𝐝𝐨𝐞.

THE FIRST THING YOU LEARNED ABOUT MONACO WAS THAT THE WALLS WERE THIN ENOUGH TO HEAR YOUR NEIGHBOR SWEARING AT HIS ESPRESSO MACHINE AT SIX-THIRTY EVERY MORNING.

Not loudly, either. That was the unsettling part.

Most people yelled when they were angry, but not your neighbor. He sounded calmly, professionally furious, like a man filing a formal complaint against God himself.

“You useless piece of —”

A metallic clank. After a moment, very distinctly: “I swear to Christ.”

You stared up at the wood tiled ceiling of your grandmother’s apartment, still tangled in unfamiliar sheets, sunlight spilling through the gauzy curtains in watery gold. For one peaceful second after waking up, you forgot where you were.

And then it punched you in the gut. You were in Monaco, following the surprise inheritance…and the funeral. You still couldn’t believe the fact that you’d uprooted your entire life — or whatever meager semblance of a life you had — on what could generously be described as an emotional breakdown and a legally binding whim.

Then the espresso machine hissed again, like a snake waiting to strike.

“Oh, come on.”

You blinked slowly. Your neighbor’s accent was distinctly Australian, so unlike the prim and prudish French accents that were common in Monaco.  

That difference, somehow, made it worse.

Rolling onto your back, you checked your phone. 6:34 A.M. Why the fuck was your neighbor cursing at his coffee machine at such an ungodly hour of the day?

You considered several possibilities.

One: your neighbor was the victim of a murderous kitchen appliance.

Two: he was deeply unstable.

Three: Monaco apartment walls were apparently constructed from decorative tissue paper.

The machine gave one final tortured sputter before a cupboard slammed hard enough to rattle a framed painting in your bedroom.

You bolted upright, heart pounding. “Jesus,” you muttered.

On the other side of the wall, the man sighed. Not a normal sigh, either. A long-suffering, exhausted sound. The sigh of someone moments away from throwing a very expensive appliance directly into the Mediterranean.

Against your better judgment, you laughed at the thought. Immediately there was silence, and you froze.

The silence somehow felt… pointed. Like he’d heard you. Which was very possible, considering you could hear every phonon of movement that he made.

Then came three sharp knocks against the shared wall. You stared at the blank space, contemplating what to do — either respond and interact with your Negative Nancy of a neighbor at an hour where half the population was fast asleep, or just go to bed yourself and pray he didn’t send that espresso machine flying through the wall. Before you could choose, though, another three knocks were rapped. Your eyebrows lifted slowly in pure astonishment. “No way.”

Three more knocks in quick succession.

You climbed out of bed, still wearing oversized sleep shorts and one of your oldest university hoodies that definitely had a hole in the armpit, and crossed the apartment barefoot. The hardwood floor was cold beneath your feet as you pressed your palm lightly against the wall.

“…Hello?”

Nothing for just a second.

“Your laugh is loud.”

You gasped. Actually gasped. “Oh my God,” you whispered to yourself, horrified.

The voice came again, muffled through plaster. Dry. Flat. Annoyingly attractive. “And your footsteps.”

You narrowed your eyes at the wall. “You’re the one verbally abusing an espresso machine before sunrise.”

“It’s not my fault.” He said it as easily as though he were stating the freezing point of water.

You stared for a beat longer before a disbelieving laugh escaped you again.

Instantly, your neighbor shot back: “See? That.”

“Oh, you cannot possibly be serious.”

“You’ll find,” the voice replied coolly, “that I usually am.”

The audacity. The sheer, unbearable audacity of this man. Whoever he was, he had a massive ego and a chip on his shoulder, and you wouldn’t stoop so low as to engage in these petty squabbles. 

You looked around your grandmother’s apartment as though searching for hidden cameras. Yesterday, you’d landed in Monaco carrying two suitcases, grief wrapped tight around your ribs, expecting reinvention and glamour and maybe a little healing by the sea.

Instead, you’d inherited a passive-aggressive wall enemy before unpacking your shampoo.

“Incredible,” you muttered. No response. You waited another second before asking, “…Did your coffee at least work?”

Begrudgingly, your neighbor answered, “No.”

You bit your lip to stop smiling. Which was unfortunate, really.

Because you had the distinct feeling your neighbor would hate that.

A month prior, you’d been standing in uncomfortable black stiletto heels beside a coffin wondering whether grief was supposed to feel more dramatic than this.

Rain tapped softly against the church windows. Someone in the second row was crying. Your aunt was pretending to dab away tears.

And you? Well. You mostly felt tired. You hadn’t seen your grandmother in almost four years.

That was the part nobody said out loud. Not during the service, at least.

Instead, people spoke about her elegance, her intelligence, her impossible standards. They talked about the way she carried herself through rooms like royalty and the way she never repeated an outfit twice in the seventies and how she once insulted a French ambassador so severely he refused to attend dinner parties she hosted afterward.

You believed every word of it.

Your grandmother had been difficult in the way expensive perfumes were difficult: sharp, overpowering, impossible to ignore. Loving her had always felt like the equivalent of losing an argument.

“You should stand straighter,” she used to tell you as a child, gently tapping your spine with two fingers.

“You should call more,” she’d say later, over increasingly strained phone calls, where long stretches of silence became more and more frequent. “You should want more from your life than this.”

This, apparently, meant everything. Your studio apartment in New York City. Your degree in art history. Your relationships, of which you had none. Your job as an intern at the Met.

You never seemed to reach the moving target of her approval, and eventually, you stopped trying to.

So one missed Christmas became two, a birthday phone call never went through.

And now she was dead.

The priest said something solemn. Your cousin sniffed loudly. You stared at white lilies until they blurred at the edges.

You thought grief would feel heavier, but instead it felt unfinished. This couldn’t be it; it just couldn’t. And yet it was.

After the burial, your family gathered beneath gray awnings outside the cemetery while rain misted over black umbrellas and expensive coats.

Your aunt Marianne caught your elbow before you could escape.

“There you are,” she said tightly, words clipped. “The lawyer is asking for everyone to meet Monday regarding the estate.”

You blinked, taken aback. “There’s an estate meeting?”

“She owned property in three countries,” Marianne replied, as though you were thick-headed. “Of course there’s an estate meeting.”

Right. Normal grandmothers left behind photo albums and recipe cards, but yours was anything but normal. 

You almost didn’t go when Monday arrived, heavy and humid. You spent most of the morning sitting in your old Kia outside the law office debating whether you could fake your own death instead.

Unfortunately, curiosity won.

The lawyer’s office smelled like polished wood and old paper. Everyone sat around a long table wearing expressions ranging from grieving to openly competitive. Your cousins looked like they were putting on their best imitation of a shark, eyes bloodthirsty and slitted as they waited to hear what the lawyer had to say. You took the chair closest to the exit. Just in case.

The lawyer adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses. “Thank you all for coming. We’ll begin with the personal allocations.”

The meeting dragged on.

Jewelry, investments. Art collections. Properties in two different continents, places you’d never been to and could only dream of going to. A stake in a film company. 

Your grandmother apparently possessed the financial portfolio of a minor Bond villain.

You stopped listening after twenty minutes. Until —

“And to her granddaughter —”

You looked up automatically, heart suddenly thrashing in your chest like it were a rabbit trying to free itself from a trap.

The lawyer smiled politely. “The apartment located in Monaco.”

Your brain completely shut down.

“…Sorry,” you said after a second. “What?”

Across the table, your aunt’s expression tightened almost imperceptibly.

“The residence in Monaco,” the lawyer repeated calmly. “Per your grandmother’s instructions, ownership transfers fully to you.”

You laughed. Not because it was funny, but because there was genuinely no other possible response. “I think there’s been a mistake.”

“There hasn’t.”

“No, I —” You looked around the room helplessly. “I haven’t spoken to her in years.”

The lawyer’s face softened slightly. “She amended the will six months ago.”

Six months ago.

“She also left a letter,” he added.

A cream envelope appeared in front of you moments later, your name written across the front in your grandmother’s elegant handwriting.

Suddenly, you couldn’t breathe properly. You stared at it for several seconds before opening it apprehensively.

Darling,

If you are reading this, then I am dead, which is unfortunate timing because Monaco is beautiful in spring.

You swallowed hard, tears pricking in your vision, yet you charged on.

You were always too sentimental for your own good. Too soft-hearted. I suspect the world has punished you for this already. But softness is not weakness, no matter what I may have taught you otherwise.

The apartment is yours because you are the only one who will live in it properly. Do not waste your life waiting for permission to become someone else.

And for God’s sake, answer your phone more often.

— Grand-mère

By the time you finished reading, your vision had gone embarrassingly blurry. You stared down at the paper, feeling completely out of your depth. Even her final act of affection still somehow sounded like criticism.

“Are you alright?” the lawyer asked gently.

You folded the letter carefully before answering.

“No,” you admitted. After a beat, you added: “But maybe I could be.”

By the time you arrived in Monaco, you were operating almost entirely on caffeine, blind optimism, and the kind of emotional dissociation that only occurred after making several catastrophic life decisions in rapid succession.

The train station spilled sunlight and noise and expensive luggage onto the streets in dizzying waves. Everything gleamed. The sea in the distance looked unreal, too blue to belong to an actual country, and every person you passed seemed aggressively well-dressed. Women in silk trousers walked tiny dogs that probably had trust funds. Men in linen shirts leaned against polished cars worth more than your student loans.

Meanwhile, you were dragging two overstuffed suitcases with one broken wheel through the streets while sweat collected at the base of your spine.

A glamorous entrance like no other, truly.

The apartment building itself sat tucked along a quieter street several blocks from the marina, elegant in that understated European way that made American luxury suddenly feel embarrassingly loud. Cream-colored stone climbed four stories high, ivy curling around wrought iron balconies. The windows were tall and narrow, their shutters painted faded green from years of Mediterranean sun.

You stood across the street for a long moment staring up at it.

Your grandmother had lived here.

The realization landed strangely every time it returned. You could still barely connect the woman who corrected your French grammar over Christmas dinners with this place that looked like it belonged in a film.

For a second, fear crawled unpleasantly into your throat. What if you didn’t belong here either?

Then one of your suitcases tipped sideways and nearly launched itself into traffic. “OK,” you muttered, yanking it upright. “Fantastic start.”

Inside, the building smelled faintly of lemon polish and old books. Cool air wrapped around your overheated skin as you stepped into the lobby, immediately grateful.

Until you saw the staircase. You stared upward. No elevator. Presumably, your grandmother’s final wish was for you to die dramatically hauling your earthly possessions up four flights of stairs.

The apartment keys dug into your palm while you mentally calculated how many trips this would take. Too many.

By the second trip, your arms were shaking. By the third, you were actively considering abandoning half your belongings on the staircase and reinventing yourself as the kind of woman who owned exactly two shirts and no cookware. The final box, a massive one filled almost entirely with books because apparently you’d inherited your grandmother’s inability to travel lightly, was balanced precariously against your chest as you stumbled up the last flight.

You couldn’t see, vision blacking out with sweat and sheer fatigue.

“One more step,” you whispered to yourself breathlessly. “One more —”

The box slipped out of your slick grasp. You made a strangled sound, knees buckling as the entire thing tilted sideways. And — a hand caught the edge of it, steadying it effortlessly.

You looked up. Oh.

Oh, that was unfortunate.

The man standing above you on the landing was tall in a way that felt deeply inconvenient at the moment, broad shoulders blocking part of the afternoon light streaming through the stairwell window. Dark brown hair curled slightly at the ends like he’d run a hand through it too many times, and his expression?

His expression was profoundly unimpressed.

Not annoyed, exactly, as that would have implied emotional investment. No, he looked at you the way someone might look at an unusually loud pigeon.

You straightened slightly, breathless and sweaty and immediately defensive. “Thanks,” you said, as politely as you could manage.

His eyes flicked once over the massive box in your arms, over your wobbling posture, and back to your face. “You know,” he said evenly, accent unmistakably Australian, “most people make more than six trips.”

You blinked at him. The nerve. “I have made more than six trips.”

“Hm.”

“Hm?” you repeated incredulously, too winded to even think about the ridiculousness of that one word.

He released the box slowly, clearly unconcerned whether it crushed you or not. “That explains why you look like that.”

You stared.

He stared back. Completely serious.

The worst part was that he wasn’t even mean about it. There was no cruelty in his voice, no mocking grin. Just blunt observation delivered with the emotional warmth of a spreadsheet.

You adjusted the box against your chest with increasing offense. “Wow. You’re really committed to being unhelpful, huh?”

His gaze drifted toward the staircase below, where another one of your bags had fallen over dramatically. “You seem to have it handled.”

“I very clearly do not.” You waited for him to help. 

He did not help.

Instead, he slid one hand into the pocket of his dark trousers and tilted his head slightly, studying you with mild curiosity. Like he was trying to determine whether your situation was genuinely concerning or simply entertaining. You suspected it was the second one.

You narrowed your eyes in suspicion. “You’re enjoying this.”

“Not at all,” he responded.

“You hesitated.”

“I was thinking.”

You cocked your head to the side, studying him. “About?”

“How someone survives adulthood while carrying a box like that.”

You let out a disbelieving laugh. He blinked once at the sound, almost caught off guard by it.

Up close, he looked around your age. Mid-to-late twenties, maybe. Tired eyes. Sharp jawline. One of those faces that would probably look devastating if he ever smiled…which, judging by current evidence, had perhaps never occurred.

He wore a black button-down with the sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing strong forearms dusted faintly with grease or graphite. Engineer, maybe. Or mechanic. Something precise and frustratingly competent. Definitely not a job that involved being surrounded by people, for sure.

“Do you always stand around watching women suffer for fun,” you asked, shifting the box again, “or am I special?”

His gaze dropped briefly to the way you were struggling to hold it. “You’re loud,” he answered.

You frowned. “What does that have to do with anything?”

“You’ve been swearing in the stairwell for twenty minutes.”

Heat crawled immediately into your face. “Oh my God.”

“One box said fragile before you dropped it.”

“It slipped!”

“Hm.” There it was again. That stupid little hum.

You already hated him. Which would’ve been easier if he weren’t annoyingly attractive in that severe, exhausted sort of way.

“Do you live here?” you asked.

“Yes.”

“Great. Then you’re my first Monaco enemy.”

Something shifted in his expression. Not quite amusement, but close enough to count. “You just moved in?” he questioned, lips quirking upward insufferably.

“Yes.”

His eyes flicked toward the door beside yours. The apartment next door.

The realization hit you instantly. Looks like this intolerable, unaccommodating jerk was going to be a staple of your new life in Monaco. How wonderful. And you didn’t even know his name — which was for the better, since you did not want to be on friendly terms with this jackass.

He glanced down at the box still threatening to crush your internal organs. “You’re holding that wrong.”

“Oh, now you want to help?”

“No,” he said calmly. “I’m criticizing your technique.”

You made a noise of outrage. And to your absolute horror, the corner of his mouth twitched. Just slightly. 

Not a smile.

But dangerously close.

Five days into living in Monaco, you came to two important conclusions.

First: the city was absurdly beautiful in a way that became almost irritating after a while. Every street looked curated, a perfect home feed on Pinterest. Every café seemed to exist solely to make tourists romanticize their lives. Even the air smelled expensive, saltwater and sunscreen and citrus drifting together beneath the afternoon heat.

Second: your neighbor was either avoiding you deliberately or naturally moved through life like a suspicious alley cat.

You’d heard him through the walls plenty.

Cabinets opening at precise times. Low music occasionally humming through the apartment. Classical sometimes, instrumental piano other times, once an aggressively miserable jazz playlist that lasted nearly four hours. You’d also discovered he worked insane hours, judging by the fact you’d heard his front door close sometime after midnight twice already.

But actually seeing him was rare.

It was beginning to annoy you on principle.

Especially because every interaction so far had ended with him looking faintly exasperated by your existence while you developed an increasingly inconvenient curiosity about his.

So on Thursday afternoon, after unpacking exactly half your kitchen and collapsing over a box labeled miscellaneous wires, you decided you deserved a break. 

Monaco unfolded lazily beneath the sun as you wandered downhill toward the older part of the city. Laundry fluttered from narrow balconies overhead. Scooters buzzed past. Somewhere nearby, church bells rang softly through the heat.

You stopped in little shops mostly to escape the temperature. A tiny bakery where the woman behind the counter called you darling after you butchered your French pronunciation. A stationery store filled with fountain pens you absolutely could not afford.

Then finally… the bookstore.

It sat tucked between a wine shop and a florist, nearly hidden beneath climbing ivy. The sign overhead was faded slightly with age, the windows crowded with stacked novels and handwritten recommendation cards.

You paused outside immediately. Unlike most places in Monaco, it didn’t feel polished. It felt lived-in.

Inside, the air smelled like paper and dust and old wood soaked warm by sunlight. Shelves stretched from floor to ceiling in crooked little aisles, books stacked sideways where they no longer fit properly. Soft jazz played somewhere overhead. You exhaled slowly.

OK.

This might be the first place in Monaco that didn’t make you feel wildly underdressed. You wandered aimlessly at first, fingertips brushing over spines. French novels. Travel memoirs. Architecture books bigger than your torso.

A sleepy orange cat blinked at you from atop a stack near the register.

“This is perfect,” you whispered.

The cat yawned.

You drifted toward the back corner before stopping abruptly, fear clenching your chest nonsensically.

Your stupid neighbor — Oscar — stood near one of the shelves with a book open in one hand, entirely absorbed. Dark gray T-shirt this time. Black trousers. Glasses perched low on his nose.

Glasses.

You stared for a second too long. They somehow made him look even more severe, like he was someone who corrected grammar in emails for fun.

Unfortunately, they also made him hotter, which felt deeply unfair considering his personality.

You should probably leave him alone. Instead, you walked directly toward him.

“Are you stalking me,” you asked pleasantly, “or is this just fate?”

Oscar looked up slowly. His expression changed the exact same way it always did when he saw you: a tiny flicker of recognition immediately followed by visible mental exhaustion. “You live next door to me.”

“That doesn’t answer the question.”

“No,” he agreed calmly. “It doesn’t.”

His eyes returned to the book.

You stared at him. He focused on the page, as though you no longer existed to him.

“Wow,” you muttered. “You really commit to the whole emotionally unavailable thing.”

“I’m reading.”

“In public. Dangerous choice.”

A pause. Without looking up, he countered: “You’re loud in bookstores too?”

You scoffed. “That was almost a joke.”

“Well, it wasn’t supposed to be.”

You moved beside him anyway, tilting your head to read the title in his hands. Advanced Structural Systems Engineering.

You blinked. “Holy shit.”

“What?” he said, exasperatedly.

“You actually read these voluntarily. And here I was, thinking that nobody could ever find building infrastructure fun.”

Oscar finally looked at you properly again, gaze steady and unreadable behind his glasses. “It’s relevant to my work.”

“Oh God, that’s worse. Why would you choose that of all careers?”

“You ask too many questions,” Oscar muttered, but he lowered the book and affixed his eyes on you again.

“And you answer too few,” you retorted.

“That usually discourages people.”

“Well, disappointingly for you, I’m deeply irritating.” You flashed him a wide smile. 

He scowled, lines marring his face. “I noticed.”

The thing was, he never sounded cruel. Dry, yes. Constantly unimpressed, absolutely. But there was something strange underneath it all, something restrained rather than genuinely cold. Maybe speaking too much physically pained him, but listening didn’t.

Because he did listen. You were beginning to notice that.

Even now, his attention stayed fixed on you with unsettling steadiness despite his minimal responses. Most people waited impatiently for their turn to speak. Oscar seemed content letting silence stretch between your words.

“So,” you said, pulling a random novel from the shelf and thumbing through it. “Engineer.”

“Yes.”

“What kind?”

“Mechanical.”

You blew out a low breath. “That sounds important.”

“It’s mostly spreadsheets and suffering,” he remarked, tilting his head to the side.

You laughed. Again, there it was, flitting on Oscar’s face — that almost-expression. Close enough to a smile that you caught yourself wanting to earn another one. You leaned lightly against the shelf. “You know, when I first met you, I thought you were incredibly rude.”

“That implies you changed your mind.”

“Oh, no,” you said quickly. “You absolutely are.”

Oscar’s eyebrows raised.

“But,” you continued with a hint of a smile on your face, “I think maybe you’re secretly less horrible than you pretend to be.”

There’s a moment of silence as he thinks of what to say. “That sounds like a disappointing realization for you.”

You laugh again, bright and loud. Everything Oscar claims he hates.

The bookstore owner shuffled past pushing a cart of books, eyeing the two of you curiously before disappearing again. Oscar glanced toward the architecture section nearby.“You inherited  the apartment?”

The sudden change in conversation surprised you slightly. Maybe because it was the first personal thing he’d asked. “Yeah,” you answered more softly. “My grandmother’s.”

“She lived there a long time.”

“You knew her?”

“A little.”

You watched him carefully. “Did she terrorize you too?”

To your shock, his mouth actually twitched upward. Small. Brief, but definitely real. “She corrected my pronunciation once.”

“Oh my God.” You snorted. “That means she liked you.”

“I don’t think that’s true,” he objected.

“No, seriously. She only bothered correcting people she found interesting enough to fix.”

Oscar looked down at the book in his hands again, thoughtful now. The light from the windows caught against the frames of his glasses, softening the sharpness of his face. For the first time since meeting him, he looked less like an irritation and more like he was… lonely, maybe.

You wondered how long he’d lived next door. The thought sat strangely heavy in your chest. “You know,” you joked, “you can smile. I checked. It won’t kill you.”

Oscar looked at you for a long moment, and then reached past you toward a shelf overhead, entirely ignoring the comment. Unfortunately, his arm brushed yours lightly in the process.

Your brain short-circuited instantly. He pulled a book free.

“You’d like this one,” he said, handing it to you.

You looked down automatically. A Moveable Feast. Your brows lifted slightly. “You’re recommending me books now?”

“It’s Hemingway.”

“That doesn’t answer the question either.”

Oscar met your gaze evenly. “No,” he said again, quieter this time. “It doesn’t.”

Something shifted after the bookstore, but not as dramatic as one might expect.

Oscar did not suddenly become warm or talkative or capable of expressing emotions like a normal human being. He still looked vaguely inconvenienced every time you appeared unexpectedly within his line of sight. He still answered most questions with the fewest words possible. He still treated social interaction like a mildly unpleasant administrative task.

But the edges softened, tiny things at first. The next morning, the espresso machine was quieter. Not fixed, exactly — you still heard a muffled curse around six-thirty — but quieter in the deliberate way that suggested Oscar had used a modicum of effort to not be as loud.

Which was a ridiculous thing to think.

You stood in your kitchen holding a spoonful of yogurt and stared at the shared wall suspiciously. “Was that for me?”

Faintly, Oscar’s disgruntled response. “No.”

You grinned into your breakfast.

Later that afternoon, you found a folded piece of paper slid beneath your apartment door. Not a note, but a list. Three cafés written in precise handwriting. Good coffee, not tourist traps. Stop going to the one on the corner. Their espresso tastes burnt.

You laughed so suddenly you nearly scared yourself. Even though there was no signature, you knew exactly who the list was written by. Like there was anyone else in the building passive-aggressive enough to leave anonymous coffee criticism at your doorstep.

You went to all three cafés. And despite your reservations, he was right.

After that, Monaco started feeling smaller in strange ways. You’d spot Oscar unexpectedly throughout the week like some bizarre recurring character only you seemed able to unlock.

At the market buying exactly six oranges and nothing else. Walking home late at night with rolled-up blueprints tucked beneath one arm. Standing outside the florist beside your building while an elderly woman enthusiastically spoke French at him while he listened with the exhausted patience of a hostage negotiator. And every time you interacted with him, he stopped a little longer when talking to you.

Not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough for you to. You were observant in that sort of way. “You’re becoming significantly less terrifying,” you informed him one evening when you crossed paths on the staircase.

Oscar glanced at you from beneath tired eyes. “That sounds unlikely.”

“You gave me coffee recommendations.”

“You were drinking bad espresso. I could smell it.”

You harrumph. “OK, but you carried my groceries upstairs yesterday.”

“You dropped a tomato,” he rebutted.

“It burst dramatically.”

“It exploded.”

You smiled brightly. “And yet you helped me anyway.”

He adjusted his grip on the folder tucked under his arm. “That’s since you were blocking the staircase.”

“See, that’s the thing,” you said, pointing at him accusatorially. “You always pretend you’re helping people accidentally.”

Oscar looked almost wary now, like he disliked being perceived too closely. “Do you analyze strangers often?”

“Only interesting ones.”

That earned you silence. Not the dismissive kind you were familiar with, but the thoughtful one. You were beginning to understand the difference, slowly but surely.

A handful of days later, rain swept over Monaco in silver sheets so heavy the streets below your apartment blurred completely. Thunder rolled somewhere over the sea while warm wind rattled the shutters. You’d spent the evening curled beneath a blanket reading the Hemingway novel Oscar recommended.

Which was annoying, because it was good. Quiet and aching and observant in ways that slipped beneath your skin without permission.

You were halfway through rereading and admiring a paragraph for the third time when someone knocked on your door. Three sharp taps.

Your stomach flipped immediately, and you opened the door to find Oscar standing there holding two mugs of coffee.

You blinked at him. Rain darkened the shoulders of his dark ebony sweater slightly, curls damp from the weather. He looked unfairly good in low lighting, all sharp lines softened by the glow spilling from your apartment.

“The power’s out in my kitchen,” you said.

Oscar glanced past you toward the darkened appliances.

“I know.”

“You know?”

“The whole building lost partial electricity twenty minutes ago.”

“Oh.” You looked at the coffee, then back at him. “So to commiserate the loss of my appliances, you brought me pity beverages?”

“You looked miserable earlier.”

Your eyebrows shot up. “You noticed I looked miserable?”

“You sigh loudly when frustrated.”

“I do not.”

Oscar smirked. “You do.”

Offended, you crossed your arms. Oscar held one mug out slightly.

“It’s temporary,” he said. “The outage.”

You took the coffee carefully, fingers brushing his for half a second.

Warm. Dangerously so. “Thanks,” you murmured.

“You finished the book?” The question caught you off guard, and you took a second to reorient yourself.

“Almost.”

Oscar nodded once towards the general direction of his apartment. “I have more. If you want.”

Your brain buffered as you understood what he was suggesting. “You’re inviting me over?”

A flicker of hesitation crossed his face then, so brief you almost missed it. Like he was already reconsidering the decision in real time. “It’s raining,” he said finally. “And your apartment currently smells like burnt toast.”

Heat rushed immediately into your face. “That happened one time.”

“Not true. You set off the fire alarm twice.”

“The second one was unrelated,” you argued.

Oscar’s expression remained perfectly neutral. “You can come over,” he said. “Or continue destroying your kitchen independently.”

You stared at him for another second, but you couldn’t help it. A slow smile grew on your face. “Wow. Oscar Piastri voluntarily initiating social interaction. Historic moment.”

“I can leave,” he pointed out.

“No, absolutely not.”

His apartment looked exactly how you imagined it would. Clean to the point of suspicion. Dim warm lighting. Bookshelves arranged with alarming precision. One massive desk crowded with sketches, mechanical parts, and monitors filled with things you absolutely did not understand.

The place felt lived in quietly, as though someone who spent most of his life inside his own head but had tried, carefully, to make solitude comfortable.

Music played softly somewhere in the background. Piano again.

“You own candles,” you said immediately, spotting one lit near the bookshelf.

Oscar shut the door behind you. “That’s your first observation?”

“You don’t seem like a candle person,” you informed him.

“What does a candle person look like?” Oscar scoffed.

“Happier.”

To your delight, you caught it again. That tiny near-smile. “You can sit down, you know.”

You wandered instead, deciding to uncover some fragments about the mystery that was Oscar’s life. “You alphabetized your books,” you accused him as you inspected his perfectly organized shelves. The ones in your apartment looked nothing like this.

“No.”

You paused, looking closer.

“Don’t tell me it’s chronologically? By publication date?”

“Yes,” he confirmed, a soft blush spreading on his cheeks.

“That’s somehow worse.”

“You reorganized yours by color yesterday.”

You turned sharply. “How do you know that?”

Oscar froze for approximately one second too long. “You left your curtains open,” he answered finally.

“Oh my God.” You pointed at him accusingly. “You do watch me.”

“I live next door.”

“That is not helping your case.”

He looked genuinely unimpressed by your delight over this revelation, but there was something looser about him tonight. Less guarded around the edges. You settled onto the couch eventually, curling one leg beneath yourself while Oscar sat in the armchair opposite, coffee resting untouched in his hands. “You liked Hemingway?” he asked after a while.

You looked down at the book beside you.

“Yeah,” you admitted quietly. “It feels… lonely.” Oscar’s gaze lifted toward yours. “Not sad,” you continued thoughtfully. “Just… like someone trying very hard not to say what they actually feel.”

Silence settled between you. Heavy suddenly. And for the first time since meeting him, Oscar didn’t immediately look away first. “You do that too, you know,” you said softly before you could stop yourself. His expression stilled. “With the whole pretending-not-to-care thing.”

The rain filled the quiet for a moment. Then Oscar leaned back slightly in his chair, studying you with that same unsettling steadiness he always seemed to reserve only for you. “You’ve known me for a week.”

“Mm. And?”

“And you think you understand me already?”

“No,” you clarified honestly. “I just think you want people to underestimate how much you notice.”

Something flickered across his face then. Recognition, changing the air between you two. The room didn’t suddenly become charged with cinematic tension. Nobody leaned closer. Nobody confessed anything dramatic beneath the rain and candlelight.

Oscar simply looked at you for a fraction too long. And for a man who treated eye contact like a limited resource, it felt strangely intimate.

The piano music hummed softly through the apartment while thunder rolled somewhere over the sea. Outside the windows, Monaco glittered silver and gold beneath the storm, headlights smearing against rain-slick streets below.

Inside, Oscar remained very still in his chair across from you. “You say things like that often?” he asked eventually.

“What, annoyingly perceptive things?”

“Yes.”

You smiled slightly. “Only when I’m trying to bother someone.”

“And is it working?”

“You invited me into your apartment voluntarily. I think I’m making incredible progress.”

That earned you the smallest exhale through his nose. Not quite laughter — or a smile — but God, you were becoming disturbingly addicted to making Oscar Piastri happy.

His fingers tapped once against the side of his coffee mug before he asked, quieter this time, “What made you say it?”

“The underestimating thing?”

A nod. You considered him carefully. “I don’t know,” you admitted. “You notice everything.”

Oscar’s brows pulled together faintly.

“You remembered which café I kept going to. You knew I reorganized my books. You notice when I’m frustrated… through a wall.” You gestured lightly around the apartment. “Half your personality is pretending not to care while secretly paying attention to literally everything.”

“That sounds exhausting.”

“It sounds lonely.”

The words slipped out before you could soften them. Immediately, silence settled again. You watched his expression shutter slightly. He wasn’t angry, or offended, just instinctively guarded. You’d stepped accidentally too close to something private. Your stomach twisted. “Sorry,” you said quickly. “That was probably—”

“No,” Oscar interrupted. His voice was calm. “It’s fine.” Which, you were beginning to learn, usually meant absolutely not fine at all.

You shifted slightly on the couch. “You don’t have to answer personal questions, by the way.”

“I know.”

“You just look at me like I’ve committed a federal crime every time I ask one.”

“That’s because you ask invasive ones.”

“You invited me over to discuss literature. This is what happens.”

“I regret it already.”

“No, you don’t,” you corrected him.

Oscar glanced at you then, and there it was again. That impossible almost-smile threatening at the corner of his mouth before disappearing. “I usually don’t invite people over,” he admitted after a moment.

Something about the quiet honesty of it made your chest ache unexpectedly. “You don’t seem like you usually invite people anywhere.”

“You’d be right about that.”

“Do you have friends?”

A pause. “Yes.”

“You hesitated,” you said, pouting.

“I was deciding if you counted as one.”

Your heart did one deeply humiliating thing, but you recovered with visible effort. “Wow. That was almost nice.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

After that night, things changed in ways so subtle you almost convinced yourself you imagined them. Except you didn’t.

Oscar started existing around you differently.

You’d hear your front door open in the mornings only to find coffee sitting outside sometimes — not every day, just occasionally. No note, no explanation. Just a paper cup from one of the cafés he’d recommended.

The first time it happened, you knocked on his door immediately. When he opened it, he looked annoyingly unsurprised to see you. “Did you leave this outside my apartment?”

Oscar leaned one shoulder against the doorframe. “Probably.”

“Probably?”

“You drank the terrible coffee near the marina again yesterday.”

“You can’t punish me into having better taste,” you reminded him.”

He shrugged. “I can try.”

You stared at him, looked down at the coffee, and back up again. “Wait. This is kind of sweet.”

His expression changed instantly, like the word itself physically alarmed him. “No, it isn’t.”

“It absolutely is.”

He fumbled for what to say next. “You looked tired.”

“So your solution was caffeine and emotional repression?”

“That solves most things.”

“Jesus Christ.” But you smiled the entire walk back into your apartment.

Another evening, you came home balancing groceries against your hip only to find Oscar sitting on the floor outside his apartment door with a screwdriver clenched between his teeth.

You stopped short. He glanced up briefly from where he was taking apart the lock mechanism. “…Did you break into your own apartment?”

“No.”

“You look like you did.”

“The lock jammed,” he corrected you.

You crouched down nearby immediately despite the groceries cutting painfully into your fingers. “How long have you been out here?”

“Twenty minutes.”

“And you didn’t call someone?” you inquired, choking out a laugh.

“I can fix it.”

“You say that with the confidence of a man currently sitting in a hallway.”

Oscar removed the screwdriver from his mouth with visible patience. “Go inside.”

“No.”

“You don’t even know what I’m doing.”

“I know moral support is important,” you added, beaming. 

He flicked his gaze up to you, brown eyes crinkling with frustration. “I don’t need moral support.”

“That’s objectively false.”

He sighed quietly. You sat cross-legged on the floor anyway.

The hallway was warm from the lingering heat outside, golden evening light filtering through the stairwell windows. Somewhere downstairs, someone played music softly while dishes clinked faintly through open windows. Oscar worked in silence for another minute before speaking suddenly. “You really don’t get discouraged easily.”

You tilted your head. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Most people stop talking when I clearly want them to.”

“Oh.” You smiled brightly. “That’s because I think you secretly enjoy it.”

“I don’t.”

“You invited me over.”

“That was one time,” he refuted.

“You bought me coffee.”

Oscar tossed his head back. “You looked exhausted.”

“You repaired my window latch yesterday.”

“It was hanging off.”

You inhaled, annoyed. “You notice every time I come home late.”

“That’s because you stomp up the stairs like a soldier returning from war.”

You grinned triumphantly, finally having gotten what you wanted. “See?”

Oscar looked deeply dissatisfied with the direction of this conversation. Before you could say anything, the lock clicked open. He blinked once. “Hm.”

“That’s your reaction?” you asked incredulously. “Not even a little celebration?”

“It’s a lock.”

“You have the emotional range of a Victorian widower. God.”

Oscar looked up at you from where he still sat on the floor. And finally — he laughed. Small and startled, like the sound escaped accidentally. But real.

You froze instantly. That was significantly worse than the almost-smiles. Because now you knew what he sounded like when he genuinely laughed, and unfortunately it was warm and low and unfairly nice.

Oscar seemed to realize what he’d done a second later because his expression shifted immediately back toward guarded neutrality. Too late.

Your eyes widened slowly. “You can laugh.”

“That was barely a laugh.”

“But it was one.”

“No.”

You nudged his shoulder. “You literally laughed at my joke.”

“I exhaled.”

“You’re embarrassed,” you chortled.

“I’m opening my door now.” He stood up smoothly, towering over you again as he pushed the apartment door open. “Goodnight,” he said flatly.

You got to your feet far slower, still grinning like an idiot. “Goodnight, Oscar.”

He paused just before stepping inside, glancing back toward you standing in the hallway. “You can borrow the other Hemingway book I have when you finish,” he said. And then he disappeared into his apartment.

You stood there for another few seconds holding your groceries, heart beating strangely hard beneath your ribs. Somewhere between the bookstore and the coffee and the quiet conversations in the rain, your grumpy neighbor had stopped looking at you like an inconvenience.

By the fifth week of you living in Monaco, Oscar started lingering. That was how you knew things were getting dangerous.

Not because he became openly affectionate — heavens no. Oscar still spoke like every additional sentence cost him money. He still answered the door looking mildly inconvenienced by human interaction. He still acted personally betrayed whenever you made him laugh unexpectedly.

But now he stayed. In the hallway after brief conversations should’ve ended. At your apartment door after returning borrowed books. Beside you at the little market near the marina while you spent fifteen minutes dramatically debating between peaches and nectarines.

“You can’t actually taste the difference,” he informed you.

“That is an insane thing to say.”

“You’re choosing based entirely on vibes.”

“You say that like it’s wrong,” you protested.

Oscar looked at the fruit. “The peaches are objectively better.”

“You have strong opinions about fruit,” you grinned, “I’m surprised.”

“I have correct opinions about produce.” There it was again, that warmth hiding underneath the dryness.

It showed up more often now. In the way he automatically walked on the outside edge of sidewalks without seeming to realize it. In the way he started bringing an extra coffee downstairs if he saw your lights on early in the morning. In the way his apartment door remained cracked open occasionally while he worked, a silent invitation that you’d somehow learned how to read.

Sometimes you sat there for hours doing nothing together. You’d curl up on his couch reading while Oscar worked at his desk nearby, sleeves rolled up, glasses slipping lower down his nose while blueprints and mechanical sketches crowded his screens.

You’d always thought connection had to be loud to matter. Big conversations, grand confessions, immediate understanding.

Oscar was quiet in a way that made tiny things feel enormous. One night, you looked up from your book to find him watching you absentmindedly from across the room. “What?” you asked.

Oscar blinked once, like you’d caught him doing something embarrassing. “Nothing.”

“You’re staring at me.”

“You’re reading intensely.”

You frowned. “How does someone read intensely?”

“You keep making faces.”

“That’s because I’m emotionally invested.”

“You gasped twenty seconds ago,” he concurred.

“It was warranted!”

His mouth twitched faintly. Your chest did something deeply pathetic. The thing was, you couldn’t pinpoint exactly when you started falling for him.

Maybe it was the bookstore. Maybe it was the rainstorm. Maybe it was every tiny moment afterward: the coffee, the conversations, the way he always noticed things about you nobody else did. Or maybe, it was moments like these. The terrifying gentleness hiding underneath all that restraint. Oscar never reached for attention, instead for specifics.

The exact pastry you liked from the bakery downstairs, the fact you hated overhead lighting at night, the way you reread paragraphs when you were anxious.

He noticed everything.

And once he cared about something, you got the feeling he cared permanently. Which was horrifying, really. Especially since you were beginning to suspect the same thing about yourself.

It happened on a Thursday evening.

Warm wind drifted through the open balcony doors while the city glowed beneath the sunset. You sat cross-legged on Oscar’s kitchen counter eating strawberries directly from the carton while he made coffee with the concentration of a surgeon.

“You know,” you said thoughtfully, “for someone who claimed I was too loud, you spend a shocking amount of time with me.”

Oscar slid a cup toward you without looking up. “You’re still loud.”

“And yet here you are.”

“Hm.”

You smiled into your coffee. Outside, Monaco buzzed softly with evening life. Scooters somewhere below. Distant laughter from the street. The sea beyond the buildings turning molten beneath the setting sun.

Oscar leaned back lightly against the counter across from you, arms folded. “You like France?” he asked suddenly.

You looked up, surprised by the question. “I think so.”

“Think?”

“I’ve never… really been.” You glanced toward the balcony. “I mean, unless you’re counting Monaco as being a part of France. But I’m not sure if you are or not. Anyways, my grandmother would have loved the thought of me moving here… at least that’s what I hope.” 

Oscar watched you, a flicker of amusement crossing his face. “She was difficult.”

“She was terrifying.”

“She liked you,” he murmured. The certainty in his voice made you look away from him unexpectedly, refocusing down at your coffee. 

“I don’t know about that.”

Oscar was quiet for a moment. “She talked about you.”

Your head lifted immediately. “What?”

He looked almost reluctant now, like he already regretted speaking. “She mentioned you sometimes,” he admitted. “Mostly after you stopped visiting her in Newport.”

Something inside you twisted painfully. “Oh.”

“She kept photos.”

Your throat tightened further.

Oscar’s gaze stayed fixed somewhere near your shoulder instead of your eyes now, voice calm and even in the way it always became when talking about emotional things too directly. “She worried about you.”

For a second, neither of you spoke. The air between you felt fragile suddenly. “I thought she was disappointed in me,” you admitted quietly.

Oscar looked at you then. Really looked at you. Something about his expression made your pulse stumble. “I don’t think,” he said carefully, “you disappoint people as much as you think you do.”

The words landed harder than they should have. Oscar never said things he didn’t mean, either because he noticed too much, or because somewhere along the way, his opinion had started mattering to you in ways that felt terrifyingly irreversible.

The dying sunlight caught against the edges of his hair and the curve of his jaw. You suddenly became hyperaware of how close he stood. How easy it would be to step forward.

Neither of you moved.

Oscar cleared his throat softly and looked away first.

“There’s a vineyard in Nice,” he said.

“That’s… random.”

“I know.” He laughed, then played it off as a cough before you could point it out.

“You hate random.”

“I tolerate some exceptions.”

Your lips curved slightly. “Do you now?”

Oscar rubbed a hand once across the back of his neck, and to your absolute shock, he looked — nervous? “They do outdoor dinners sometimes,” he continued, gaze fixed very firmly on the coffee machine instead of you. “It’s quieter this time of year.”

Slowly, your smile faded into something softer. “Oscar.”

“They have good wine,” he added, clearly making things worse for himself now. “And olives. You like olives.”

Your heart practically melted onto the kitchen floor. “You noticed I like olives?”

His jaw tightened faintly like he regretted existing. “You order them constantly.”

“And this is…” You tilted your head slightly. “What exactly?”

Finally, Oscar looked at you again. Steady, certain, but terrified regardless. “A date,” he said simply.

The word settled warmly between you. You smiled before you could stop yourself. Gentle enough that something in Oscar’s expression immediately unraveled at the sight of it.

“I’d love to go,” you said.

For a moment, he just looked at you, like he couldn’t quite believe you answered that easily. And then he smiled. Not the tiny restrained flickers you’d spent weeks chasing.

A real one.

Small and crooked and devastating enough to knock the breath directly from your lungs.

Suddenly, with the sea glowing outside the windows, you understood something all at once: You hadn’t moved to Monaco to start over.

You’d moved there to be found.

THIS HAS TO BE SOME FORM OF DIVINE PUNISHMENT.

There’s just no alternative explanation, because reuniting with Oscar Piastri again — after all these years — is far too cruel of a coincidence.

The brightness of your laptop screen glares back at you mockingly, and you’re tempted to slam it shut like a petulant child. Unfortunately, squinting hard enough hasn’t rearranged the words into anything else, and it’s not like breaking your expensive computer is going to erase the email, no matter how much you wish it would.

The Apex Foundation is thrilled to announce the launch of our newest youth motorsport outreach campaign, featuring ESPN+ commentator Y/N L/N and McLaren driver Oscar Piastri.

It’s not the first half of the letter that bothers you, it’s the last portion. 

“No,” you say aloud to nobody in particular.

Your roommate Olivia, who’s in the process of making herself a matcha latte, glances up briefly before deciding whatever turmoil you’re experiencing is not her problem.

You keep reading further, hoping that maybe Oscar will be there temporarily. It’s a stupid thing to think, but you’ve always been foolish when it comes to him.

Over the next three months, the campaign will include media appearances, charity karting events, interviews, and stops across both Europe and Australia.

Oh God. You feel like you might be sick, all over the glossy marble counter. 

When you signed up for this, the idea of spending a quarter of your year jetsetting around the world sounded perfect. The best way to tick off a few boxes on your list of places you wanted to visit without having to deal with major expenses and taking time off of work. But now, realizing you’ll be in close proximity with your sworn enemy… that turns this dream into more of a nightmare.

You drop your head with a dull thunk. This is karmic retribution, it has to be. Maybe you cut someone off in traffic. Maybe you laughed at a child crying once. Or, maybe God just hates you specifically, for no other reason but for entertainment.

Nobody had warned you that there was even the slightest chance of this being a joint tour with another athlete. You wouldn’t have dared to apply if that was the case, but it didn’t matter now. The universe had found its way to put you back into orbit with the boy who spent your entire childhood making your life miserable. With that infuriatingly calm face and knife-sharp, perfectly precise insults that couldn’t exactly be classified as bullying.

Oscar was much too clever for outright bullying. That smug bastard preferred psychological warfare, and you’d bet anything that you’d be on the receiving end of his torture for the foreseeable future.

You’d wanted to strangle him from age eleven onwards, but unfortunately your parents had been best friends and that was out of the question. It had always confused you how someone as nice as Nicole Piastri could have given birth to pesky Oscar, a question that persisted the longer you were around him.

Which was quite often, seeing as you’d both grown up around karting paddocks. Every weekend for years had involved sunburns, petrol fumes, and Oscar’s silent judgement. Yet another staple of your childhood that you tried to repress. You’d always love and value your humble beginning, but you loathed how close you’d been to Oscar, especially considering how your parents would still bring him up in conversations despite not seeing him face-to-face for almost a decade.

By thirteen, your rivalry had become legendary amongst the adults.

By fifteen, people were taking bets over which one of you would snap first: quiet Oscar, or you, feisty little Y/N L/N?

But then, by seventeen, Oscar left for Europe, and you were finally free of his aggravating presence. In fact, you had celebrated by throwing a party so dramatic your mother still brought it up occasionally. 

“Honestly, it was a little concerning how happy you were.”

And yes, you were happy.

Now, your joy was spoiled, because the bane of your existence was back in your life. 

You lift your head from the counter, wishing you could teleport to another dimension where you could escape this situation. Before you can spiral too deeply, however, your phone buzzes with Unknown Number.

Strange — you don’t get many calls at this time of day. Or ever, really. You mostly communicate through a barrage of emails or text messages. You consider ignoring it, but curiosity peaks in you, so you decide to answer.

“...Hello?”

There’s muffled static, a pause, and: “Hi.”

You nearly choke. Of course you’d recognize that voice instantly, regardless of how many years it’s been since you last heard it. Low, gravelly but still dryly unamused and disinterested. 

Oscar Fucking Piastri.

“You have got to be kidding me,” you mutter under your breath.

“That bad, huh?”

“You called me. Why?” You decide to cut right to the point. You’re not a typically blunt person, yet it looks like you’ll get used to it very quickly. Spending more time on the line with Oscar is not something you want to do. 

“Yes, that’s generally how phones work.”

There it is. The same irritating comments you remember.

You sit up straighter out of pure, defensive instinct. “What. Do. You. Want?”

Another pause, eating up more seconds of your precious time. Oscar sounds almost hesitant, though, when he says, “Temporary ceasefire?”

You bark out a sharp laugh in shock. “A ceasefire implies we’re at war.”

“Are we not?”

“We were not.”

“Oh, but if I remember correctly, we absolutely were. You threw a Capri Sun at my head in 2014 after I cracked one joke about your messy handwriting. That’s assault.”

You snort. “Well, you deserved it.”

There’s more rustling on his end of the line, faint voices in the background. It’s probably McLaren employees, working like busy bees to have everything perfectly in order for Oscar’s next race. You can almost see it in front of you: that dumb composed expression he always wears in interviews to make it seem as though everything’s under control. 

Yes, you’ve seen him. Obviously. Everyone loves him, the quiet rookie becoming a Formula One star and almost clinching a World Championship by his third season. He’s an internet darling — all the girls love his lack of humor and how he remains ice-cold under pressure. 

The world thinks Oscar Piastri is unreadable, a robot made to pump out wins and purple sectors.

You know better. 

You know he drums his fingers when he’s annoyed. You know he goes still when he’s nervous. You know his left eye narrows slightly when he’s trying not to smile.

Then again, you also know that he once told twelve-year-old you that your homemade brownies, baked out of love, tasted “like burnt tires.”

Which is unforgivable.

“So,” Oscar says casually. “Can we try to be adults about this?”

Your head jerks. “Nope.”

“Right.”

“I’m glad we’re on the same page, then.” You wait to hear his next remark, if it’s as biting as the past. 

Oscar sighs softly. “For what it’s worth, I didn’t ask for this either.”

An irrational part of you bristles. “Oh, wow. Thank you. That makes me feel so much better.”

“That’s not —”

Anger pricks at you. God, how is it so easy for Oscar to rile you up? “You know what? Actually, don’t worry about it. We’ll smile for the cameras, pretend we don’t hate each other’s guts, and save the children. Do our duty, whatever. Then we can go back to our lives before any of this shit happened.”

“Hate is a strong word.”

You grit your teeth. It’s taking all your effort to not hang up the phone, but you know Oscar will just redial over and over again until you pick up. “You used to call me Little Miss Perfect.”

“In my defense, you would throw a tantrum every time something didn’t align with your schedule. Even if it was off by half a second.”

You shake your head. “Not all of us can rely on a murder of employees to keep us on track.”

You hear it then, very quietly: a laugh. Not the polite little exhale he does in interviews. A real one. Brief, and warm, and startled out of him.

Your stomach does somersaults traitorously. Absolutely not. Nope. You refuse.

Because Oscar Piastri is still Oscar Piastri. Annoying, arrogant, insufferably composed.

And definitely still your enemy.

A fortnight later, you walk into the campaign launch in Monaco and immediately realize two things.

One: the room is full of cameras. Everywhere you look, there’s some form of flashing light. Is this a media event or life under Big Brother? 

And two: Oscar Piastri has gotten unfairly attractive.

It’s actually quite offensive.

He’s standing near the platform wearing a dark navy suit, talking to one of the organizers, expression calm and attentive (like always). Oscar’s taller than you remember, with broader shoulders and cleaner edges. All the gawkiness of his youth has been filled out now, toned muscles shaped by the physical demand of Formula 1.

Most annoying is how pretty he is. Like some sort of genetically engineered prince designed specifically to irritate you with his bland attractiveness.

As if sensing your stare, he looks up. Your eyes meet across the room, and there it is — that strange little pause, the world hiccuping for half a second.

Oscar’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, not smug or mocking, just surprised. His gaze flicks over you once, quick and quiet, and something unreadable settles behind his eyes. There’s that mask being put back into place.

You decide to avoid that general area for a while, and keep Oscar always in your peripheral vision. You’d prefer not to interact with Oscar until it was one-hundred percent necessary, with no other way out.

Sadly, this wish doesn’t stay fulfilled for long. A photographer for the campaign launch brings you two together, and Oscar continues to look at you strangely. Too intently, like he’s trying to solve a problem — but you’re not a Rubix cube, and you hate the weight of his attention. It makes your skin feel warm in a way you deeply distrust.

“Perfect timing!” she says brightly. “Can we get a few shots together?”

You and Oscar share a look of mutual suffering. At least that hasn’t changed.

The photographer, as naive as a summer child, beams. “Closer together, please.”

You step exactly one centimeter nearer. Oscar glances down at the measurable distance between you and almost smiles. “I don’t bite, you know,” he murmurs.

“You definitely do.”

For the first time, his composure cracks fully. A grin tugs at the corner of his mouth, a devastating quirk that makes you swallow roughly.

The worst part is that nobody else notices it, the way Oscar Piastri looks at you after that. None of the photographers, or the event coordinators fussing over schedules, or the PR team hovering nearby with tablets and caffeine addictions.

To everyone else, Oscar Piastri still looks normal — the same old calm, reserved self he’s known to be. 

But you can analyze the tiny differences, how his smile is usually controlled. Neat around the edges, carefully measured for cameras and optics. His posture is usually effortless in a detached sort of way. 

Right now, though? He looks focused, entirely on you.

“OK, beautiful,” the photographer compliments. “If we could get a little closer, that would be great. The proportions look a little off when you’re this far apart.”

You instantly fold your arms. “Sorry, no. It’s non-negotiable.”

Oscar exhales through his nose like he’s suppressing laughter. “Come on, Y/N, professionalism is important,” he remarks solemnly.

“Oh, shut up.”

“Language. We’re working with children.”

You roll your eyes. “We are currently working with a woman holding a Nikon. The children are nowhere to be found.”

The photographer in question snorts. “You two are supposed to look like you actually enjoy each other’s company.”

“That would require extensive visual effects that I fear is greatly out of budget,” you mutter.

Oscar hears you anyway, because unfortunately he’s always heard everything you say. You remember that from childhood too. You could mumble a curse under your breath from twenty yards away and somehow he’d still reply with, “You’re not allowed to say that.”

You used to think he did it to annoy you. Now there’s something softer underneath his teasing.

And that is significantly more alarming,

“Just one nice photo,” the photographer begs.

Oscar glances at you, and before you can react, his hand settles lightly against the small of your back, bringing you closer to him. You freeze. It’s not a dramatic touch at all. Under most circumstances, you wouldn’t consider it a touch, but your entire nervous system short-circuits instantly.

Oscar’s never touched you gently before. Scratch that — he’s barely touched you at all.

Your childhood consisted mostly of competitive shoving, stealing snacks from each other’s coolers, and one memorable incident where he accidentally elbowed you into a stack of tires and didn’t talk to you for three days afterward. It was blissful.

This is different. Intentional.

His fingers flex once against your back, almost hesitant. You can feel the warmth from his palm emanating through the fabric of your dress. When you tilt your head up to look at him, it’s a huge mistake.

He’s already looking at you. Not at the cameras or bustling crowd, but at you. Like other people don’t exist. 

Something twists in your chest, and you decide on the spot that you hate it.

The photographer, on the other hand, lights up. “Yes! Hold that —”

Flash. Flash. Another flash.

Oscar leans down slightly so only you can hear him. “You’re tense. Don’t lock your knees or you’ll faint. I wouldn’t want to have to catch you.”

“Well, you’re touching me.”

“Yes,” he says amusedly. “I noticed.”

Your face grows hot instantly, red flags of heat flaring on your cheeks. He notices too… Of course he does. A tiny smile appears at the corner of his mouth.

You want to push him into the Mediterranean.

The problem becomes obvious over the next two weeks. Oscar Piastri is flirting with you. Subtly, relentlessly, and so absurdly dry that you almost don’t catch it half of the time. You think you’re going insane. This is impossible.

It’s Oscar Piastri, your mortal enemy.

The boy who once told you that your presence in the garage was bad luck for him.

The teenager who corrected your grammar during arguments.

The person who spent six consecutive karting weekends pretending not to care that another racer liked you, whilst becoming so unpleasantly competitive he nearly got banned from the paddock.

You hadn’t realized why at the time. You just thought he was an insufferable arse, which is partly true. 

Still. This cannot be considered flirting. 

There’s just no way.

You’re in Barcelona when the campaign team decides to film a “casual challenge video” together. Which is PR-language for forcing attractive people into manufactured proximity until the internet goes clinically insane.

You’re seated beside Oscar on a plush leather couch while a producer explains the game.

“Since you two are – or were – familiar, we wanted to see how much you remembered about each other. So, you each answer questions about one another. Whoever gets the most right wins.”

“Oh, good,” you respond flatly. “Psychological torture.”

Oscar, weirdly enough, looks pleased.

The producer gives you a wide grin. “First question. What’s Oscar’s coffee order?”

You forget to act nonchalant, instantly answering, “Black, with no sugar.” Both Oscar and the producer blink. “That was fast.”

You shrug one shoulder, heart pounding in your chest. “He’s been ordering the same thing since he was thirteen years old. I’m assuming he wouldn’t have changed it up in the years we haven’t stayed in touch, because he’s emotionally incapable of spontaneity.”

Oscar turns towards you slowly. “You remember my coffee order from when I was thirteen?”

“I absorb information against my will. Don’t read too much into it,” you bite out.

“Hmm.”

The producer tries not to laugh. “OK,” she says. “Oscar, what’s her favorite movie?”

Oscar does the right thing by taking a moment to think. “Pride and Prejudice. The 2005 version specifically, even though she claims the miniseries is technically superior.”

Dead silence. You stare at him, open-mouthed. “What?” Oscar looks confused by your confusion, so you stutter, “How… how do you know that?”

“You made me watch both versions during a rain delay in Bathurst.” 

Your eyes widen. “That was fifteen years ago, Oscar.”

“It’s quite memorable when you cried during the hand flex scene,” he points out.

You shoot daggers at him. “I was twelve!”

“You also cried at —”

“OK, next question!” the producer cuts in.

The crew is openly invested now. Traitors, all of them.

Question after question gets worse. Oscar knows your favorite foods, your worst habit, your tells when you’re lying. 

You know all of this for him too, but yours feels normal. Him knowing this about you feels too specific, too invasive.

“What’s her comfort show?”

 “Derry Girls,” he answers.

“What’s his biggest irrational fear?”

You smother a laugh. “Escalators.”

He huffs out an annoyed breath. “It was one time.”

“Not my fault you screamed bloody murder,” you retort.

“I was seven years old, for heaven’s sake.”

The producer, and several other members, are wheezing. You’re starting to feign enjoyment, too, until the fatal question.

“What’s one thing you admire about each other?”

The two of you answer at the same time. “Nothing.”

At the same exact second Oscar says: “She cares too much.”

You both freeze, and the room hushes, the sound of laughter choked out by the stark contrast in your reactions. You look at him in shock. Oscar, meanwhile, looks like he regrets having functioning vocal cords. “What?” you inquire.

His ears are pink. “I misunderstood the tone of the game.”

“No, no,” the producer pushes eagerly. “Continue.”

Oscar visibly wants to crawl into a hole and die. Interesting. Very, very interesting. To his credit, he clears his throat, and manages to squeak out, “You care about people. Even when they annoy you.”

Your heart skips a beat unexpectedly. He states it so simply, an obvious fact that he’s always known about you. You tear your eyes away from him. The second you break eye contact, the crew collectively notices the tension, thick and uncomfortable.

And once people notice tension, they become vultures.

It gets worse after the video releases. Apparently the Internet has made the verdict that your dynamic with Oscar is “rom-com coded.” You discovered this against your will at two in the morning in the hotel room in Milan, and you still haven’t recovered emotionally. 

“Oh my God,” you whisper in horror.

Your publicist, Mia, is lying face-down across the other bed. “What now?”

“The comments. They think we’re secretly in love.”

She lifts her head slightly. “Are you?” “No.”

Too fast.

Mia narrows her eyes, scenting the maelstrom of emotions swirling inside of you like a bloodhound. “Oh, that’s ugly.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” You toss your head back in frustration.

“That was the fastest no I’ve ever heard in my life.”

“Because it’s ridiculous.”

“Sure…” she trails off, a ghost of a smile on her lips.

“It is,” you insist, cheeks flushing.

“Mmm. If you say so.”

You throw a pillow, which she catches without effort. Then your phone buzzes on the vanity table. Oscar. You stare at the notification suspiciously.

Mia readjusts herself to face you. “Open it, Y/N.”

“No.”

“Stop being such a coward.”

You open it, teeth snagging at your lower lip in nervousness. 

Oscar:

The internet appears to think we’re dating.

You:

Well the internet also thought the earth was ending in 2012 so

Oscar:

You’re avoiding the point.

You: 

There is no point

Oscar:Right

You:

How TF do you sound sarcastic through texts?

Oscar:

Natural talent.

There’s a moment of inactivity that makes you consider putting your phone down. Then another message appears.

Oscar:

For what it’s worth, I don’t mind the rumors.

Your heart stumbles once. Hard.

Mia is fully leaning across the bed now, fully invested in the drama unfolding next to her. “What did he say? Tell me!”

You lock the phone before she takes a peek over your shoulder. “Nothing.”

Her eyes widen. “Oh…” She points violently at you, nearly taking your eye out. “You’re doomed.”

You tilt your head. “I am not doomed.” You refuse to be doomed.

There’s nothing to overthink. Just Oscar Piastri acting weirdly lately, that’s all. Being annoyingly attentive, suspiciously thoughtful, occasionally devastating. Which is totally normal enemy behavior, probably. 

You spend the next week trying very hard not to notice him. A difficult task that would be made much easier if he stopped doing things like showing up beside you with your favorite drink before interviews. Or instinctively adjusting his pace to match yours when you walk through airports. Or looking at you like that.

God.

The looking is becoming a serious issue.

Because Oscar has always looked at people carefully — analytical and observant in that unnerving way of his — but this is dangerously different. 

Like every time he sees you, he’s still surprised you’re real. And unfortunately, you keep catching it.

Such as right now.

You’re backstage in London before a charity gala, sitting in front of a mirror while your makeup artist fixes your hair. The room is full of noise: stylists moving around, assistants carrying garment bags, distant music filtering from the ballroom outside. You’re half listening to your stylist explain something about “visual balance” when the door unlocks behind you.

Your eyes meet Oscar’s in the mirror.

And he halts in his steps.

The stylist keeps talking, but Oscar doesn’t hear a word of what she’s saying. You can tell because his entire expression goes blank for half a second. Not cold blank, but stunned blank.

His gaze drags over you slowly before he catches himself. Then he looks vaguely frustrated about the fact that he caught himself catching himself.

Your eyes turn to slits. “What?”

Oscar gives him a tiny shake, to reorient himself. “What?” he echoes.

“You just made a face.”

“I… don’t do faces.”

“Well, I know what I saw.”

A vein ticks in his jaw. “I didn’t.” The stylist glances between you both with poorly concealed fascination, and Oscar finally adds, “You clean up nicely.”

Now it’s your turn to be astounded. “Was that a compliment?”

“Not at all.” Oscar ignores the stylist, who’s now trying to shoo him out of the room. He’s still gazing at you in the mirror. And the thing is… you should be used to attention by now. You work in media, where cameras follow you constantly, and people look at you all the time. But Oscar feels entirely different, too vulnerable and honest. It makes your pulse feel stupid.

You swivel around in your chair to face him directly. “You’ve been acting strange lately.”

One of his eyebrow lifts. “Lately?”

“Don’t start.” 

“I’m not starting anything,” he protests. His mouth twitches. There’s that almost-smile again, the one that feels weirdly private. Yet his eyes flick downward briefly, to your hands. You follow his gaze automatically, heat curling in your body.

“Oh, you noticed.” You try to make it sound casual and off-handed, but it comes off as fake even to your own ears.

The stylist had put silver rings on your fingers to match the outfit. Oscar nods once. “You stopped wearing rings when you were sixteen. When one slipped between the gears of somebody’s kart.”

Your throat bobs. That’s not a normal thing to remember. Especially not after a decade apart. “Why do you know that?” A persistent question, but never answered.

His expression shifts. “I just… do.”

The stylist claps her hands suddenly. “OK, you two are either secretly married or one argument away from making out. And I honestly can’t tell which!”

You choke violently and Oscar burns a hole through the floor with the intensity of his glower. 

The gala itself is worse, since apparently whoever organized seating arrangements has a sick sense of humor. You’re placed directly beside Oscar for the entire evening. Close enough that your knees brush under the table, close enough that you can smell his cologne, close enough to notice every tiny expression he makes. 

It’s unbearable.

Particularly fueled by the fact that he’s in one of those tailored black suits that should honestly qualify as psychological warfare.

You’re halfway through dessert when the host announces some ridiculous fundraising game involving “celebrity pairs.”

You immediately know this will ruin your life. “Absolutely not,” you whisper viciously to Oscar, in case he was thinking about volunteering. 

The host beams from the stage. “Each pair will answer relationship-style questions about one another!”

The room erupts. 

You close your eyes briefly. 

When you dare to open them again, Oscar is attempting — and failing – not to look at you with amusement. 

“I could fake my own death,” you muse.

“You’re not organized enough for that,” he answers back quickly.

“I hate you.”

“No, you don’t.” The words leave his mouth easily, and your chest tightens unexpectedly. Before you can respond, microphones appear at your table.

The host grins. “Alright! Let’s start easy. Who apologized first after your worst fight?”

You laugh. “We’ve literally never apologized to each other.”

Oscar says at the same time: “She never apologizes.”

You whip your head toward him so fast you’re surprised your neck didn’t snap. “Excuse me?”

“It’s true, you don’t.”

You growl, “It’s not like you do!”

“I’m aware.”

The audience laughs, and you have to curl your fists to keep from punching him in front of everyone. 

“Next question,” the host says amiably, “Who gets jealous more easily?”

“Neither of us,” you answer. You’re the only one to speak.

Oscar’s staring at the tablecloth, and the host lights up like it’s Christmas Day. “Oscar?”

He meets the host’s eyes, face carefully neutral. “I think the question is poorly phrased.”

Your jaw practically unhinges and shatters on the floor. The audience loses their minds. “Oh, this is unbelievable,” you grumble to yourself.

Oscar avoids your eyes entirely now, which somehow makes the situation ten thousand times worse.

The host vibrates with excitement. “Interesting answer! Next question — when did you realize you cared about each other?”

You laugh again, because the only other thing you could consider doing is combusting.

Oscar does not.

You falter.

The host… hell, everybody… notices the change in Oscar, and it’s only exacerbated when he says, “I don’t know.”

You feel dizzy. Somebody must have raised the temperature randomly. The host moves on after that, but the damage is done. For the rest of the night, you can feel the weight of Oscar thinking.

You know him well enough to recognize it; how his silences mean different things.

This one? It feels dangerous.

You corner him after the gala ends, mostly because your brain refuses to let things go, and partly because you’re beginning to feel insane. 

“Oscar.”

He pauses near the hallway exit, turning towards you slowly.

The ballroom noise is distant and muffled behind closed doors. It’s just the two of you in the quiet corridor.

“You’re acting weird,” you say again.

“You’ve mentioned that.”

You cock your head to the side, evaluating him. “I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

You cross your arms defensively. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

His brown eyes soften. That’s the terrifying part — he’s no longer cold, or detached, just plain tired. Holding an invisible burden, modern-day Atlas carrying the world. “You really don’t see it?”

Your stomach drops. “What?”

His jaw tightens slightly. For one awful second, he looks genuinely hurt. 

Footsteps echo down the hallway nearby, and whatever was about to happen disappears instantly. Oscar steps back, expression shuttering closed again. “There’s nothing,” he says evenly.

And now you’re pissed. Because you know that was a lie. “You literally just —”

“Goodnight.”

“Oscar —”

But he’s already walking away. 

You do not think about the hallway conversation. You especially do not think about the way Oscar Piastri looked at you before he shut down completely and walked away. And you definitely do not spend the next three days replaying his wounded voice in your head.

You really don’t see it?

See what? What are you supposed to be seeing?

Because every possibility your brain comes up with feels absurd. Oscar doesn’t like you — even suggesting that seems mad. This is Oscar, the same Oscar who spent most of your childhood correcting your math homework without permission. The Oscar who once told a boy at the kart track that your favorite flowers were tulips because “roses are too obvious for her,” then acted confused when you stared at him for ten full seconds afterward.

Actually.

Wait.

You stop mid-step in the hotel hallway. “Oh no.”

Pieces begin clicking together in horrifying succession. The tulips thing. The coffee orders. The way he remembers everything about you. The jealousy question. The I don’t mind the rumors. The looking.

Oh, God.

No.

No no no.

That’s impossible. 

Your phone hums in your hand before you can spiral any further.

Mia:

Lobby in ten. Don’t be dramatic today.

You: 

I’m having a crisis

Mia:

Hot or ugly?

You:

Unsure

Mia:

Then it’s hot.

You hate her. 

Today’s event is a charity karting day outside of Budapest. Which feels particularly cruel considering kart tracks are the reason why Oscar exists in your life at all.

The second you arrive, memories start ambushing you.

The smell of rubber. The sharp whine of engines. Kids racing around in oversized helmets.

And there, leaning against a barrier with sunglasses on, looking unfairly good in a black team polo —

Oscar.

Your stomach betrays you instantly.

He sees you approaching almost immediately, his entire face changing in that tiny, subtle way it always does around you. Softening at the edges before he reverts himself. You hate that you notice now. 

It’s worse to think that maybe it’s always been there.

“You’re late,” he critiques you.

You glance at your watch. “I’m four minutes late.”

“That’s still late.”

You pout. “You’re insufferable.”

“So you’ve said.” His gaze narrows. “You look tired.”

Your heart does something embarrassing, because his voice changes when he says it. Lower, gentler, concerned. And suddenly you remember every tiny moment from childhood that could have meant something else.

Oscar handing you his hoodie when you were cold without saying a word.

Oscar getting into an argument with another driver because they made you cry.

Oscar sitting beside your hospital bed for six hours after you broke your wrist at fifteen, pretending he was only there because your parents made him stay.

“Oh my God,” you say aloud accidentally.

Oscar blinks. “Concerning response.”

You stare at him, and he stares back, completely unaware of the psychological warfare currently unfolding in your brain. Surely he doesn’t know that you know.

Except —

No, wait. Maybe he thinks you already figured it out.

Which means he thinks you’ve been knowingly rejecting him this entire time.

Your soul briefly leaves your body.

“You… OK?” Oscar asks slowly.

“No,” you breathe.

“Comforting.”

You point at him. “You.”

He looks mildly alarmed. “Me?”

“Yes. You.”

“Strong argument. Want to expand your vocabulary a bit and enlighten me on what’s going on?”

“You’re —” You break off. In love with me? Nope. Can’t say that. Your brain shuts down completely. “You’re tall.” You finish weakly.

Oscar stares at you in silence. “I was aware.”

You want to die.

Things get catastrophically worse during lunch, if that’s even possible. Apparently the universe has decided humiliation builds character.

You’re sitting under one of the paddock tents with several organizers and drivers when one of the younger drivers grins at Oscar. “So,” she says casually, “how long have you two been together?”

You inhale water directly into your lungs.

Across from you, Oscar goes very still.

The table erupts instantly. “No, no,” one organizer says. “They just fight like an old married couple.”

“Which is honestly worse,” another pipes up.

You cough violently, face mottling with embarrassment. “We are not together.”

The volunteer looks unconvinced. “Really? Are you sure?”

“Yes!” you exclaim.

She turns to Oscar for confirmation, and he opens his mouth. For one horrible heartbeat, you genuinely don’t know what he’s going to say. Finally, he blurts out: “No.”

And something weirdly disappointing twists in your chest, which is insane. You immediately become angry about it.

The conversation moves on eventually, but you can feel Oscar beside you growing quieter. More withdrawn.

You risk a glance toward him.

He’s staring down at his untouched drink, jaw tight.

And suddenly it hits you all at once. He thinks you’d never want him back. That’s what this distance is. The hesitance… it all makes sense.

Oscar Piastri — emotionally repressed, terrifyingly intelligent, chronically composed Oscar — has been trying to like you quietly enough that you wouldn’t notice.

Because, odds are, he thought you hated him.

Thankfully you’re seated, or your knees would have buckled and given way beneath you.

Which feels deeply unfair considering he’s the one emotionally compromising you.

The breaking point comes later that afternoon. There’s a small grandstand overlooking the track where the guests can watch the kids race. You slip away there during a break, needing air before your thoughts kill you outright.

The seats are mostly empty, and you’re halfway through contemplating faking your own death when footsteps sound behind you.

It’s Oscar, obviously.

He sits beside you without speaking. Not too close. The space feels like a chasm, and all you want to do is reach out and stitch the hole between you up, even though that’s the last thing your younger self would have done.

The silence stretches, comfortable in the way only silence with him has ever been. You used to hate that too, how easy it was to sit beside him doing nothing. Even your quiet understood each other.

“You’ve been avoiding me today,” he says finally.

You keep your eyes trained on the track, small dots whizzing past. “Have not.”

“You called me tall like it was a threat.”

“In my defense, you are alarmingly tall,” you shoot back.

A tiny huff of laughter escapes him. Then it’s quiet again, wind brushing through the stands and engines roaring below. Oscar taps his fingers once against his knee, his nervous tic rising to the surface. 

“You know, you’re actually very hard to read.”

He glances sideways at you. “That’s… objectively untrue. For you, I mean. Not for others.”

“It’s not.”

Oscar’s nose twitches in confusion. “You’ve known me since childhood.”

“Exactly, and you’re still impossible.”

He looks down briefly, and says, so quietly you almost miss it: “Not around you.”

Your breath catches. The fact that he’s not looking at you when he confesses makes it more honest, somehow. “Oh,” you whisper.

After what feels like an eternity, he turns towards you. There’s no more distance left in his expression, no careful detachment. Just exhaustion, want, and something terrifyingly sincere. “You really didn’t know,” he murmurs softly.

It’s not even a question, yet you can’t speak for a second.

Suddenly, every version of Oscar in your memories looks different.

Every sharp comment that was actually attention. Every argument that lasted too long because neither one of you wanted to stop talking. Every lingering glance. Every moment he stayed.

“Oh my God,” you sputter.

Oscar’s eyelashes flutter briefly, as though this is physically painful for him. “I cannot believe I’ve spent months flirting with someone this oblivious.”

You gasp in offense automatically. “Months?”

“Years, actually,” he amends.

You suck in a breath in astonishment. “Years?”

“You thought I kept memorizing things about you recreationally?” he asks, raising an eyebrow.

“I thought you were annoying!” you protest.

He smirks. “I was annoying, but that’s not the whole truth and you know it.”

“You were emotionally terrorizing me,” you scoff. 

Oscar lilts one shoulder, finally edging closer to where you were perched. “I liked you.”

“That’s a clinically insane way to show affection!”

Oscar laughs properly, right then and there. Bright and helpless and completely unlike the controlled smiles he gives everyone else.

And the absolute worst part —

Is that you think it might be your favorite sound in the world.

You stare at Oscar Piastri like he’s personally offended you; which, to be fair, he has. “Years?” you repeat weakly. 

Oscar leans back against the grandstand seat beside you, one hand dragging down his face. “I’m realizing now that I may have overestimated your observational skills.”

“I thought you hated me!”

“I brought you coffee every morning for two weeks in Melbourne.”

“I thought you were being polite,” you bemoan loudly. “God, you remember everything.”

He works his jaw for a moment. “Yes. Because I’m in love with you.”

Silence. Actual, complete, crushing silence.

Even the sounds from the track below feel distant suddenly. Your brain — whatever shards of it were left rattling around in your skull — fully stops functioning.

“You look alarmed.”

“You just said the L-word!”

“Yes,” he thinks aloud. “Unfortunately, I did.”

You shake your head roughly to clear your thoughts. “Why is that unfortunate?”

“Ideally, I would have preferred a slightly smoother reveal than you accusing me of being tall.”

You make an outraged noise, and he laughs again. Like he can’t quite believe this conversation is real either. 

That idea nearly destroys you. Oscar Piastri has always seemed so composed and impossible to shake, but right now? He looks nervous.

His fingers tap once against his knee again before stopping abruptly when he notices you looking. “You’re fidgeting,” you say faintly.

“That’s your takeaway?” He smirks.

“You never fidget.” 

Oscar drops his hand from his knee, ears going pink. “I do around you.”

This is horrible, you moan internally. This is the worst thing that has ever happened to you. Every single interaction from the past few months is replaying in horrifyingly clear retrospect.

The staring, the jealousy, the almost-confessions, the way his hand lingered on your back during photos, the way he looked disappointed earlier at lunch.

“Oh my God.”

Oscar winces.

“You thought I was rejecting you.”

Neutrally, Oscar replies, “I assumed you weren’t interested.”

You flinch a little hearing that. Seeing it from his side has made everything so… devastating. Oscar trying, probably for the first time in his emotionally constipated life, and you responding by calling him irritating seventy-eight times.

“You idiot,” you tease.

He scowls. “Interesting criticism considering you’re the one who didn’t notice.”

“I noticed things,” you argue.

“Like my height.”

You nudge his shoulder. “You’re making that sound unreasonable.”

“It is unreasonable.”

You glare at him, and he looks suspiciously fond about it.

God, that look.

Now that you understand what it means, it’s unbearable. It’s everywhere, in the way he watches you talk, in the way his shoulders relax around you. It’s even in the tiny unconscious smile he gets whenever you say something sarcastic.

How could you have missed this?

“How long?” you ask quietly.

Oscar’s expression evolves instantly, more fragile. It scares you more than the confession itself. “A while.”

“Oscar,” you push.

He exhales slowly, eyes on the track instead of at you. “Probably since we were teenagers.”

Your heart feels like somebody pulled the trigger. “What?”

“You were fifteen.” He starts off awkwardly, but he presses on, saying, “You broke your wrist doing cartwheels or some other gymnastic trick.”

The memory flashes in your mind. Slick pavement, the awful crack of impact. Your tears blending in with the rain.

And Oscar — Oscar sitting with you in the hospital afterward for hours. Silent, irritated, but hovering. You thought he was there because your parents made him stay. “I remember,” you say softly, almost reverently.

He nods, just once. “You fell asleep eventually. Still had tears on your face. You looked…” he fumbles for the right word. “Small.” Something in your chest caves inward. “And I remember thinking that I’d kill someone if anyone tried to hurt you. Even though, technically, it was your own fault you broke your wrist.” You can hear the blood rushing through your ears as Oscar continues. “Which was really inconvenient because I was sixteen and emotionally repressed.”

“You’re still emotionally repressed.”

“Fair enough.”

You’re staring at him now, really admiring him. Traces of the boy he used to be: picking fights with boys who flirted with you, ending up beside you during group dinners, knowing your favorite things without asking. Oscar remembering. Always, always, always remembering. 

“You liked me this whole time?”

His expression is so open that it almost hurts to see. “Yes.”

The word lands heavily between you. Like it’s always been true. You look away first because your chest feels too tight suddenly. “That’s actually insane.”

“I’m aware, Y/N.”

“You could’ve just told me.”

He shakes his head. “The last time I bothered you, you threw a juice pouch at my head.”

You rub your temples. “That’s because you were being annoying!”

“I was seventeen and trying to flirt.” 

You whip toward him in horror. “That was flirting?”

“In my defense, I had no social skills.”

You cough out a strangled laugh. The wonders of teenage boys never failed to surprise you. Without thinking, you put your head on his shoulder, letting it rest there.

The atmosphere changes instantly.

Oh.

Oh no.

You feel delirious with how close he is. Close enough you can see the tiny scar near his jaw from karting. You notice how his breathing changes slightly as you shift closer.

“Oscar,” you say quietly.

His gaze drops to your mouth for half a second, then moves back to rest on your eyes. Your entire body is electric. “Yeah?” he answers softly.

There’s no more sarcasm, barbed teasing. Just him. Waiting.

You don’t know what to do with this version of Oscar. The honest one, looking at you like you’re something precious.

“You make me insane.”

Something flits across his face. “Mutual problem, actually,” he theorizes jokingly.

“You’re awful at communication.”

He rolls his eyes. “So are you.”

“You were in love with me for years and said nothing.”

“You called me emotionally manipulative in 2019,” he recounts with laughter in his eyes.

You huff. “That’s because you were emotionally manipulative in 2019.”

“I bought you soup when you were sick.”

“You insulted my movie taste,” you remind him. He scratches a spot on the back of his neck. “The movies were bad.” “They won awards!”

“Yeah, and they were still bad.”

You laugh before you can stop it, and Oscar looks wrecked. Hearing you laugh must be his favorite thing on earth, and your smile falters slightly when that epiphany hits you.

“Hey.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to say anything back, you know that, right?”

Your chest aches. He means it, even now, after all this. He’s still not trying to pressure you, staying forever careful with you. It becomes so clear to you why none of this ever felt like hatred. Even at your worst with each other, Oscar was never cruel to you.

Oscar was sharp, competitive, irritating, impossible. Yes. But never cruel.

He always looked at you like you mattered. You were just too stubborn to see it.

“You know what the worst part is?” you reckon.

Oscar studies you carefully. “What is it?”

“I think everyone else figured this out before I did.” You snort. 

His mouth quirks again. “Mia threatened to lock me in a room until I confessed.”

Your eyes widen. “Confessed?”

“She’s very aggressive, I will say.”

You groan and hide your face in your hands. “I’m never speaking to anyone again.”

His hand reaches out to touch yours, fingers interlocking. “You’ll recover.”

“No, I won’t,” you say. “This is humiliating.”

“I can think of worse things.”

You withdraw your hand from his, lifting your head to look at him. Oscar’s giving you his typical impossible stare, as though he’s trying not to say too much all at once. “You know, this is kind of your fault.”

“My fault.”

“Yes,” you insist. “If you had told me how you felt, instead of spending years acting like a weird person…”

Oscar jolts back, deeply offended. “Pardon?”

“You pined silently.”

“I did not pine silently.”

You purse your lips. “You remembered my favorite flowers for ten years.”

“Well, that’s not evidence.”

You level him with an appraising glance. “You got jealous over a guy I dated when we were sixteen and nearly crashed a kart into a barrier.”

“In fairness, he was annoying.”

You scoff. 

“He wore fedoras, Y/N.”

You burst into helpless laughter, and this time Oscar fully smiles. “You’re pretty,” you say accidentally.

Oscar blinks.

Horror floods your body all at once. “Nope, forget I said that.”

Oscar’s cheeks turn pink, just like the tips of his ears. “You think I’m pretty?”

“You heard nothing.”

“Mmm, I’m pretty sure I heard everything.”

“You’re impossible,” you groan. 

“And yet.” His gaze drops to your mouth again, a millisecond that you still notice.

Your thoughts disintegrate. Up here, it feels strangely quiet. Private. Like the whole world is narrowed down to this one moment. Oscar shifts slightly closer, not enough to trap you but enough that you can feel the warmth of him beside you.

And softly, so softly you almost don’t survive it, he says: “Can I kiss you?”

Your brain completely bluescreens. Of course he asks, careful even now. You stare at him for a long second, at the boy who spent years loving you quietly, driving you insane your entire life and somehow became home anyway.

You grab the front of his shirt and kiss him before he can overthink himself into another emotional crisis.

Oscar makes a startled sound against your mouth. For exactly one second. Then his hands are suddenly on your waist like he can’t help it. It’s romantic, it’s perfect, and your brain is short-circuiting from the fact that Oscar Piastri kisses like he’s been wanting to do it for years.

Which apparently, he has.

“Oh,” he breathes against your lip afterward.

You’re still holding onto his shirt. His forehead rests briefly against yours. For the first time in your entire life, Oscar looks completely undone. “You OK?”

He laughs shakily. “You have absolutely no idea what you do to me.”

You want to melt.

“I can’t believe you called me pretty before you kissed me.”

Your face burns instantly. “Don’t make this worse.”

“I think I deserve to hear it again, actually.” “You’re unbelievable,” you snicker.

“And you’re in love with me.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Oscar’s grin grows slowly. “Oh my God,” you harrumph. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Sure it isn’t.”

The problem with kissing Oscar Piastri exactly once is that apparently your body develops an immediate dependency on it, which feels medically concerning. Because the second you pull back, your first coherent thought is:

Again.

Oscar seems to be having a similar issue. He’s still looking at you like the concept of oxygen has become secondary. One of his hands remains carefully at your waist, like he’s not entirely convinced you’re real enough to let go of yet.

The other is gripping the bench beside you hard enough that his knuckles are pale.

Interesting.

“You’re staring,” you murmur.

“I’m processing,” he deflects.

“That sounds dangerous.”

“You kissed me.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You asked.”

“I honestly didn’t think you would agree.”

You blink at him, taken aback. “You literally confessed your love.”

“Yes,” he agrees. “But historically you’ve also threatened me with sports drinks.”

“That happened one time. Stop beating the dead horse. It’s getting old.”

“It happened hard.”

You laugh helplessly, and immediately Oscar’s expression softens again in that terrible, fond way. It hits you suddenly — violently, overwhelmingly — that this boy has probably spent years collecting little moments from you like treasures.

Every laugh, every insult, every accidental touch.

“You’re being weird again,” you whisper.

Oscar doesn’t even try denying it this time. “Probably.”

“What are you thinking about?”

His gaze flicks over your face slowly. “You.”

You think you might actually burst into flames. “That’s not a normal answer.”

“I’m not feeling especially normal right now.”

Which — wow.

Hearing Oscar admit emotional instability is genuinely more shocking than the confession itself.

You narrow your eyes suspiciously. “How long have you been wanting to do that?”

“The kissing or the confessing?”

Your stomach churns. “Both.”

Oscar leans back slightly, considering. “The confessing? A few months.”

“And the kissing?”

He looks at you for one silent second too long. “Honestly?”

You point at him. “Don’t say honestly like you’re about to ruin my life.”

“That ship sailed ten minutes ago.”

“Oscar.”

His ears go pink again.

“I think,” he chooses his next words carefully, “probably Monaco.”

“The first campaign event?”

“You were wearing that black dress. With the sequins,” he hums.

“That was months ago!”

“Yes.”

“You’ve just been existing like this ever since?”

He looks mildly embarrassed now, which is so rare it nearly kills you on sight. “You kept standing very close to me.”

“You were the one touching my back in photos!”

“I was trying to be normal.”

“You failed.”

“That has become apparent.”

You stare at him, and another horrifying realization strikes. “Oh no.” Oscar looks wary already, before you can say anything else. “The gala.”

“What about it?”

“When they asked who gets jealous more easily —” Oscar inches away and you gasp dramatically. “You were jealous.”

“No.”

“You literally hesitated!” You burst out laughing again.

And there it is. That unbearably soft expression he gets when you’re happy. It nearly knocks the breath out of you. You understand now. All those years you thought Oscar was cold —

He wasn’t detached, he was careful. Careful with his feelings. Careful with yours. Careful not to want too much.

“You know,” you ponder aloud slowly, “I think we might actually be stupid.”

Oscar nods immediately. “That’s statistically supported.”

“You spent years in love with me.”

“Yes.”

“I spent years thinking you hated me.”

“That part’s particularly concerning,” he interrupted.

“And everyone else apparently knew.”

“Mia called me pathetic in Milan.”

You rear backwards in shock. “She said what?”

“In fairness, she wasn’t entirely wrong.”

“No, she absolutely was.” You shake your head defensively.

Oscar’s eyebrows lift slightly. “You’re already siding with me?”

“Don’t get used to it,” you huff.

“Too late.”

You shove his shoulder again automatically. This time, though, he catches your wrist gently before you can pull away. The movement is instinctive. Easy. Your breath catches a little when his thumb brushes against your pulse. God, nothing about this man escapes you now that you’re looking properly.

The tiny tension in his jaw. The way he keeps unconsciously moving closer. The fact that he looks happier than you’ve ever seen him. Warm all the way through.

And suddenly you realize something else too. You’ve never seen him like this with anyone. Not friends, not interviewers, not even Lando Norris.

Nobody gets this version of Oscar. Just you.

The realization settles somewhere deep in your chest.

“Oscar,” you say his name like a vow.

“Yeah?”

You hesitate. Which is rare for you. But this feels important enough to say correctly. “I don’t think I hated you either.”

Something flickers across his face. Small. But powerful enough that your chest tightens instantly. “No?” he asks quietly.

“No.” You smile, a stupid  lovesick idiot. “I think I was just emotionally constipated too.”

He laughs, completely gone for you.

You think you could spend the rest of your life trying to make him sound like that again. “You know what really annoys me?” you continue.

“Hmm?”

“You’re probably going to become unbearable now.”

“I’m already unbearable,” he objects.

“True.”

“But, I’ll simply be unbearable and loved.”

You sigh loudly. “Oh, you’re never shutting up about this.”

“Absolutely not.”

“You’re going to weaponize the fact that I kissed you first, aren’t you?”

He smiles. “You grabbed my shirt.”

“I was having a crisis.”

“You called me pretty,” Oscar reminds you, as though you need reminding of that mortifying moment.

“Please stop bringing that up.”

Footsteps echo faintly from below the grandstand, distant voices calling for drivers and staff. Reality is creeping back in. Eventually you’ll have to go downstairs. Eventually people will see this.

Mia will probably scream. The internet will become unusable. Your parents may actually pass away from vindication.

But right now it’s just the two of you sitting in the fading afternoon sunlight above a kart track that somehow started all of this years ago.

Oscar’s still holding your wrist gently, like he forgot to let go and doesn’t want to.

“You know,” he muses after a moment, quieter now, “I used to think you were the scariest person I’d ever met.”

You think he’s joking. “Me?”

“You threw things when angry.”

“You deserved those things.”

“Probably.” His thumb brushes your wrist again absentmindedly. “But mostly I think I was scared because I wanted you too much.”

Your heart stumbles painfully. Oscar says things so simply, so bluntly sometimes. Honesty does cost him less now that it’s finally out in the open.

“And now?” you ask softly.

His gaze lifts to yours. Warm. Certain. Entirely yours. “Now,” he says, “I think it might’ve been worth it.”

The universe feels like it has quietly tilted onto a new axis while you weren’t paying attention. You look at the boy who spent years loving you in silence. The boy you spent years misunderstanding with terrifying dedication. The boy who turned every fight into affection and every sharp edge into something strangely safe.

And suddenly it all makes sense. The tension. The gravity. The feeling that no matter how far apart you drifted, some invisible thread always pulled you back together.

Maybe this wasn’t divine punishment after all.

Maybe it was the universe getting tired of waiting for two idiots to finally figure it out.

he always tells you the same thing, "i need you there... my pretty good luck charm." and it would always make your heart skip a beat and your stomach flutter with butterflies.

and of course you fold immediately because you realize fast that you can't say no to those beautiful eyes of him.

you've also found yourself at his place in monaco than at your own place. especially within the last few months after having missed spain and canada. you don't realize it at first, but lando had slowly begun to make space for you in his monaco apartment. an extra toothbrush in baby pink, a place for your shampoo, conditioner, and body wash (that you're convinced he also uses), space for your clothes in his drawers and closet, and even your favorite snacks in his cabinets.

at this point, you might as well live there with him.

but the thing that always came to your mind was... why? why did he make space for you? extra toothbrush, space in his shower and closet, snacks in his cabinets. it was all lovely, but you couldn't under why he did it for you.

"you'll get wrinkles early if you keep frowning like that," lando's voice is smooth as he gently presses his fingers between your eyebrows. snapping you out of your thoughts as you look up to your boyfriend standing above you – a cheeky smile on his face as looks at you.

his hand drops to his side before you can swat him away, and he sits down next to you on the couch. arm resting along the back of the couch while his other one is pulling the blanket – your blanket you bought for his couch because you felt like he needed more whimsy in his apartment – over him as well. "what're you thinking about?"

you wonder if you should just straight up ask him. maybe he'll tell you what you are secretly hoping for him to say even though you don't fully realize it yet.

"i was just... thinking."

"dangerous – you could conquer the world with that brain of yours," he grins, pulling you into his chest as he kisses your temple. "what are you thinking about?"

"hmm, i just noticed that... well, you've made space for me in your apartment, and i was wondering why?"

"why what?"

"why do make space for me? you got an extra toothbrush, you've made space for my makeup, a place in your closet for my clothes, and you even bought my favorite snacks that are hard to get here. so why?"

"do i need a reason to want you to feel comfortable?"

"comfortable?" you move to look at him. sitting on your knees, body fully facing him. lando is fully relaxed, face calm as he looks at you – meeting your curious and overthinking eyes.

"i like when you're here," he starts to explain, "you make this apartment feel less lonely, like... i know that when you're here with me that i can relax and you feel like home and not just a place where i sleep. so, i want you to feel at home too."

"with you?" you ask softly, heart thumping so loudly in your eyes because of how much his words had moved you.

"yeah... with me." he says, pausing for a moment. lando's eyes move to look away from you for a second, like he's thinking, before he's meeting yours again. "and listen– i've been thinking about something too."

"uh-oh, that's a dangerous thing to say."

"hush," he laughs out, making you smile back at him. he licks his lips before he's gently moving to get up. "stay right here for a second, i need to grab something." he's darting off down the hallway before you can reply, and he's coming back a minute later. something in his hand as he sits back down in his spot.

your eyes drift down to whatever it is that he's holding in his hand. still hidden from your view before you're glancing back up at your british lover.

"i've had this for a while... since before canada even, and after everything that happened i've been waiting for the right moment to give this to you," he says, your heart clenching when he mentions canada. you think back to what he said those months ago and the strain it put on your relationship.

but then he's opening his palm up to show–

"a key?" you say out loud as you look down at the polka-dotted designed key in his large palm. you then reach for it, letting the cold metal sit in your own palm now.

"its... a key to the apartment," he tells you softly and your head immediately snaps up to look at lando to see him already looking at you.

"lando..."

"its so that even if i'm not here, you have a place to come to if you need to. i want you to know that what i said back then is true... that this apartment really is your home and i want you to be able to come home whenever you want to."

your vision blurs at his words, hand clenching the key to tightly you feel the metal digging into your palm. lando's hand comes up to cup your face, thumb gently brushing the stray tear away. "don't cry, princess."

"of course, i'm going to cry," you argue weakly, using your free hand to push at his shoulder. lando lets out a laugh as he pulls you into him, your head resting against his chest and you can just faintly feel his heart beating through his hoodie. "thank you, lan."

"don't thank me, y/n," he says, kissing the top of your head as the two of you hold each other for a few moments. then after a period of comfortable silence, lando speaks again, "i also have a question i want to ask you..."

"what is it?"

"when the season is over... i– i want you to move in with me," he says. you freeze, the question taking you off guard as you pull away to look at him with wide eyes.

"are you serious?"

"i'm dead serious, baby, i want you here... with me. even move you into my london apartment. every place i get... i want a piece of you there with me."

"but..." you couldn't help but let the overthinking take over once more. you fully blame your dad for this curse of pessimistic thoughts. "what if i say yes and you regret it later on? do you think this is too fast?"

"first of all – i won't regret it, i promise, and second... i thought about it, but then i was talking to my mom and she encouraged me to ask you."

"your mom?" you hand only met his parents officially not too long ago. you still feel a little embarrassed about your first interaction with her. it happening at the exact london apartment lando had mentioned moments ago. you loved his parents, both of them a lot more welcoming and open than yours. well, adam was definitely a lot nicer than your dad.

"i told her how it felt every time you went back to paris and i was left alone," he confesses quietly.

"how do you feel when i go back to paris?"

"i hate it so much because i miss you," he says without any hesitation. "i like when you're next to me. whether we watch your movies, eat dinner together, or when i hold you at night – i love having you next to me. experiencing life with someone that i–

he cuts himself off, eyes suddenly looking away from you. you bite your lower lip as you can't help but to tease lando a little bit.

"someone that you what?"

"someone that i love," he says and you feel your breath hitch slightly at the his words. completely caught off guard.

"lando–

"it doesn't have to be now," he cuts you off, face serious as his eyes meet yours again, "i want you to think about it, and after abu dhabi... then you can give me your answer. okay?"

you don't say anything for a good minute, eyes just looking at lando's, searching for any possible sign of doubt from him. but nothing. he was fully serious. you then look back down at your hands that rest in your lap, hand opening up to look at the key he gave you again.

lando wants you here. he wants you here with him.

"what if... what if i'm too much?" you ask, still looking at your hands. completely missing how he flinches at your question.

"you're never too much," he says, finger coming to tilt your chin up so you can look at him. "i want you – in every sense of the word. i don't want you to rush into anything either, yeah? think about it like i said," he assures you, forehead knocking lightly against yours. "and use this key whenever you want too."

"okay... i'll– i'll think about it and let you know," you tell him making the f1 driver smile at your words. "after abu dhabi, i'll give you my answer."

"i'll be waiting," he says before he's moving his head just enough to kiss you. his lips pressing softly against yours, yet the kiss itself felt like he was assuring you of everything the two of you just talked about. you couldn't help but smile shyly into the kiss, arms wrapping around his shoulders as he lays the two of you down across the couch.

With just enough time to order the biggest bouquets of his mum and mother-in-law’s favourite flowers and shooting off a selfie with a dopey grin to Evelyn, he got in the car thanking the French for seemingly throwing darts on a board to pick the most random days for occasions.

But he wouldn’t exactly be Lando Norris, certified head case, if he did things conventionally, would he? Since a big surprise in the middle of race week would earn him only tight-lipped smiles and weary looks from the trackside crew, Lando decided to plan around the day they made it back to Monaco for a three-week break.

What he didn’t account for was the nasty bout of flu going around the paddock, and—due to her sporadic appearances—Evelyn being the perfect target for it. Now, as he cracks open the door to the master bedroom, he winces at the cough violently shaking her shoulders as she tosses in the sheets.

She’d insisted they sleep separately for a few days, adamant on not passing the cold to Zeke. Which is how Lando ended up tiptoeing into the room with a cold towel, paracetamol and a bottle of electrolytes.

Evelyn stirs briefly when he places the wrung-out fabric on her forehead, brushing away the baby hair. “Why ‘you up so early?”

“It’s five minutes to ten, you muppet.” He feels bad about finding her voice just a little bit funny but she does actually sound like Donald Duck with a bad throat. “Heard you getting up a lot last night.”

She nuzzles into his palm as he strokes her cheek, making a noise. “Upset Stomach. Couldn’t keep dinner down.”

Well, there go his plans for a restaurant date. The jokes fucking write themselves. “Reckon pancakes will make it worse?”

Evelyn opens one eye cheekily, a smile unfurling on her lips. “That is the best remedy. But no blueberries, please.”

“Concerning use of free will,” Lando snickers, shrugging off the fleeting thought of what this says about them being responsible adults and parents, He leans down to kiss her cheek gently, “Get some more sleep before the hurricane hits. Its only downhill from here, madame.”

Her reply gets lost in the blankets as she burrows into them, leaving him to wander towards the hallway with the empty box of tissues and used plates. He’s halfway through cancelling the lunch reservation when the doorbell rings, followed by an enthusiastic ‘I’ll get it!’

Lando barely gets time to drop the stack of utensils on the kitchen island before the front door swings open and he sprints to catch up to Zeke.

The delivery driver looks startled at the sight of him as he tugs Zeke closer with a hand of his shoulder. “What did we say about opening doors by yourself?”

“But you are right here,” Zeke argues with a pout that immediately turns into a grin, practically bouncing at the balls of his feet. And here Lando was thinking the rebellious phase is still half a decade away, at the very least. "Did you get cake? What flavour is it? Can I have some right now?”

Once the match lights, the fuse just keeps on going. Lando has to gently cover his mouth before he finishes listing off all ten reasons why having chocolate cake first thing in the morning should be a law of the land. 

“Easy there, mate. You'll talk your own ears off. How about you take this,” he hands the paper-wrapped bouquet to him, biting back a smile at how Zeke's curls barely peek out over it, “and take it to the coffee table?”

“I can do that!” Zeke promises with a an amount of conviction that would be believable if he wasn't swaying on his feet. “But cake after?”

Lando shares an exasperated look with the delivery worker who hides a chuckle behind a shoddy cough, as if to say ‘kids, am I right?’ Then instantly feels like an irritated senior citizen about that line of thinking, so he ruffles Zeke's hair to distract from his scarily earnest eyes. If only the kid was that enthusiastic about a balanced diet.

Regardless, Lando knows to pick his battles one at a time. “Yeah, alright. Go on, then.”

By the time he secures the gifts and the sweets—at this point, they have a prime time membership at the bakery with how often they order in bulk—and waddles into the kitchen with both arms fulls, he gets a millisecond to take in the objectively adorable chef hat and matching apron Zeke's got on before it registers that is son has scaled the counter and is actively reaching for the clumsily stowed pancake batter on the overhead cabinet. He swears his heart drops to his arse.

“Z, wait, no—”

At this point, all Lando can do is watch with thinly veiled horror as tiny fingers grab hold of the box and yank down, only for it to tip over and cover everything in a cloud of white. Straight on top of the innocent bystander that was Bonbon. 

The dog makes a whinging noise and barks once, before lapping at her own fur for the sweet remnants as if it's compensation for staining her freshly washed fur. Fair enough. 

Lando turns to the chaos agent, finding him aiming for the countertop with his tongue. “Hold that thought!” he yells, surprising Zeke enough to scoop him away from the mess, sitting him down on the kitchen island. Lando grabs a handful of paper towels, wiping away the clump of batter in Zeke's hair and his pyjama shirt.

“This is exactly why I tell you not to grab at things. Do you think you are actually a monkey?”

Despite his best efforts to keep the mounting frustration out of his voice, there's an edge to it—not at his son, never, but the day hasn't exactly been going according to plan. More like, it has been sprinting in the complete opposite direction. 

And of course Zeke picks up on it. “‘M sorry. Just wanted to help you.”

Lando takes a deep breath, eyes softening entirely too quick at the small fists clutching the hem of a Lightning McQueen shirt. He balls up the used paper towels and aims for the dustbin, cheering internally at the small win as it lands true. 

“I know you want to help,” he starts, squatting down to clean whatever sticky mess he can off Bonbon's coat. “But you can't just climb onto things. If that box was heavy and it fell on top of you or Bon, it would've really hurt. And then you'd have to go to the hospital and get covered in bandages.”

Zeke's nose scrunches up at the mental image. “Yuck. Like a mummy?”

Bless kids and their rampant imagination. Lando isn't above weaponizing it if it helps get the message across, so he nods solemnly. “Exactly like a mummy. Now, since you already decided to shower with the pancake mix, let's finish what we started.”

At the offer of an olive branch, Zeke lights up like a Christmas tree and Lando only feels minimally concerned about rewarding naughty behavior. Well, right now he's just glad to get this show on the road. Preferably before a certain someone shows up like a hungry gremlin, so.

The thing about Zeke is that he's just as enthusiastic about the eating part as he is about the cooking. He chops the bananas and strawberries with his plastic knife and carefully dumps the chocolate chips into the bowl—after collecting his tax with a cute grin, obviously. And when Lando moves on to buttering the pan and actually frying the pancakes, he diligently sits on the kitchen island, doodling on a sheet of paper.

“Daddy,” Zeke perks up after a while, making Lando hum from where he was dissociating while watching their breakfast cook. “What are we having for lunch?”

“Not pancakes again, that's for sure. Bonnie ate half the batter, no thanks to you,” he rolls his eyes, pinching Zeke's nose. “Maybe I'll give you a bunch of leaves with a side of worms crawling on them. Delish, huh?”

The tiny rascal pulls a face like someone just offended his entire existence. “Je préférerais manger des cailloux.”

“Want some dirt to go with it?”

“Ewwwww!”

The rest of the morning goes something like this: they plate the food in an astonishing display of teamwork — Lando flips the pancakes onto the plate and Zeke piles whipped cream while giggling up a circus because they ‘look like poop’. 

Lando thankfully has the foresight to place his open palm under the sprinkles bottle when Zeke shakes it so hard, the entire cap comes right off, spilling everywhere except their masterpiece. Now that he thinks about it, this intuition is the best superpower.

They load the tray with a glass of fresh juice and the bouquet of blushing stargazer lilies. Zeke tops it off with his handmade card that looks like it endured a storm of colours and glitter, and yells “Ta-da!” on top of his lungs, making jazz hands.

“Shhh! She'll hear you, buddy,” Lando tuts, picking up the whole arrangement and dragging his socked feet through the hardwood floor. “Mask on and breakfast secured. Are you ready, Agent zero-zero-four?”

“Sir, yes sir,” Zeke throws a clumsy salute, voice muffled by the N95 covering more than half his face. 

They make a ridiculous sight, but Lando loves it all the same. “Alright, off you go. But don't jump on the bed, okay? Mama isn't feeling too good.”

That's all the confirmation Zeke needs to dash into the room, shouldering through the door. Lando follows behind slowly, honing into the lump on the bed that startles upright before the blanket falls away to reveal Evelyn's slightly confused and alarmed face.

It reminds him of a prairie dog trapped in a blanket burrito, and he has to brace himself against the doorframe to keep from doubling over as Zeke burrows into her. 

"What's all this, then?” She gasps, in a random show of very stereotypical English-ness. “Why are you two dressed like exterminators? I have a cold, not the bubonic plague.”

Lando scoffs. “Rude. We are on a very important mission.”

“Bonne fête maman!” Zeke yells in support, crawling into her lap and plants his face in her neck. 

They watch, amused, as realization dawns on her and a giggle breaks free, a precious flush blooming on her cheeks, all the way down the column of her throat. “Mais ce n'est pas dans plusieurs semaines?”

Lando shakes his head fondly, settling the tray on the covers and sitting down beside her to wrap his arms around her waist, squeezing gently. “And in the middle of another race week. So we are becoming normal people for once, and celebrating on the international mother's day.”

“I made you a card,” Zeke tells her, not waiting for an answer before plucking it up and holding it open. Evelyn melts in real time as she takes in the slightly wonky words and big colorful hearts. 

To absolutely no one's surprise, she reaches for Zeke to the best of her abilities in a still feverish state, to pepper his forehead with kisses. “This is so so sweet! Mille mercis, mon tigre.”

There's no tangible difference between pure glowing sunshine and their son's smile as he ducks in head shyly only to perk up again. “Now can we have cake?”

Lando stares at him. “So there was a hidden agenda after all.”

Zeke turns up his nose and puffs his cheeks out dramatically, “You promised.”

“Funny how I don't remember that at all. Do you have it in writing, mate?”

“Mama! Daddy is being a meanie.”

“Alright, alright, enough,” Evelyn cuts in before the back and forth can escalate, grinning undeterred. “Bub, remember those paper plates we got for Grandpa's birthday? There's some left in the pantry. Let's have cake the proper way, shall we?”

When it comes to snacks, he doesn't need to be told twice, "But don't start eating without me." As soon as Zeke's feet hit the ground, he's hurrying towards the living room leaving both Lando and Evelyn laughing in his wake.

She turns to him soon after, cupping his face to nuzzle into his cheek. “I'll give you this one, baby. I had no clue you were scheming.”

Lando shrugs, only a bit smug. “Good to know I haven't lost all my skills yet.”

Evelyn snorts, patting his chest. “O-kay, no need to get a bigger head.” When she pulls away to look at him, he has this playful glint in his eyes that he's aware is entirely too suspicious. “What?”

“Actually,” he starts, fishing his phone out of his pocket. “I have one more gift.” 

It takes Evelyn an whole minute to skim the words on the screen and process what that entails. When she finally does, a pair of wide blue eyes snap back to him. “Lando,” she starts, a loaded gun waiting to fire but what comes out instead is a wispy little, “You didn’t have to.”

And, well—Lando had about a thousand answers planned for anything she might have thrown his way but that wasn't one of them. It makes him sad how she still feels the need to accomplish something concrete to justify a break, like some fucked up reward system that is borderline unhealthy. 

But Evelyn doesn't think that holding fort while he goes off jetting across the world—being Zeke's only parent for the better part of a year, managing her own work, still travelling to see him whenever she can—all while dealing with an avalanche of hate for walking, talking, breathing a certain way just because she is tied to him is no big deal.

In his most twisted nightmares, Lando has conjured maybe infinite reasons why she will be better off without the spotlight threatening to burn her, burn everything they've built so carefully. But if there's one thing he has learnt the hard way, it's that there is no version of him that leaves unscathed without her.

So, really, all Lando can do is try to shoulder even a fraction of that mess. Because Evelyn and Zeke deserve the world, and he only hopes he'll be a part of it till the end of their days. 

Ergo, he absolutely had to.

“Think about it. When was the last time all of us went on a trip together? It'll be fun,” he insists, bringing up a hand to caress the faint smile lines near her eyes. 

She is silent for a bit and Lando wonders if he was too ambitious and overshot. Then, Evelyn sighs wistfully. “The whole family in one place? We'll manage to sink Costa Terra in a week, Lan.”

Watching her smile as she reads the dates on the tickets again, before taking a screenshot and sending it to the family group chat, Lando supposes that surprises can be pretty sweet after all. No matter which end of it you are on.

🗓 May 13, 2035

♬ Where You Lead • Carole King

liked by lando , mclarenf1 and 732,831 others

evelynderieux to the most beautiful and amazing women in our lives, one day isn't nearly enough for celebrating all your love and sacrifices. happy mother's day 🤎🤍

tagged: ﹫katieprescott ﹫laurendr.xoxo ﹫savnorris

view comments ...

lando ✪ love you all ❤️💫 ♥︎ by creator

user im convinced evelyn doesn't have a single bad angle 💁‍♀️

savnorris ✪ mums rule the world! ♥︎ by creator

user awwwwww Z's lil card is adorable

user love how she included all the mothers in BOTH their families 🥹💙

⤷ user i don't see what the big deal is. they are married

⤷ user SHUT UP SUSAN I'M IN MY FEELS

laurendr.xoxo all i see are five superwomen 🫶 ♥︎ by creator

user lowk jealous of Z 😔 he has the coolest mama in the world❕️

⤷ user oh to be raised by lando and evelyn... thats my dream life right there

user it took me a hot second to realize that was an OLD pregnancy test on the 8th slide😭😭😭

⤷ user FRRR i got a heart attack!! 💀

𝒏otes. ✰ not my best work and definitely not proofread, but i wanted to get this out asap. once again, a happy international mother's day!! send me some ideas for this au i beg (once again lol). see ya with the next one, lovelies!

He’d crashed three races ago. He was fine, but you had to watch helplessly from the garage as he spun and slammed into the barriers more than once, full speed ahead, not able to stop or slow down or soften the blows in any way.

They’d whisked him off to the medical tent and then the hospital in record time too, and since you technically weren't family, you weren't allowed to see him until after he’d been discharged.

Hours, you’d spent waiting for any shred of news on how he was, what his injuries were, if he was even okay. Hours, you’d sat in the waiting room, combing through every single scenario of what could've possibly happened for them to not be telling you anything.

He was allowed to walk out of the hospital on his own two feet after being let go with a few bumps and nasty bruises, but otherwise miraculously unharmed.

That was when he saw you, curled up in one of the waiting room chairs, knees drawn to your chest. Your eyes had been red and puffy when you looked up at the sound of him calling your name, face going slack as if you were seeing a ghost and not him.

Still, he didn't question it when you threw yourself into his arms. Didn't question it when you stayed glued by his side the rest of the day, buried yourself in his arms that night.

In the morning, however, it was a completely different story.

And ever since then, Lando's noticed you growing distant. You still hug him and kiss him, still accept his affections towards you, but something about it feels off, like there’s something brewing under the surface that’s changed.

He hates it.

Today he finds you in the garden, staring out at the perfectly trimmed hedges blankly.

Fog sits thick in the distance, not unusual for London, and it complements the somber mood that's been haunting your relationship lately.

He knocks gently on the glass door as he passes through so as not to startle you, before stepping outside and settling in the other patio armchair beside yours.

“Morning,” He says, reaching out to rub your arm. You jolt ever so slightly, so subtle that it would’ve gone unnoticed had Lando not known you so well. He frowns, letting his hand drop.

How is it that you’re sitting right next to him, but somehow it still feels like you're a thousand miles away?

He tries again. “How’d you sleep? I didn’t hear you come to bed last night.”

“Fine. Had some work to do, wanted to let you get your rest so I slept on the couch.”

Lando blinks. Lets the excuse sink in.

You’ve never not slept next to him whilst he was home. And maybe that's the straw that breaks the camel's back, because his next words fall from his mouth before he's able to hold them back.

“Alright, what’s going on?” He asks finally, doing his best to keep his voice even. You don’t flinch at the question, which should bring him comfort, but it doesn’t. It just deepens the pit in his stomach.

“What’re you talking about?”

“Don’t do that. Don’t pretend like everything’s okay, because I know it’s not.”

“I’m fine.”

“I love you, so I want you to know I mean this with nothing but the best of intentions. That’s bullshit. You’re not fine, and I know that because I know you.” Your brows crease in the middle, lips pressing into a hard line, but you don’t say anything. “Will you please just talk to me, love?” Lando pleads, taking your hands in his. He squeezes them, brings them up to his lips to kiss your knuckles softly.

You bristle this time, angling your gaze away from him. “It’s nothing.”

“No, it’s not. It’s not nothing, ‘cause if it was, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.” He insists, shaking his head. “You can tell me anything, you know? Maybe I can help. I want to help, but I can’t if you won't talk to me about it.”

“You can't help, Lando.”

“How do you know?”

“You just can’t!” You cry, ripping your hands from his.

Lando’s stunned. It isn’t what he’d been hoping to get out of you, but it is something. It’s the most emotion you’ve shown at all the past few weeks.

“Okay. Okay, so maybe I can’t help. But I think you’d feel a lot better if you let it all out.” He chooses his words and tone carefully. Meticulously. The last thing he wants is for you to feel like he’s trying to interrogate the information out of you. “I just want you to know I’m right here. I’m here for you, whatever you need. Whenever you need it.”

You remain silent.

Lando may not be the best at heart-to-hearts, but he can take a hint. So he climbs to his feet and turns to go, because he can tell you want to be alone.

“I’m scared.”

The words stop Lando right in his tracks. Scared.

He makes his way back over to where he’d just been sitting, perching on the cushion a little closer. “Okay. You’re scared. Wanna tell me why you’re scared?”

“It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid—”

“It is stupid, and I’m being a big fucking baby!"

Frustrated, Lando throws his hands up in the air, shrugging. "Okay? And I'm telling you I'm here for you, and you're being—"

"I'm being what, Lando?"

"I don't know! You won't tell me!"

“Every time you get in that car, I think I might lose you!” You snap, voice shaky. It rips through your throat, raw with such pure emotion it renders him speechless. “And I know you’re a professional, I know this is your job and you’re trained to know exactly what to do when you crash, but do you have any idea how scared I was? They took you away so fast, I didn’t even know if you were alive, Lando!”

There it is.

“I can’t sleep because every time I close my eyes, all I see is your car plowing into the barrier! I see parts flying everywhere, I see people dragging you out of the cockpit. I see the inside of that hospital waiting room, and I feel—I feel helpless.”

Your shoulders slump like the weight of the world has just been lifted off of them, and in a way, it has.

You hadn't planned on telling Lando, but now that it's out in the open, maybe something productive could come out of it.

Lando's eyes swim wide with guilt, and you fight the urge to groan.

This isn't what you wanted. Knowing him, he thinks it's his fault because he's the one who crashed, but it isn't. It was a freak accident, and your resulting feelings are just that. Your feelings.

"Don't look at me like that."

"What? I'm not—I'm not looking at you like anything."

Your jaw sets, brows pinching in the middle as you put a little more space in between the two of you. "Yes, you are. You're looking at me like you pity me, and I don't need that."

"I don't. I just…I wanna know how I can help."

"You can't."

"How do you know?"

"Because it's my problem, Lando! My fears, not yours. It isn't something we can do together," You say sharply. "The only way this can get fixed is if I get over it myself."

You half expect him to give it another go, to push again until you give in. But he doesn't. Instead, he scowls.

"Y'know, sometimes you can be so stubborn," He huffs. Your eyes flash dangerously, but since he's decided on glaring into the distance, he doesn't see, so he continues. "I wish it wasn't like pulling teeth to get you to let me in!"

A terse silence settles between the two of you. You've never been much of a combative person, but his dig flips a switch inside. You turn your glare on him.

"If I make things so hard all the time, maybe I should leave, then."

Lando gawks at you incredulously now, disbelieving. "I didn't say that!"

"Yeah, well, you didn't have to!"

"Fucking—y'know what? You can stay. I gotta get out of here."

He's gone before you can even think of a reply.

You hear the front door slam shut in the distance and curse, burying your face in your hands.

Snapping at Lando had not been the plan. Your emotions had gotten the better of you, again, like they always do. The same fear that has gripped your heart since Lando's crash is taking over your life now, and you have no idea how to stop it from consuming everything.

There are only a few people you can think of that might be able to help you right now.

That is how you find yourself on the doorstep of the Norris family household, mentally combing through whether or not coming to Lando's parents is the right move.

You're no stranger to this newer London home of theirs, having been with Lando long enough have had the privilege of spending many holidays here with all of them, and Cisca and Adam have welcomed you into the family with open arms. Still, as soon as you knock on the solid wooden door, a flicker of doubt ignites.

What if they think you're being silly?

Before you can do anything else, the door swings open and Lando's mum is smiling warmly at you.

"Hi, Cisca. Sorry to drop in out of nowhere like this," You say, fingers twisting into the hem of your jumper. "I probably should've called first."

"No apologies needed, love. Come, come in—we've always said you're welcome anytime and we meant it," Cisca tuts, shaking her head. She must sense something is off, because she studies you carefully as she leads you to the kitchen for a cup of tea. "What's on your mind, dear?"

"How did you know?"

"A mother always knows."

And so you tell her everything. The crash, the aftermath, the nightmares. How you've been growing distant from Lando because of your fears. The argument you had just before that brought you here in the first place. Not once do you feel like Cisca thinks you're being unreasonable. She just takes your hand in hers and listens thoughtfully.

"How do you do it? All these years of racing, all the worrying about him. How does it not get to you?" You ask quietly, fingers tightening around your mug.

"Oh, it does. Every single time," She sighs, giving her own tea a stir. Your head tilts to the side in confusion and she smiles warmly. "My darling girl, if I had a pound for every time I've worried about Lando when he gets in the car, I'd have enough money to buy the car. There is no getting used to it. There's only making peace with it."

"I don't think I know how to do that."

"Yet. In time, you'll learn," Cisca assures you. You can't help but let out a slightly skeptical chuckle. "You know, when Lando first got into karting and told me he wanted to go to Formula 1, I almost didn't let him."

This one makes your eyes go wide. Cisca has always been Lando's biggest fan, supporting him for so long it was easy to just assume she'd been all in since the beginning. Never would you have thought his career might've ended before it even began.

She grins at your shock, mirth dancing in her eyes. "I wanted to protect him. He was so small and so young, I thought he was going to go flying out of the kart at every turn. I thought, what kind of mother would be okay with letting her child risk their life like this? So, I was very close to shutting down the entire thing. I was beyond worried, just as you are now."

"I…wow, I had no idea. How did you deal with it?"

"I had faith in Lando. His team, his coaches. I trusted that he knew the risks and would be as careful as he could, still knowing that something could happen. The same is true for you now. All that fear you have, all that worry, it only shows how much you love and care for him, and he needs that." Cisca lays a hand over your own and squeezes reassuringly, maternal love and warmth emanating from her smile.

You exhale a shaky breath, blinking to keep any tears at bay. "I'm not sure how much love and care he's feeling right now. We kind of got in a fight before this. I said some things I didn't mean, and then he left and I came here, so…I'm not even sure where we stand anymore."

"Couples fight all the time, sweetheart. You just need to talk to each other."

"And then we'll be okay?"

"It might take some time and effort, but yes, you'll be okay."

Cisca's phone rings right at that moment. Squinting at the tiny screen, she chuckles. "Speak of the devil," She hums, before answering the call. "Hi, Lan."

Lando's voice spills from the speaker, a little warbled but still clearly panicked. "She's gone, mum. We were in a fight earlier, and I went on a walk so I wouldn't say something I'd regret and to gather my thoughts, but I came back and she wasn't there. I didn't—I didn't think she'd just up and leave, and I don't know what to do, I'm freaking out 'cause I don't know where she is."

"Have you tried texting her?"

"What if she doesn't want to hear from me? What if she's left me, what if—" His voice breaks, and you can see it in your head, the picture of him pacing the floor, dragging his hands through his hair, eyes squeezed shut like he does when he gets truly emotional. "Mum, what if she's finally done with me?"

He sounds smaller, more defeated than you'd ever heard him before.

Cisca shushes her son and takes him off speaker, offering her own comforting words to him. "She hasn't left you, my love. Yes, I know so, because she's sitting right across from me. No, Lan, I'm not kidding."

She talks to him a little longer and you try your hardest not to listen in, but guilt starts to creep in. This whole situation had become far bigger than you'd intended it to, and it's all your fault.

As soon as Cisca hangs up the phone, you can't help but ask, "Is he upset?"

"No, not upset. Worried sick, but he knows you're safe now, and he just wants you to come home. Said so himself!" She sees your doubt and sighs goodnaturedly, tilting her head in that same way Lando does when he comforts you. "Go to him, my dear. Talk to him, tell him how you feel, and I know you'll work it out."

Lando is sitting in the living room when you make it back to the flat at last. The powering down of the lock on the front door has him whirling around, wide eyes finding yours, relieved exhale deflating his tense shoulders. He waits for you to approach, eyes cautious as he watches you perch on the cushion next to him, like he isn't sure how to go about things.

It's foreign—this feeling of not quite knowing how to act around each other anymore. You've had disagreements, arguments, as all couples in healthy relationships do, but this?

This is uncharted territory. This is new in the worst possible way.

For a moment, all you can do is stare at each other. Then—

"I'm sorry—"

"Baby, I'm so sorry—"

"—I shouldn't have—"

"—was worried out of my freaking mind about you—"

Your words jumble together, voices overlapping each other in blurted apologies. You have the sense to stop speaking and gesture for him to go first, knowing he might shake right apart if he doesn't get his thoughts out quickly.

"I didn't mean what I said earlier and I know I shouldn't have walked out, and I'm—I was being an idiot, and I'm sorry."

"No, it's not your fault. You were right, I was being stubborn," You admit, offering him a small, sheepish smile. The drive home had given you the peace of mind to plan out what you want to say to him, so you're prepared now. "But it wasn't because I didn't want your help. It was because…I felt like I was being a burden. Like, out of all the things you have to worry about every single day, the way I feel shouldn't add to all that."

Lando's expression turns pained, like it hurts him to hear you have to explain yourself to him. "Oh, baby…" He murmurs, voice soft. "You could never be a burden to me. Ever. I hope you know that."

"I do know that, Lando. I do, but—fuck, I don't know why I did it. I don't know why I thought it would just go away if I ignored it."

"From experience, I can tell you that never works." He smiles and shrugs, as if to say hey, what can you do about it. "Look, what you were saying about being scared, I…I had no idea.”

“I don't expect you to, and that's fine. The danger, it's different for you than it is for me. You've had years of experience, you've trained relentlessly for situations like that. You may be used to the danger, but I’m not. Even after all this time, I'm still not,” You say, tracing an idle finger along the detailing of the pillow by your side. “And I’m not…asking you to give up your career just for me. I would never. You love racing more than anything in the world. I’m just—”

“That’s not true," He cuts in, shaking his head quickly. You frown in confusion. “I love you more than I love racing. If walking away is what it takes to make you feel safe again, then I'll…I'll figure something else out."

"No. No, I'm not gonna make you stop racing. Lando, you were born to do this. I won't take this away from you."

"But—"

"No. I will find a way to be okay with all of it."

"We'll find a way. Together, promise me."

All you can manage is a small nod, and it seems to satisfy him.

"I dunno about you, but I could really use a cuddle. Mind if I use you for a bit?" He doesn't wait for an answer before pulling you against him, settling back against the couch cushions with a loud, dramatically content sigh. "I'm not used to the danger, by the way. Every time I get in the car, I feel like my heart is about to fall right out of my arse," He says after some time, quiet words half hidden in your hair. His arms squeeze tight around you once. "It's high stakes to the next level, what I do. A snap of oversteer, an inch too far to the left, a millisecond of hesitation—it's a gamble, every single time."

You let the confession settle in, soaking in the comforting familiarity of just being held by him after these past few weeks. Knowing this reassures you in a way, makes you feel like you aren't being overdramatic about it all.

"How do you get through it?"

He lets out a sigh, a thoughtful thing that melts his body right into yours. "Everyone has that one thing they think of when they're in there. Like, something that keeps them grounded. Family, friends, their team. My tether is you. I imagine you're right there with me, on my shoulder, or in my helmet, and it makes me calmer. In a way, I guess."

That confession sinks in much better than the first. It doesn't take away your fear, your worries, but it certainly chips away at that wall you've put up. And hopefully, with time, you'll break it down altogether.

You climb into bed that night, slipping under the blankets wordlessly, sheets rustling as you make yourself comfy. Hesitantly, Lando raises the arm closest to you, a silent invitation to bridge the gap between your two bodies.

There’s a few agonizingly long seconds where you don’t do anything. He ignores the guilt arcing through his veins and starts to retreat, but then he feels it. You roll towards him, all the way until you're nestled against his side, cheek pressed to the warmth of his bare chest, an arm thrown across his stomach loosely.

Even though you don't say a word, Lando understands the message.

Not all your problems are solved, but it’s a solid start. It’s progress, and that’s all he could ask for.