull the solution out of himself. "I can’t—fuck, Robin, I can’t keep doing this." Her expression flickers—sympathy warring with alarm. "What do you mean?"

"This." The word cracks between them, jagged and desperate. "Me and her. The—"the pretending." His throat burns, like the truth is acid on its way up. He exhales, the breath shuddering out of him like he’s been punched. "It’s horrible."

And it is.

It’s horrible because it’s too good. Because every laugh between you two is a shared secret, something fragile and precious that he hoards like a thief in the night. Because the kiss—the short, fake, perfect kiss—felt like coming home to a place he’d never been allowed to live in.

It’s horrible because he’s spent months carefully constructing walls between what he feels and what he shows, and now you’ve reduced them all to rubble. But he doesn’t get to continue; the door creaks, and when he turns—

You’re there.

Your face is pale, eyes wide and hurt for one fractured second before they shutter into something distant, something closed off.

His insides turn to lead.

Fuck.

"I was just—" Your voice is too light, too careful—the kind of tone you’d use with a stranger, with someone you’d rather forget. " —grabbing some more drinks."

You don’t meet his gaze as you brush past him, your shoulder barely skimming his, and Christ, it’s worse than if you’d shoved him. Steve is frozen, his pulse a frantic drumbeat against his ribs. Because he meant it—every word—but not like this. Not where you could hear it and twist it into something else. Not where it could hurt you.

His hands flex at his sides, useless.

Go after her.

Explain.

Beg.

But his feet stay rooted to the floor.

And for the first time since this started—since he let himself believe he could do this and walk away with his dignity intact—there's a terrible certainty crystallising in his chest like ice forming over a lake: if he doesn't get himself together, his nightmares of losing you for good will become a reality before he ever gets the chance to tell you the truth.

Before he can say,  It was never fake for me.

Before he can beg: Please don't walk away.

Before he can drop to his knees and confess that every touch, every laugh, and that godforsaken kiss has been real for him in ways that terrify him to his core.

Robin spares him one last look, caught between annoyance and sorrow, a silent battle raging behind her eyes about which fire to put out first—his stupidity or your hurt. The decision comes quickly as she turns on her heel to follow you, but not before shooting him a final glare that screams, 'What the fuck is wrong with you?' 

The rest of the night unfolds as the worst one of his life.

And that's saying something, considering the literal hellscape he's survived—but this slow unravelling of everything between you two? The way you’re pulling away? Retreating in that devastatingly subtle way of yours—carefully recalibrating every interaction like you're dismantling a bomb, trying to save yourself while simultaneously preventing the explosion of this lie. Every brush of your fingers against his—once electric, now agonising—feels like a choreographed step in a dance you no longer want to perform. He watches helplessly as you turn what used to be effortless connection into careful calculation, and it fucking destroys him.

He doesn't know how to fix this.

Doesn't even know where to start.

He'd watched from a distance as you talked to Robin, jaw clenched so tight his molars ached, hands shoved deep in his pockets to keep from storming over and demanding to know what you were saying about him. His lungs had burnt with the effort of staying put, his pulse a frantic drumbeat in his ears that drowned out all other sound.

He should have followed. Should have swallowed his pride, his fear, and just talked to you. But the moment passed, as moments do, and now the opportunity is gone.

When he finally cornered Robin, before he could even open his mouth, she gave him that look as she tilted her head in that particular Robin way, and he knew.

It's no use.

Robin Buckley would rather face certain execution than betray your trust, no matter how much he might beg.

And you?

You won't tell him anything at all.

Not anymore.

So he does what Steve Harrington does best when he's in over his head: he fakes a smile, cracks a joke no one laughs at, and pretends the way your avoidance feels like a thousand papercuts doesn't bother him at all.

By the time The Exterminator II ends, it’s past midnight, and the conversation turns to sleeping arrangements—because it’s dark, and you’ve all been drinking, and no one should be driving.

Robin, ever the martyr, offers to take the couch so Vickie can sleep in the guest room, already gathering spare pillows with a pointed glance in his direction.

His stomach drops.

He doesn’t even dare look at your expression.

Because the implication here is obvious.

You’ll sleep in his room.

Of course.

Of course he has to share a bed with you now, when everything is fractured and wrong, when every glance between you is a minefield.

Just hours ago, the idea of you in his bed would’ve sent his pulse into overdrive, would’ve had him imagining the warmth of your body against his, the way your breath might hitch if he pulled you close.

Now?

Now the thought is agony.

Because you’ll be lying beside him, close enough to touch, close enough to kiss again—but he won’t. He can’t. Not when you flinch at his accidental brushes, not when every word between you feels like walking on broken glass.

And he can’t refuse.

Not without making everything worse.

So he just nods, his jaw clenched tight, and tries not to think about how cruel it is—how close you’ll be tonight and yet how far you suddenly feel.

He tries to tell himself you’ve shared a bed before—you haven’t, not like this, never like this—not with the weight of everything pressing down between you. And yet here you are, in his bedroom, tugging one of his shirts from the drawer—his shirt, the fabric swallowing you whole, the collar slipping just enough to expose the curve of your shoulder.

The silence is deafening.

He clears his throat, voice rough. “I can sleep on the floor.”

“Don’t be stupid,” you mutter, sitting stiffly on the left side of the bed. Your fingers comb through your hair—a nervous habit he’s memorised by now.

“We’re adults; we can handle it.” you add.

Handle it.

As if trying to handle it isn’t the whole fucking issue.

As if he hasn’t spent every single second since that kiss handling the urge to drag you back in.

He hesitates, jaw set tight, but then you look at him—and fuck.

There it is: that same quiet worry he feels in every nerve ending, the same unspoken what now?  hanging between you.

So he lies down, careful to leave space between you.

For a moment, neither of you moves.

And he’s all out of excuses to tell himself.

There’s no audience left to play this off for, no flimsy justification for the way his fingers twitch toward you, and no lie left to hide behind.

Then—

“I’m sorry, I—”  Your voice cracks, barely a whisper, like you’re trying to fold yourself into the quiet between you. And Christ, he’d rather carve his own heart out with a dull spoon than let his stupid, self-sabotaging fear leave you like this—shoulders hunched, lips trembling, like you’re bracing for a blow.

What do you mean you’re sorry?

Your breath hitches—a sharp, fractured sound—and he realises, too late, that your eyes are glistening; the sight punches through him like a kick to the gut.

“I didn’t want to mess this up,” you whisper, fingers twisting in the fabric of his shirt like you’re clinging to an anchor. “I mean. I just thought—” Your voice wavers, and Steve watches, transfixed, as a single tear escapes, tracing a slow, damning path down your cheek.

He stares at you, stunned.

His hand lifts before he can stop it—before his brain can catch up with the chaos roaring in his chest—and his thumb brushes the tear from your cheek. Your skin is warm, impossibly soft, and the contact sends a jolt through him, sharp and sweet.

“You didn’t mess up anything,” he murmurs, voice rough, like the words are being dragged out of him.  You freeze under his touch, eyes wide, lips parted, and for one heart-stopping second, he thinks you might pull away again—but then your lashes flutter shut, and you lean in, ever so slightly, your breath warm against his palm.

And finally—he’s done pretending.

His fingers slide into your hair, cradling the back of your head as he pulls you in, forehead resting against yours, his breath is warm, uneven, mingling with yours in the scant space between your lips—close enough to taste, but not close enough to consume. 

“I’ve always been yours,” he murmurs, and you search his face, eyes flickering over the curve of his mouth, the desperate crease between his brows, trying to find the lie—but you don’t find it. Another breath punches out of you, shaky and sharp, and your gaze shifts—unsure to decisive, hesitant to hungry—before you’re surging forward, hands fisting in his shirt, pulling him in with a desperation that mirrors his own.  Where the last time was slow—careful, testing—this is messy. Teeth and tongue and hands that can’t decide where to settle—his fingers dig into your hips, then skate up your sides, dragging your shirt along with them, exposing bare skin to the feverish heat between you. It’s violent in its desperation, a collision of pent-up want and the sheer, dizzying relief of finally, finally giving in. And, God, it’s even better than the first time.

No, wait—that’s not right.

It’s different.

The first kiss was discovery; this is destruction.

Like comparing the strike of a match to an entire forest burning, like the difference between dipping your toes in the ocean and being dragged under by the riptide.

He drags you closer, hands spanning your waist, fingers pressing hard enough to bruise (and fuck, the thought of marks on your skin—his marks—sends a jolt of heat straight to his dick). He pulls you into him with all the force he’s been holding back finally unleashed. For a second, that nagging voice of hesitation flickers in the back of his head—too much, too fast—as your lips leave his. His grip loosens, just slightly, giving you space to pull away.

But then you make a sound.

The most beautiful sound in the universe, probably. Better than any symphony, any song on the radio, better than anything he’s ever fucking heard—a soft, breathy moan, spilling from your lips like you can’t help it, like it’s been ripped out of you as he tugs you into his lap.  Your thighs bracket his hips, and the contact is electric. The friction is maddening, the way you press against him, already seeking more. His breath hitches, fingers tightening possessively on your waist as he grinds up against you, just once—just to hear you make that sound again.

And you do.

Louder.

And fuck, if this is only the beginning—if the simple act of his hands roaming your body, skimming the curve of your waist, the dip of your spine, tears noises from you that already have him aching—then he’s sure you’re going to be the end of him.

But, God, what a way to go.

He wants to cover every inch of your skin with his touch, to map the places that make you gasp, the spots that make you shiver, and to learn exactly how to reduce you to the same desperate, unravelled mess he’s been for you all this time. He wants to find out how many times he can pull this kind of bliss from you before you’re writhing, before you’re begging—for more, for mercy, for him.

You find his pulse point, teeth grazing the frantic beat of his heart, and he’s ripped from his thoughts, reminded with dizzying clarity that this isn’t another fantasy. This is real. He anchors himself back to the moment, needing to show you his devotion, no longer hedonism, finally able to worship without fear. His fingers glide lower, flexing over every bit of skin—until they reach the wet heat already pooling between your thighs. A guttural groan tears from his throat—half at the sensation, half at the confirmation that you want this just as badly, that you’re just as far gone as he is.

Every fantasy, every what if  he’s ever tortured himself with—he’ll get to live them all.

In one fluid motion, he flips you over, your head landing against the pillow, your hair already sticking to your forehead, damp with sweat and the sheer tension coiling between you. You’ve never looked more beautiful—not in the soft morning light, not laughing at some stupid joke of his, not even in the hazy afterglow of his most desperate daydreams. This is the moment he’ll remember forever. The way your chest rises with each ragged breath, the way your lips part just slightly, like you’re already begging for his mouth on yours again. If he could freeze time, if he could live in one single second for the rest of his life, it would be this one.

He trails kisses down your body—slow, worshipful—mapping every dip and curve. The hollow of your throat. The valley between your breasts. The trembling plane of your stomach. He wants to take his time, wants to ruin you with patience, but you’re already tugging him back up, eyes heavy lidded but locked onto him like he’s the only thing in the world worth seeing.

Your fingers tangle in his hair—tugging—and when he slips one finger inside you, you clench around him so tight he sees stars. Christ.  Like your body was made for him, to take him, to want him. He can't remember how he ever breathed before this moment, before the staggering heat of you surrounding him.

As he presses deeper, your hand finds his aching length, stroking him in time with his movements until he has to break the kiss just to groan your name. He feels the vibration of it travel through your joined bodies when you guide him to your entrance, and who is he to deny you when you're like this—when you're pleading with your entire body, hips canting up against his, nails biting into his shoulders like you'll die if he doesn't give you what you need?

He's only human.

He pushes inside in one slow, devastating glide, his thumb now tracing quick, insistent circles over your clit. He's already teetering on the edge—from the way you take him so perfectly, like you've been waiting your whole life for this; from the silent gasp that parts your lips when he bottoms out; and from the goddamn way you're still looking at him, like he holds your entire universe in his hands.

It's intoxicating.

He doesn’t let up—couldn’t if he tried. Every nerve in his body is alight, wired on the way you clench around him, the way your nails dig crescent moons into his shoulders like you’re afraid he’ll disappear. But Steve isn’t going anywhere. Not when you’re like this—breathless, boneless, his—falling apart beneath him with every snap of his hips.

His pace turns punishing, each thrust carving your name into the space between your ribs, pulling another broken sound from your lips. And god, each one is sweeter than the last—he’s addicted. He wants to bottle them, wants to memorize the way you unravel for him, wants to live in this moment until it’s seared into his bones. The high whine when he angles his hips just right, hitting that spot inside you that makes your back arch off the bed. The choked-off moan when his thumb presses harder on your clit, circling with just the right mix of cruelty and devotion. The way his name sounds when it’s wrung from your throat like a prayer, ragged and reverent, like he’s the only thing holding you together.

He’s close—so fucking close—but he’ll be damned if he lets go first. Not when you’re trembling beneath him, not when your thighs are shaking, not when every gasp and whimper is a siren song pulling him deeper.

Until Robin's voice cuts through the haze:

"JESUS CHRIST—”

Her shriek could wake the dead.

Steve barely has time to yank the sheets up over your bodies before Robin whirls around, slapping a hand over her eyes like she's just stared directly into the sun.

“I knocked. Oh my God—" She's already out of the room again, the door slams shut behind her with a force that rattles the frame, her dramatic exit punctuated by a muffled, "Ugh, gross!" from the hallway. You burst into laughter beneath Steve, the sound bright and startled. His weight presses you deeper into the mattress as he groans, half-amused, half-exasperated. "She has the worst timing," he mutters, but there’s no real annoyance in it. Robin’s chaos is, after all, the reason the two of you are tangled together like this in the first place. (He’ll thank her later. Maybe. If he remembers anything beyond the way your thighs tighten around his hips.)

For now, though, his focus narrows to the way your laughter fades into breathless anticipation, lips still parted, eyes darkening as his fingers trace the curve of your waist. He drops his forehead to yours, grinning like an idiot—the kind of smile that used to be reserved for winning fights and stealing hearts, now softened into something just for you.

"You done laughing at me?" he teases, voice low, thumb brushing the hinge of your jaw.

You bite your lip, but the mirth still dances in your eyes. "Depends. Are you done pouting?"

Steve scoffs, but his mouth finds yours before he can protest, swallowing your next laugh and turning it into a gasp. He kisses you like he’s got something to prove—like every flick of his tongue, every nip of his teeth is rewriting the script of who the two of you used to be.