mint

✶✶✶

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

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

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

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

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

You scoff, staring at him in disbelief.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

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

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

What the actual fuck?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You're not offended.

Okay, maybe a little bit.

"No."

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

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

He blinks.

"Okay. The entire band."

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

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

"Every competition for the rest of the season."

That grabs your attention.

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

He nods again.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Cricket and swimming are the ones that share Sundays.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

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

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

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

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

"Fake date."

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

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

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

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

He lifts one of his eyebrows at you.

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

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

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

✶✶✶

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yourusername practice day❤️

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kikagomes love youuu ♡ liked by yourusername

alexandrasaintmleux ay ay captain 🫡🫡🫡 ♡ liked by yourusername

freshman1 sooo cool!!

freshman2 YESSSS

pierregasly amazing work from our girls!!!

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

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

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

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oscarpiastri Good work today as always, keep pushing

landonorris LESGOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO

olliebearman THE QUARTER FINALS ARE OURS BABYYYY

freshman1 sooo cute

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

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

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

His eyes narrow in suspicion.

"You're serious about setting rules."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Aren't you gonna get anything?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

His eyebrows shoot up.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He groans.

“Fine.”

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

He sighs again, but nods in agreement.

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

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

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

Piastri watches surprise flicker through your features.

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

You elect to ignore it.

"You have to volunteer at my lab."

"What?"

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

Piastri lifts his eyebrows.

"No kissing?"

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

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

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

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

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

You nod.

"Just the finals."

He sighs tiredly, running a hand through his hair.

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

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

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

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

He scoffs.

"I guess we'll see about that."

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

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

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

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

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

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

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

"How was practice?"

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

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

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

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

Well, there goes not trying to start a fight.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Opening doors and kissing your cheek.

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

God, you should not have agreed to this.

✶✶✶

You're very particular about competition days.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Minutes later, the whistle sounds.

You can still hear the band with your head underwater.

✶✶✶

liked by yourusername, oscarpiastri and 9,987 others

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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alexandrasaintmleux OH HELLO STATE RECORD HOLDER ♡ liked by yourusername

oscarpiastri Beautiful work babe ❤️

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↳ yourusername ❤️

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✶✶✶

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

Piastri is waiting outside with flowers.

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

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

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

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

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

The silence stretches. Piastri clears his throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

"You got me flowers."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Another one, Piastri?"

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

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

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

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

"That's surprisingly considerate."

He rolls his eyes.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course."

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

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

"Oh, don't be so dramatic."

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

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

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

Piastri has never been in your dorm room before.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He lets out a snort and your smile widens.

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

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

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

"Did you say yes?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Exactly," he nods back.

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

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

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

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

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

You blink at him, surprised by the question.

"I don't hate you, Piastri."

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

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

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

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

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

"Of course it does."

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

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

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

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

He nods, confused.

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

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

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

It's your turn to look confused.

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

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

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

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

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

Well, that was awkward.

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

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

"Piastri—"

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

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

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

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

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

✶✶✶

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

tagged: yourusername

yourusername LMAOOOO

yourusername looking good piastri ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

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

↳↳ yourusername it's my brand at this point

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

↳ yourusername weirdo

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

kikagomes CUTIESSSSS ♡ liked by oscarpiastri

liked by oscarpiastri, alexandrasaintmleux and 2,741 others

yourusername coffee date

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

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

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

↳ yourusername perhaps

oscarpiastri ❤️❤️❤️ ♡ liked by yourusername

↳ yourusername ❤️❤️❤️

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

✶✶✶

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

✶✶✶

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

And Oscar has started to visit your dorm.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oscar Piastri becomes your friend.

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

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

Maybe this could've been real.

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

✶✶✶

"So, you and Piastri, huh?"

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

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

You clear your throat.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A beat passes by. You just stare.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oh.

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

Did you look at him like that?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You disappear before you can hear her response.

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

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

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

You watch the way Oscar tenses.

"What did you say?"

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Oscar, no one would ever believe that."

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

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

✶✶✶

✶✶✶

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

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

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

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

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

For a moment, you think it’s awe.

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

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

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

“Do you… not like it?”

His eyes widen even further.

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

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

He looks flustered.

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

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

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

Oscar Piastri is your archnemesis.

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

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

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

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

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

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

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

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

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

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

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

Fucking Oscar Piastri. Just Oscar.

You're not faking anymore.

✶✶✶

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

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↳ kimiantonelli hoping the swimming gods listen to you

kikagomes CUTIESSSS OMG OMG OMG ♡ liked by yourusername

✶✶✶

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He clears his throat.

"I asked."

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

You call Alexandra.

✶✶✶

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

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

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

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

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

Your cheeks grow warm.

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

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

"I'm not freaking out."

"Sure."

A quiet beat passes by.

"What are you gonna do?"

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

What are you going to do?

"I don't know. Maybe I should call it off?"

"Maybe you should tell him."

Your eyes open wide and you sit up on the couch, glaring at the image of Alexandra on your screen.

"Are you insane? I can never do that."

You watch her shrug.

"Why not?"

"It's all fake, Alexandra," you answer as if it's the most obvious thing in the world, "he's gonna think I'm fucking crazy."

"You are fucking crazy," she points out, not even reacting to the way you huff, "you accepted to fake date a guy you couldn't stand just for band privilege and then proceeded to fall in love with him. That's fucking crazy."

"Thanks," your tone is bitter, but she takes it in stride.

"But he's even crazier for asking you in the first place, for doing all of this. I think you should tell him."

You sigh again.

"I don't know. He's become sort of a friend, you know? I don't want to make things weird as fuck."

"Things will be weird as fuck regardless when you fake break up. Things are already weird as fuck now," you chuckle humorlessly, and her voice softens, "look, I told you that day in the locker room—he looks at you like you're the only person in the whole world. You're telling me he's changing game dates for you when you know doing that is a pain in the ass—for fuck's sake, he probably likes you too and this hasn't been fake for a while."

Another quiet beat passes by as you roll her words over inside your head.

“Why didn’t you tell me anything?” She finally asks when you don’t answer, a hint of hurt on her tone.

“Oscar said you’d probably tell Charles, and Charles would tell Carlos, who would tell everyone. Afterwards, everything felt too complicated.”

Alex offers you a sad chuckle.

“I—well—maybe.” She sighs. “I won’t tell anyone now, though. Not when I know what you actually feel for him.”

You sigh back.

“Thank you.”

✶✶✶

You don’t tell him.

You can't. Whenever you try, his eyes meet yours, and it feels like throwing a rock on a dormant volcano, like taking something good and staining it.

You don’t tell him on Tuesday, when he picks you up after swimming practice and the two of you have gone back to sharing awkward silences. He doesn’t come up to your dorm when he drops you off. You don’t ask him to.

You don’t tell him the following days, when he tries to start a conversation and every one of your answers feel hollow, even when you don’t mean them to.

You have a couple of weeks before the season is over and this scheme ends. The thought hits you like a truck, almost harder than the realization that you had feelings for him in the first place — how is it gonna be after it’s done? Are you supposed to pretend it never happened? To act like friends? To act like it hadn’t become real for you? How would you tell your friends that things between the two of you are done? How would you tell yourself?

These questions haunt your every waking moment to the point you can barely look at him.

So you don’t tell him. And you just hum in acknowledgement when he mentions that they did bring the cricket finals forward, so he’ll be able to watch you swim during the final round of nationals, and you keep not inviting him up to your dorm and slipping out of the car before he can react.

And it's supposed to be fine, right? Because you couldn't stand him before, and it's all fake, and it's stupid to be upset by it.

Except you are upset, and none of it feels fake, and you actually miss the fragile friendship you were building before everything seemed to go wrong.

(And was it even fragile, really? It didn't feel fragile when he made you laugh so much your eyes got teary, when you smiled at each other inside his car, when he held your hand, when he kissed your face, when he spent time with you in your dorm, in the lab, around campus. Was all of that fragile? You aren't sure.)

What you don't expect is for Oscar to be waiting for you with a bouquet of baby's breath and red tulips, feet tapping against the concrete as he stands next to his car when he shows up to pick you up for the cricket finals.

"Oscar..." you sigh deeply at the sight, and your chest clenches when his face falls at your tone.

You’re wearing his jersey again, his name hanging from your back like it means something. It does mean something.

He notices it immediately — eyes traveling up and down your figure, face growing pink despite the awkwardness of it all. He clears his throat before speaking, arm already moving to open the passenger door for you.

“Ready?”

You swallow dryly before nodding.

Less than a couple of minutes later, the two of you sit in dead silence as he starts the car. You look down at your flowers.

Baby's breath and red tulips. You can't help but notice that, once again, he didn't go for plain roses — which would've been fine and were just what you expected. You didn't even expect him to actually meet your "flowers once per month" requirement.

But, God, he met every requirement and then some.

“So,” Oscar clears his throat again, bringing your attention back to him, “are you excited?”

You hum. “I—yeah. Are you?”

“Yes,” he nods with so much intensity you can’t stop a small smile from forming on your lips, “We have worked really hard to get here.”

“You have,” and it’s so awkward it pains you after an entire month of easy conversation, exchanged smiles, loud laughing. “You’ll do great.”

“Are you okay?” The words blurt out of him as if they’ve been lodged in his throat for a week, which they probably have been. “You’ve—you’ve been… Distant. All week.”

“I’m fine,” is your firm answer, leaving so little room for question that Oscar only manages to glance at you before focusing back on the road.

The rest of the drive is spent in awkward, awful silence. You study your flowers — fresh, bright, sweet, beautiful, so much more than you ever expected. He studies you — wearing his jersey, so close yet so far away, quiet in a way you haven’t been in weeks.

When you arrive at the cricket field, he opens your door for you and tells you to leave the flowers inside the car so you don’t have to carry them around. You place them down carefully, trying not to damage the petals or the leaves, and you walk side by side until you have to part ways — Oscar, towards the rest of his team, you, towards the bleachers.

As usual, he presses a soft kiss to your cheek as goodbye. There’s no one there to see it. Your hand reaches out for his.

“Good luck,” you say quietly, squeezing his fingers against yours, “you’ll do great.”

He nods once, game nerves starting to build underneath his skin. He kisses your forehead this time. There’s still no one there to see it.

“I’ll see you after the game.”

“Okay,” you hum, pulling him for a quick hug before you slip away towards the stands.

The match starts less than half an hour later. You sit close to the band, so low on the stands you’re basically level with the field, a couple of feet away from the grass. You wave to Leclerc before leaning forward as the game starts. 

Oscar and the others start fielding, which you’ve learned means they need to keep the other team from scoring. Oscar yells out orders and directions as they move across the field — you watched him do it during the semifinals, and it still feels weird to see him change like that. Your soft-spoken Oscar, taking command of the team with so much naturality no one can even question it.

When it’s finally their turn to bat, your body is so tense from the expectation you can barely breathe. You know Oscar tends to be one of the last few batters, but even from the bench he calls out to his teammates, cheering when they bat well, cheering when they score another run.

You find yourself cheering as well, singing alongside the band, rooting as Lando manages to score 4 runs and Ollie scores 3. There are a few times when Oscar turns to look at the stands from his spot on the bench. You meet his gaze and he smiles, nervous but excited.

It takes quite a few minutes before Oscar gets back on the field. He’s wearing a jersey that looks exactly like yours, helmet well positioned on top of his head. You cheer louder when he steps on the grass, and he turns to look back at you. You shoot him a thumbs up and, even though everything is weird and awkward, he still grins.

And you still cheer.

His teammate bats first. The two of them manage to cross each other 3 times before the other guy gets bowled out, and your eyes keep traveling to the scoreboard.

As well as the team has done, they’re still outscored by 5 runs. As Oscar prepares to bat, you hold your breath. You’re already rolling the motivational speech inside your head — you guys did great, second place is still amazing, you’ll get it next year — when Oscar hits the ball.

And it flies outside of the oval field.

You don’t know much about cricket. You know it has some similarities to baseball. And you know what a fucking home run looks like.

You’re already screaming when the bench and the bleachers explode in cheers, the six points effectively winning Oscar the cricket championship.

It takes a couple of minutes before the referee declares the end of the match, and you watch with a grin as the players on the bench run towards the field, jumping on top of each other as they celebrate the win. The band claps and cheers beside you, and you glance at them before looking back towards the field and seeing Oscar running straight towards you.

Your heartbeat picks up immediately, and you’re already standing up, already leaning on the barrier that separates the audience from the cricket field when he reaches you, hands coming up to your waist as he pulls you towards him, hugging you tight.

His uniform is damp with sweat, and he holds you for a few seconds before jumping over the barrier, getting dangerously close, fingers reaching up towards your jaw, eyes looking down at your mouth before looking back up into your eyes.

You expect him to just do it. You told him he could, right at the start of this mess, if they won the championship. When they won, he had corrected you.

Instead, he whispers, out of air, his breath caressing your lips, “can I?”

The question undoes you in a way you could never prepare yourself for. It makes your heart burn, your skin flush, your body tingle, and you barely feel yourself moving — you just watch it happen. Your hands come up to the collar of his jersey, and, in a second, you’re pulling him in, shoving your mouth against his with an urgency you’ve never felt before in your life.

The world melts away. You can only feel Oscar’s hands on your jaw, then on your waist, then tangling in your hair. His firm body presses against yours, and he tastes of salt and sweat, and you don’t want it to end.

It lasts a second, a minute, an hour. Either way, it’s not enough.

When he pulls away, your lips follow, chasing his. It’s the cheering from the team that snaps you back into reality, the hoots and delighted laughs that make your cheeks burn red as the boys start clapping each other on the back, throwing cricket balls at Oscar in celebration.

You let out a laugh that comes out like a breath, and he grins boyishly at you in a way that turns everything around you golden — his hair, his eyes, the sky, the feeling in your chest. He kisses your cheek tenderly before turning towards the team, jumping the barrier again and throwing himself at them. You smile as they all bump into each other, jumping in place and cheering.

After that, time stretches. You chat with Charles as the boys go into their locker rooms to shower and change, and, when they come out, you hear them talk about throwing a celebration party next Friday, about Instagram posts and trophies and the next season. 

Oscar smiles warmly at you when he reaches you again, pulling you against his side as he says goodbye to the others and starts guiding you towards his car, hand lingering on the small of your back.

The flowers are still waiting for you on the passenger seat when he opens your door. You take them carefully, placing them on your lap as he walks around the car, slips in, and starts the engine.

He starts speaking as soon as the car starts, going nonstop about the game and how fun it was and how happy he is that they won, that you were there, that the band was there, that they’re the cricket champions. You smile brightly at his enthusiasm, but then something inside you dims.

The season is over.

He doesn’t notice the change in you until he parks the car right by your dorm building. When he does, he seems to quiet down as well, studying you hesitantly before asking for the first time since you stopped inviting him, “can I go up with you?”

You release a tired sigh, unable to look at him, focusing on the flowers on your lap.

“You don’t have to, Oscar,” your voice is quiet, sorrowful, “the season is over.”

It hits him at that moment, his face falling before his eyebrows furrow in confusion.

“No, it’s not. You still have the final round of nationals next weekend.”

“Oscar,” it sounds like begging, but you don’t know how else to say it, “the deal was for you. The season ended for you. We don’t need to drag this for another week,” your eyes sting, “it’s over.”

An awful silence takes over the car. The two of you just sit there, and you feel something like grief settle in your chest.

When he speaks, his voice is quiet, tentative. “It doesn’t have to be.”

Your head snaps up to look at him, face contorting with warning. “Oscar.”

"Can we talk? Upstairs?"

His words sound so raw, so vulnerable, that it makes something inside you break.

"Please?" He adds, and it just makes everything worse.

You sigh again, voice as quiet as his.

"Okay."

Tension builds between the two of you during the elevator ride up to your dorm, and you let out a relieved sigh when you see your roommate isn’t home for the day, leaving the small room empty.

You're still holding onto your flowers as you sit down on your bed, side by side, your fingers gripping the green stems as he turns his head to look at you.

"So," he starts after a few seconds of awkward quiet, "what's up with you?"

You blink at the question.

"Nothing," you answer, and you can taste the lie on your tongue.

"No, it's not nothing," he shakes his head in denial, eyebrows furrowing, studying you intently — the way your body is tense, the way your knuckles hold the flowers, the way you keep avoiding his gaze. "We were doing fine, and now you can't even look at me. Back there — we kissed, and for a second it felt like everything was fine and we could be friends, at least, and then you start talking about ending things and being distant again. What's wrong? I feel like I'm dating a ghost."

"Well, except you're not dating anyone, right? Maybe that's the problem."

Oscar blinks down at you.

"What?"

"We're not dating," you answer, gripping the stems so tight you can feel its ridges marking your palm and fingers, "that's the problem. I—," you stop yourself, face growing hot with embarrassment.

In a moment, his entire demeanor changes. His body tenses up, his fingers flex against his thighs.

"Why?" He leans towards you with so much intensity you can't help but meet his stare, heartbeat picking up at his eagerness, the way his expression seems to beg for something you can barely understand. His voice is low, and it sends a pleasant shiver through your spine. "Why is that the problem?"

"You know why," your voice cracks right down the middle, and you swallow dryly, "you know why," you repeat, clearly this time, breath hitching as he leans even closer.

"I—," he answers quietly, and you can't take your eyes away from him, from the way he looks back at you. He clears his throat, "don't do this to me."

"Don't do what?" You whisper in return, suddenly hyper aware of how close he is.

"Don't— don't make it sound—," Oscar shakes his head almost as if he's waking himself up, leaning away from you. You let out a breath as space grows between you. "Why haven't you been talking to me? Why have you been ignoring me for the entire week?"

You sigh deeply, finally able to look the other way.

"I got too attached," you admit, hands fidgeting with the flowers before you sigh again and stand up to lay the bouquet on your desk. "I didn't—I don't know how to deal with that."

You left the bed hoping it would help with the weird tension hovering around the room. It doesn't.

He stands up, following you around the dorm, and, when you turn your back to your desk, he's right there, arms crossed, looking down at you. He's not as close as he was before, but he's close enough to make your heartbeat skyrocket again.

"And why didn't you say anything? Why did you let me kiss you like that if you—if that’s how you feel?"

"You know why," you say for the third time, fingers gripping the edge of your desk table. "I didn’t want to ruin it when it’s so close to ending. I didn't want to—"

"Admit it wasn't fake anymore?"

You stop. You stare at him. He stares back.

"Yeah."

He lets out a shaky breath.

"You mean that?"

He looks uncertain, almost hopeful. Something about it makes your heart burn inside your chest, quiet but insistent. It feels like it's meant to happen — like every road, every argument, every smile, every touch, every laugh led to this, to this moment, to the way Oscar stares at you as if you're holding his heart in your palm, as if he's begging you not to crush it.

And he's holding yours in his.

"Yes," your answer comes out like a prayer, airy and fearful, "I haven't been faking it for a while."

He chuckles quietly, and the sound turns your insides molten. His hand comes up to your jaw just like it had in the cricket field, and he cradles your face hesitantly, afraid of being pushed away.

"I don't think I was ever faking it at all,"  he confesses, and your breath hitches when his nose touches yours, "I think I've been in love with you since freshman year, when we talked at that cocktail party and I spent weeks wishing for you to call."

You watch him intently. He breathes in deeply.

"You swept me off my feet the day we met and I just couldn't get over it, even when we didn't get along well. I guess the reason I even asked you to pretend to be my girlfriend is because I couldn't imagine even pretending to have feelings for someone else."

You smile softly and watch the way his cheeks turn pink at the sight. It immediately weakens any resolve you might have, any doubt, any fear.

"Good", is all you whisper in return, and then you slot your lips against his once more.

This time, it isn’t urgent, quick, or rushed. Oscar sighs into your mouth, and the feeling sends sparks down your spine and up your neck, something hot and sweet running through your veins.

He hums when your fingers come up to tangle themselves in his hair, and the hand that isn't holding your jaw moves to your waist, gripping you firmly but delicately, strongly but carefully.

His lips travel down to your neck, leaving a burning trail on their wake, and you tug at his hair lightly, making him sigh again.

"So much for 'no kissing', huh?" He mumbles against your neck, and you can't help the snort that leaves you before your hands move to his collar, pulling him away from your neck so you can look at him.

"Shut the fuck up, Piastri," and then your mouth is on his again, feeling the way he smiles cheekily against you and then feeling the way his smile dissolves as your tongue touches his lip.

He sighs once more when your tongue touches his, arm wrapping around your waist and pulling you closer. Your bodies collide, and you can feel every inch of your skin burning.

You kiss him again and again and again until both your lips are red and swollen, until his hands travel under your shirt, until his hair sticks up in five different directions.

You can't stop yourself. You don't want to.

Oscar Piastri, cricket team captain and your archnemesis.

Oscar Piastri, in love with you since freshman year.

Oscar Piastri, kissing the air out of your lungs, holding you close, sending sparks through your body.

Oh, you're in too deep.

✶✶✶

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25th August, 15:35.

“THE ONLY EXCEPTION,” begins Angie firmly. “Do you know it?”

You give your agent a casual hum, not bothering to look up from your book.

“Autumn and Louie, right? Louie is rather like Seb from 'La La Land.'” you murmur, ignoring her red nails drumming on the desk.

She nods, clearing her throat.

“Got news today, they’re turning it into a film. Paramount reached out.”

You still don’t meet her gaze.

“Let me guess, they want me to read for Isadora?” you quip, hoping she can’t hear the defeat in your voice.

You were meant to be a historian. You’d always loved history.

Well, you’d loved everything- still do. 

But when you’d first traded museum trips for auditions, you hadn’t felt the toll of losing something.

Now, being asked to play the same character over and over again, you were beginning to wonder if admiring Greek pots could’ve been a more fulfilling use of your time. At least you’d never find yourself expecting more from the depictions of charioteers.

Isadora was Autumn’s best friend. In all seriousness, she was one of your favourite book characters. She was a lot like you- a little bit in love with everyone. 

Before Isadora, it was Sofia. And then Emmeline, and Mia. Gwen was still your favourite, your first break out role as the slightly shallow, overly optimistic, head-empty friend of the protagonist.

Angie inhales sharply, something between anxious and excited.

“You’re their first choice for Autumn, if you want it.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

25th August, 16:47.

Oscar Piastri does not call himself a brooding man, but those close to him may disagree. Not that he had that many close to him. Sure, he had many surface-level friends. Came with the trade. People he’d met on set last year, someone he went to film school with. An old personal trainer, from when he’d played a boxer a while back. A new personal trainer, helping him prepare for a superhero movie he’s pessimistic about landing. 

“So,” Mark exhales. “You’re not feeling confident about it?”

Oscar looks up briefly.

“I think Norris is better for the role, frankly. Even though he seems to be better for every role, recently. And, as much as I respect Verstappen’s creativity, I didn’t enjoy his last few films.”

Mark pauses.

“Well, something new came in. Not your usual type of project and not particularly highbrow. But I think one of the reasons why Norris is so easy to cast is because he shows some versatility, so I think it would be beneficial-”

Oscar cuts him off with an impatient sigh.

“Mark.” he says pointedly.

“‘The only exception.’ Rom-com type thing, but the male lead is quite a deep character. You’d still get to glower for half the film.” he says finally, and Oscar has to stop the corners of his lips from curling.

He just raises an eyebrow expectantly, and Mark continues.

“The main male lead is Louie, the main female lead is Autumn. Set in a city like New York, but is unspecified. I’ll send a full summary, if you’re interested?” he states cautiously, and Oscar inhales, thinking.

“Do you know who’s auditioning for Autumn?” he asks, after a pensive silence.

Mark nods, but Oscar doesn’t find himself recognising your name.

“They offered her the role, no competition. The author requested her, saying she was the person in mind when writing the character. It would be her first main role, but she has experience. She’s adored, it seems. Not saying you aren’t, but it’s not hard to find unnecessary criticism of you online. For her? Nothing. She must be somewhat special.” he comments, shrugging slightly, and Oscar narrows his eyes.

“Or she’s completely, utterly, un-special. That’s normally fairly safe. Send me all of her work, if you can.” he requests, firm but still polite, and Mark nods.

“Let me know if you’d like me to call them.”

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

27th August, 11:19.

Janie Greenwood tumbles into the room ungracefully, brandishing a script with ‘Autumn Mavers’ written in bold, and your name scribbled underneath, alongside a copy of the original book.

She barrels into you excitedly, ignoring the slightly stunned look on your face and she casually brushes a rogue strand of hair back behind your ear.

Placing down the pages absent-mindedly, she plants an excessively dramatic kiss to your cheeks, and you hate that you can feel them warming.

Her short black hair makes her already rounded face seem even smaller and circular, and her bangs look just like a tutorial gone slightly wrong. Her outfit is a mix of dots and colourful tights and her shoes are scuffed flats with cats depicted on them.

She looks more fit to star in a quirky romantic comedy than you do, but you can’t help but admire how she’s a walking pinterest board.

“I am so so so! pleasantly surprised that you agreed to be my Autumn, darling. I truly thought that you might politely decline, and I’d look rather like a fool, requesting you. Considering, even though I also had a certain Louie in mind, that I left his audition open. Just let the casting director do her thing, you know? Now, no matter what, I want you to star in this. So, we can go through many a meticulous chemistry reads, until you find who works best with you, understand? You are my vision for this, yes!” she rambles, beaming so brightly you can practically feel her happiness helping light the room.

You nod gratefully, giving her a graceful smile. It's endearing, how affectionate she is, even though she can't be more than a year or two older than you.

“I really loved the book. I hope to do her justice. Isadora was my favourite, actually.” you admit quietly, like you’re giving her a chance to change her mind.

She lets out a sharp laugh.

“I actually used your interviews to help me get into Autumn's mindset. She is almost entirely based off of you, if you excuse how strange that makes me seem. Shame, you prefer Isadora. She is too superficial, I thought. She deserved more development- my fault, of course.” Janie drawls, waving away your look of insecurity.

You swallow.

“Who’d you have in mind for Louie, then? How come you didn’t offer him the role?” you ask hesitantly, and her eyes gleam.

“Well, he’s never done a film like this before, so I figured I wouldn't get my heart set on it and delay filming waiting for a response. But Louie Jones was actually inspired by Oscar Piastri, can you see it?” she replies quickly, her hands moving rapidly to accentuate her words.

You can’t tell whether to be impressed or intimidated by her eccentricity, but your heart quickens at the mention of his name.

She must notice your sheepish grin, because she chuckles quietly.

“Celebrity crush of yours? Or, well, just crush? How does it work up there, if you’re famous too? Although I suppose he’s more of an A-lister, no offence meant darling!” she asks, trailing off into some nonsensical chattering, and you give her a gentle nod back.

You find it would be unnecessary to mention you’d actually been secretly pining for him since he’d helped you up after an unfortunate trip over wires at fifteen, for an episode he probably can’t remember now.

Still, the look Janie gives you suggests she already knows.

“I doubt he’ll be interested.” you reply firmly. Whether you’re talking about the film, or something else, you’re not entirely sure.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

27th August, 15:46.

Oscar picks up reluctantly when he sees Mae’s name flash on his phone.

“What do you want?”

She scoffs down the phone.

“Is this how you treat everyone, or just your least favourite sister? Maybe I’d just like to check in with you, you know?” she says, with faux-outrage, and Oscar’s glad she can’t see the smile slowly spreading across his face.

“No,” he corrects, “you just only call me when you want something.”

She pauses.

“Fine, you got me. I do want something.”

Oscar sighs. “Go on.”

“Janie posted that ‘the only exception’ is going to be a film soon. I mean, the casting for Autumn is inspired. And I know you don’t do these kinds of films because of your disgusting superiority complex, but it’s like, my favourite book ever. I’d lose my shit if you were playing Louie.” she explains, all in one single exhale.

Oscar laughs at the plea, while pre-emptively regretting what he’s going to say next.

“Sure, I’ll give it a try.”

He hangs up while she’s mid exclamation, promptly messaging Mark.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

31st August, 10:24.

Angie’s reminder pops up cheerily. 11am, the first chemistry test, acting out two scenes you’d been given. Janie evidently didn’t mess around, having whittled down the possible contenders for Louie down to a mere six. Then again, you’d got the role, without contention. Maybe she just really had a vision.

You think back to when you first read the book. What you’d admired of Autumn and Louie’s dynamic. He was so closed off, but not mean. Just cold, in a way. Reading Autumn’s unwavering determination to slowly show him what love could feel like- well, it was comforting. The way he changed his routine, opened himself up to her in a way he hadn’t before. Done the scariest thing of all; trusting someone.

And now, you had to portray that as best you could. You’d have to pretend to be in love.

You’d figured it would be a breeze, because that was just how you were anyway. But now, as you tap the coffee table beside you, the nerves crawl up your face.

“Okay, you guys can have some time to figure out what approach you want to take, how you want to do the scenes.” comes Janie’s excited voice, giving you a thumbs up as someone enters the room.

You recognise him from an ice-skating film you watched last year- Charles Leclerc. Typical heartthrob, and an understandable choice. 

To you, you had thought Louie would look a bit less obviously attractive. With a face that grows on you, more than knocks the air out of you instantly.

“Mornin’.” you say cheerfully, grinning at him as you feel the sofa sink next to you, and he smiles back warmly.

“Good morning. Congratulations on the role. My girlfriend was ecstatic to see you on the posters- she’s a big fan.” he replies, and you take the compliment gratefully.

After some more brief small talk, Janie introduces the team of people sitting opposite, all wearing shiny smiles.

“This is Albon. Alexander. Although I’m sure you’ve met. He’s helping me direct this.  And to my left is my primary producer, Clara Nelson. Also, my partner, which is why she’s here. I’ll need moral support. And finally, Chloe Chambers is the casting director.”

You smile politely at the two women, before giving Alex a familiar nod. You’d been in a film with him a few years back, as aforementioned Sofia. He was kind, but efficient. 

Charles does the same, turning back to you promptly.

The two scenes are fairly standard- an argument, and a confession.

The first goes by smoothly, and you’re pleasantly surprised by how easy it is to slot yourself into Autumn’s mind, feeling your anger flare at Charles’ frowning face.

The second scene isn’t as great. Sure, the acting is good. But the air feels flat, there’s no real tension. You just want to give him an affectionate pat on the shoulder and buy him a coffee, not give up your family bakery.

And clearly, the panel agree.

It feels like you get no break before the next man walks in. His accent is British and heavy, unlike Charles’ gentle French one.

“George.” he says loudly, offering a hand, and you shake it vigorously. By the time you’ve made it halfway through your screaming match (not the direction you thought the heartfelt argument would go), you’ve already laughed at his facial expressions twice. He doesn’t take it to heart, but you both realise it’s hopeless, so you just spend the rest of the time improvising a situation where you mysteriously swap accents. Janie relaxes, cackling with you both, before Chloe ushers Yuki Tsunoda in.

“Yuki!” you exclaim gleefully, pulling him into a quick embrace. You’d wound up in the same youth theatre with him, and he’d remained a friend ever since- through casual messages and stupid videos. 

“Aren’t you too annoying to play this character?” he asks, his tone deadly serious, but his eyes glitter.

You bark out a sharp laugh.

“Aren’t you too short?”

Yuki gives you a sheepish grin, before promptly rattling off lines. It’s casual, and easy, and you flow nicely. You wouldn’t mind doing this with Yuki, you think. Bit awkward, like kissing a cousin, but at least you get along well. Assuming Janie will be happy, you quickly cast a glance her way, but she looks deep in thought. Overly serious.

Clara whispers something into her ear, tapping her notepad, and you just swallow before flicking your eyes back to Yuki.

Once you’re both done, with plans to get dinner on Friday, Janie calls for a break. You hear the names of the last three actors you’d meet today. Pierre Gasly, known for his recurring role in a spy series, and Carlos Sainz, who had just killed off in his telenovella. You didn’t catch the last name, lost in thought about the whole process.

The first two men are a blur of shouting and cheap laughs and dry air and you want to rip out your hair and cry simultaneously by the time Carlos walks out, dejected.

In the back of your mind, it eats at you, this horrifying idea that it’s you. That you are the problem, and no matter how hard you try to be loved, no one can even pretend and make it convincing. Not even the best actors around.

And then the door swings open, and you focus again.

And standing there, looking pensive and stoic and painfully beautiful is Oscar Piastri.

You flash Janie an alarmed look, and she grins. You groan quietly to yourself as he sits beside you, hating how you can feel your heart rate speeding.

“Hey, I’m Oscar.” he says quietly, casually. Like you wouldn’t know.

Your voice wavers in response, giving him a careful handshake, and you’re convinced your hand is on fire when he lets go.

“Can we roll them into one, the scenes?” he asks, clearly aimed at the team, but his eyes stay on yours.

Janie looks up, intrigued. “That would be interesting. Go ahead, if you’d like.”

You give him a gentle nod and he smiles, and then it begins.

“I don’t understand you.” you say sullenly, admiring his dark eyes, and he sighs.

“I don’t expect you to. I’m not asking you to.”

“I don’t care. I want to.”

He exhales sharply.

“What if I don't want you to? I’m tired of this shit, I’m tired of you. You just keep following me around, like a fucking dog, or something. This, us, whatever you think we are, it doesn’t exist.” he exclaims, aggression seeping into his words, and you have to remind yourself it’s the same lines you’ve heard five times before, but it feels different.

“Then leave.” 

It’s bitter, and it’s perfect, and you can’t help but feel some excitement in the flow of it all.

The silence is poised, but you can tell he hasn’t forgotten what to say next. It’s strategic.

“Are you really going to let me go, if I try that? You didn’t last time. I left, and you chased me down.”

“Because I wanted to make this work. I wanted you!” you yell, arms flying out and narrowly missing his head. You watch him hold back a laugh and you give him a momentary shy smile, before frowning again.

“And you don’t think I wanted you too?”

You let it hit. You let yourself glance at Janie, who looks close to tears.

“What do you mean, Louie?”

He looks away from you.

“Forget it. I’ll see you around.”

“Sit back down.” you say, firm, but your eyes are glassy. 

He sits hesitantly, and you lean into him.

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean.”

You open your mouth to reply, the line formulating in your head, but you’re cut off by some loud, slow , claps.

Janie is standing, smiling ecstatically.

“Oscar, do you want the role?”

You inhale sharply, your mind whirring. What about Yuki? What about everyone else? Surely, there’s some level of process before this?

Albon gives her the same panicked look, but it’s too late, because Oscar clears his throat.

“Um, yeah? Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

He turns to you, and you’re not totally sure what to do, so you give him a small thumbs up and a wide smile.

And so, you become Autumn Mavers, and Oscar Piastri becomes Louie Jones.

Somewhere deep inside, fifteen year-old you screams.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

2nd September, 18:33

There’s a knock at the door, and you open it with as much casual-ness as you can muster.

Janie had promptly forced her entire social media team to announce you both as her beloved characters, and had then simultaneously told you to get to know each other before filming and promo started in about a week. Again, you admired her efficiency. 

And so, Oscar Piastri is standing in your doorway with confidence you envy.

“She sure is quick, right? We’ve already been invited on a radio show this weekend.”

You give him a courteous laugh.

“Good thing we’ll get to know each other now, then?” you suggest, walking out of your apartment and closing the door quickly.

He hesitates, before offering you an arm, which you take.

You try to avoid meeting his eyes as they trail downwards, admiring your outfit. It was a fairly standard dress that a friend had made for you, but you knew it looked good, and you needed any shred of strength you could find.

He leans into your ear as you feel the breeze of the evening hit you.

“You can relax, I promise I won't bite. And I picked somewhere pretty underground, so we shouldn’t be disturbed. And people know it’s business, with all those posters.” he whispers, raising his eyebrows at a shot of him laughing, his name written in bold underneath a large ‘Louie Jones.'

You nod, exhaling, but you don’t loosen your grip on his forearm, and he doesn’t ask you to. 

Instead, you listen to the bustle of the city streets and try to time the loud clacking of your boots in time with your heartbeat.

He stops rather suddenly, gesturing to a small door, and you realise he was being deadly serious about the restaurant being hidden. He follows you in, with a calm murmur of ‘ladies first’, and you’re taken to a table up some stairs and by a quaint window.

Once you’ve both ordered, you allow him a brief minute of respite before you blurt out a question.

“So, how come you haven’t done a rom-com before? You think it’s beneath you?”

Your tone is slightly over-accusing, and you immediately feel bad, but he takes it seriously, thinking.

“No, it’s not that. I just don’t think I’d be very good at them. Not really my kind of character, typically. Honestly, could you really see me as a regular love interest?”

Obviously.

“Sure, you’re attractive. Kind of all you need.” you reply, shrugging, and you hate how your stomach flips at his chuckle.

“Huh, thanks. But there’s more attractive actors out there.” he says humbly, and you raise an eyebrow.

“You’re just lucky I had no chemistry with Leclerc.” you nod, and he grins.

“You were supposed to go, ‘Oh, no, there’s no one more attractive than you.’” Oscar says jokingly, and you give him a half smile, because you’re inclined to agree.

He pauses.

“How come you haven’t done anything other than rom-coms?”

“Could you really see me in anything else?” you counter, but you don’t actually give him time to reply.

“I just really love them. I love everything love related. I don’t know, it just makes it feel a lot less like work. It’s just getting paid to be myself for a few months. I’ve been told that the way I look at the world like it's beautiful is sickening.” you admit quietly, afraid to meet his eyes. Wondering if he’ll look at you like that's stupid. Like you're stupid.

But instead, he’s looking at you in a way that makes your ears go pink.

“How do you do it?”

You give him an inquisitive look, so he continues with a cough.

“How do you not give up on it? On love, I mean. Surely, watching everyone fake it, watching every move, every touch, be scripted, does it not make you think it can’t ever be real if it’s so easily acted out?”

You let that sit with you, cautiously twirling a strand of hair near your face.

“Honestly? I’ve never really thought about it. I know love exists, because I’m full of it. Because I see it in my parents, I see it when my brother looks at his boyfriend. I hear it in the arguments between friends, and hear the way they care. It’s everywhere, if you’re brave enough to look.” you explain, with as much honesty as you can muster.

“I can’t see it.”

It’s a sad response, and one you don’t really know to reply to. So instead, you give him a gentle smile, and ask him if he has any siblings of his own. And so, you find out about his sisters, and his family, and when his breath hitches on the word ‘parents’, you realise why he might struggle to believe in it.

He walks you back to your apartment, and you firmly decide that he’s still as kind as he was back then. And that you don’t believe anything people say about him being cold, because he’s clearly just reserved. Untrusting of emotions, because they could lead to getting hurt. Maybe, if you weren't so you, you’d feel the same. Shame you’re far too optimistic and friendly for that.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?” he says, giving you a careful smile, and you nod.

“Goodnight, Oscar.” you say cheerfully, giving him a small wave before closing the door.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

September 4th, 09:24

“Alright, people. I love you, we love you, you love each other, but we need everyone else to love you!” Janie yells, interrupting your casual conversation with Oscar, her hands cupped over her mouth.

Oscar grimaces, and you give him an affectionate punch on the shoulder. 

“Come on, it won’t be that bad. Just some videos, or something.” you reassure him, and he nods.

“I know. It's just weird. This is not my brand.” he groans, and you can’t help but giggle at someone perfect for playing Bruce Wayne conforming to Janie’s whimsicality.

But soon your expression turns to horror when she lists out various trends to choose from.

“I don’t post on TikTok.” Oscar says firmly, folding his arms, and you give him a sheepish grin.

“I do. It’s kind of my thing.”

Before he thinks better of it, he nods quickly. 

“I know.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You stalked me, Piastri?”

“Wanted to know you before I auditioned. I would’ve said no if-” he begins, trailing off.

“No if what?” you push, shifting towards him, but he just gives you an awkward shake of his head.

Janie clicks her finger aggressively, and you laugh, before deciding which video to film.

It’s pretty standard, just recording clips of each other at various distances from the screen to a song Janie picked, one supposedly in the soundtrack, ending with the two of you standing next to each other, foreheads pressed together.

It’s right then, when you can feel his eyelashes against yours, that Clara yells.

“Albon! That, that right there. That’s the movie poster.”

Alex and Janie hurry over, and Janie squeals in approval, with Alex giving a nod.

“That’s great. Post that video, then we’ll take that photo after lunch and start filming. Bakery set is ready, and so is the jazz bar. We’re going chronologically, finds it works best for the characters.” he explains, and you nod dutifully. You give Oscar’s hand a quick squeeze, even though you don’t know why, and he returns the gesture.

The opening shot is simple. Autumn Mavers, closing her bakery for the day, and then being caught in some horrific rain. The water was warm enough, as it came pouring down, but you hate how your costume clings to your arms. You’re hyper aware of the microphones around you, the cameras circling, and you feel nervous. It hits you, rather suddenly, that you’re the lead in this film. Years worth of words, based around you, and you had to do it justice. And if you didn’t, the world would watch. The comments would pile in, unrelenting and horrific, word after word tearing your performance apart. 

It’s rather disgusting, so you just swallow and re-focus, barging through the door in front of you and into a part of the set you hadn’t seen yet. And sitting there, amongst a pile of various instruments and a few other extras, Oscar is playing piano.

You know how the scene plays out; you take refuge in this bar, and you fall for him. Well, Autumn falls for Louie, of course.

But it doesn’t feel like you’re acting when your breath hitches as his eyes meet yours. You give him a rueful smile and go to sit on a barstool, watching him intently. A cameraman marches up to him, following his fingers, before turning to you. You keep your eyes focused on him, letting the music worm its way into your very soul.

When Alex yells out, and everyone flutters away, Oscar tilts his head to the side gently.

“I didn’t know you played piano. I figured they’d just edit it, or something.”

He shrugs. “It wasn’t required. Just a hobby.”

You give him a warm look, and you swear his cheeks flush.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

September 7th, 11:46

“Fans have been super excited to see you two play Autumn and Louie since that video you posted, will we be getting more content like that from you two soon?”

The question from the interviewer is a simple one, and you give her a grateful smile.

“In all honesty, I sort of forced him to do it. The casting is truly excellent, he is so much like Louie.”

“So she’s basically calling me a misery to be around.” Oscar accuses, and you laugh.

“He has trauma, Oscar. You’ve read the script.” is your quick response, and he stares at you for a second too long.

Your body betrays you, as usual, and you turn back to Faye.

“This is actually our first proper appearance together, so if they’re still excited after this, I’ll make him do some more.” you say with finality, and she nods.

“So, Oscar, how does it feel to be making your first non-depressing movie? I don’t want to say this film isn’t deep, but it’s certainly different to your other projects, no? A stark comparison from your work in Whiplash.”

Oscar pauses, as if to think.

“Well, Louie and Andrew aren’t super dissimilar characters, actually. Just a lot less romance involved for the latter.”

“So, how are you finding that?” Faye asks, nodding to you, and he smiles in a way that makes it seem instinctive.

“I’d heard so many compliments about working with her before I landed the role, and I was so curious how she’d managed to befriend so many people. But I think she might be the loveliest person I’ve ever met, to be honest. She’s brilliant to work with, and I couldn’t fathom doing it with anyone else, honestly.” is his quick response, and it feels so genuine you can’t help but beam back.

“Isn’t he adorable?” you quip, elbowing him in the side, and you watch Faye’s eyes narrow.

Once the cameras stop rolling, she places her cue cards down pointedly.

“That was brilliant! I would’ve thought you guys were really into each other. You actors really are something else.” she says positively, and you smile at her, but it doesn’t feel real.

Because you weren’t pretending, at all. 

Faye is right, though. When the video drops, your first interview for the film, it explodes. Endless comments of people swearing you’re together, or accusing you of turning Oscar soft. The excitement for the film builds, people begging for a trailer or release date. But you’re too focused on the supposed signs everyone else is seeing, tying you to your coworker.

“You know, they shot La La Land in forty-two days.” Oscar announces loudly, and you look up, along with the rest of the team.

Janie stares at him, confused.

“Right, and we’re on day two. Your point is?”

“Look at these comments. They want this, sooner rather than later. Why don’t we reduce filming time, and then we can aim for it to be out for Valentines Day. That’s feasible, right? If we make this bit quick.” he explains, running a hand through his hair, and you inhale quietly.

It feels like a sucker-punch, and you don’t know why. You guess it’s because he seems desperate to get this over with, so he’s done here. He can go back to his highbrow cinema, and act like you never happened. Like this never happened, you mean.

“To get it out on Valentines would be a great release day. I was aiming more for an early summer film, but we could do it if we really pushed. Janie wants minimal editing anyway, like an indie-film type vibe, right?” Alex asks cautiously, and Janie raises a palm.

“I’m not willing to sacrifice the quality of this for time, Oscar. But if we can keep up a high standard, then that is a great idea. That means more promo, though. We need a trailer soon. And we need you to make more public appearances. We have seven months to complete this, and we need it to be big.”

You look at him determinedly, and he smiles back.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

September 9th, 13:46

“Alright people, look alive. This is where Autumn and Louie are officially born. Oscar, you need to stop looking at her in such a lovesick way, alright? You’re not even close to being together yet.” snaps Albon quickly, and Oscar clears his throat awkwardly.

When Janie raises an eyebrow at him, he looks away, back towards the set.

As the cameras roll, the beret on your head feels overly askew, and the tupperware bundled in your arms feels like weights, instead of a decorated tart.

Oscar is sitting lazily across a barstool, stretched out. His dark eyes gleam effortlessly under the low lighting, and you’re genuinely baffled at how he couldn't envision himself as a heartthrob, because it sure is working on you.

You sidle up to him carefully, brandishing the box.

And then, it begins. Talking to him as Autumn would talk to Louie, scripted and sequenced. 

“Autumn Mavers.” you say loudly, over the sound of woodwind instruments and chatter, extending a palm.

“Louie Jones. Do I know you?”

His palm slips into yours easily, like two puzzle pieces.

You give him a lopsided smile.

“I’ve been here for the last couple of nights. Your music is captivating; I couldn’t help it.”

He doesn’t quite smile, but gives you an appreciative nod.

“Thank you, means a lot.”

The silence that follows crackles with an untapped energy, and you can envision the wicked grin on Janie’s face easily.

“Figured musicians liked pastries too?” you mumble, pushing a tart towards him, and he smirks slightly.

“You a baker?”

With a gentle laugh, you nod.

“Yeah, I am. My bakery is a couple streets down.”

His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, and you can’t help but admire how natural he is.

“I was joking, but that's cool. And yeah, I like pastries.”

He takes a dramatic bite, his eyes never leaving yours, and you’re glad the obvious flush in your cheeks fits the character, or you’d be screwed.

“So, is this it for you, performing here?”

“Realistically, yeah. It pays the bills, and I love it. Just me, and music. Not sure how much more I need.” he shrugs, and you drum your fingers on the table rhythmically.

“Interesting. But like, you’re not lonely, right?”

He shoots you a puzzled look.

“I don’t have a partner, no. If that’s what you’re asking. But I don’t really want one. I’m happy as is.” he replies firmly, and you wince.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that. I just know I’d be hopeless without people around me.”

“People are around me.”

You make an awkward face.

“You know what I mean, right?”

He nods. “Sure. Guess we’re different in that respect, though.”

You wait, pausing for a second. “Is it good?”

He looks confused for a moment, before giving you a half-smile.

“It’s sweet.”

You glare at him, slightly deflated.

“It’s a dessert.”

Amusement dances in his eyes.

“It’s good. But not really my kind of thing.”

You refuse to be undeterred. “I do other stuff. Come visit, yeah?”

He grunts, but it isn’t a no, and with that, you get up.

Janie hadn’t told you if leaving the container was intentional of Autumn or not, but as you smile to yourself, you decide it is.

A hopeless, shameless attempt at something you can’t even recognise.

That afternoon, you give yourself a moment to breathe on the balcony of the studio, letting the air hit your hot forehead.

“You alright?”

You recognise his voice instantly, but don’t turn. Instead, you mumble back a graceful response, and he comes up beside you.

“Louie is a bit of a dickhead. I read the book yesterday.”

You chuckle lightly, casting him a sideways glance.

“He’s alright, by the end of it. He’s just cynical. He just really needed Autumn.”

He pauses.

“So you believe in that soulmate crap?”

You purse your lips, and try to act completely unoffended.

“Sure. Why not? It’s a nice idea. There’s a million Louie’s around, and they’ll all have an Autumn somewhere. And sometimes people with disgusting optimism and too much love in their hearts need someone to tie them to earth.”

Oscar swallows thoughtfully, nodding.

“That makes sense. What if they never find their Autumn, though? Or they do, and it goes wrong.”

You shrug.

“What if it goes right?”

It clearly stumps him, and for a moment, you feel bad. Even though you don’t know why.

“I know you don’t really believe in it, and I’m not going to make you. But you’re deserving of love, y’know? It’ll find you. Just don’t disregard it so easily. It’s basic, but if it’s meant to be- then it will be.” you mutter, scrunching your nose.

You turn away from him, back inside, but you catch his strangled “Thank you.” before the door closes.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

September 12th, 11:12

The first time you kiss, it isn’t on set. It’s after a desperate plea from the pair of admins for the film's official account.

They’re waving their phones around erratically in the lounge, flashing a video of two actors you recognise making a video as their characters. 

“Whats a hard launch?” Oscar asks curiously, and you have to stifle a laugh.

“That doesn't matter.” grumbles the boy, Isack, while Doriane gives a firm nod.

“We just need this level of engagement. That first video was cute, and works for you guys in real life, but we need them to want to see you as Autumn and Louie, all right?”

You nod slowly, and Doriane beams.

“Now, you’re madly in love. Just lipsync this, act it out, and, well. Yeah.”

Oscar audibly groans to your right, and can’t help but feel a pang in your stomach.

But you plaster a warm grin on your face and prop the phone up, playing the sound twice before hitting record.

The reluctance on his face is evident, giving you a calculated eye roll, but it works undeniably well even if he isn’t acting. 

And your wide smile and slight bounce fits too, with no extra effort, and you wonder if he’s realising how perfect the two of you are without trying.

Perfect as your characters. Not together. Easy misconception to make.

And then, while you’re too busy thinking, his hands cup your face and he brings his lips to yours.

You gently push him out of frame, hands around his neck, and when the sound falls mute, you pull away quickly.

Maybe too quickly, from the way his face falls.

Then there’s a holler, and you give an approaching Janie a bashful smile.

A voice comes from behind her, one that’s familiar, and you can’t help but laugh.

“Dorks.”

Aurelia Nobels stands there, arms outstretched.

“Nobels here will be our Isadora.” Janie announces, and you run at the blonde girl, giving her a tight hug.

Oscar watches you tumble into her, and his heart swells in a way that’s slightly alien to him.

That evening, you and Aurelia dance around the kitchen, music up overly high. 

You’re both trying to bake some grand, celebratory cake, but there’s flour all over the floor and egg shells littering the counter.

“How come you didn’t tell me you got the role?”

She laughs.

“I hadn’t got it. She wanted to see how you reacted to me being there, and that’s what decided it. I found out just when she yelled it out.” she admits, fiddling with her hoodie sleeve, and you make a choked sound of surprise.

“She didn’t even ask Chloe? I’d feel awful, being the casting director of this project. How much creative freedom does this woman even have?” you ask, bewildered, but you fold into laughter simultaneously.

When your giggles subside, she raises an eyebrow at you.

“How is it going with Oscar?”

It feels like a loaded question, presumably because it is, but you just shrug.

“It’s fine. He’s easy to get along with.”

Aurelia whacks your arm, hard.

“Oh, give me a proper answer. You’ve been thirsting over this guy for as long as I’ve known you!” she accuses, and your jaw slacks.

“I have not, that is outrageous. But that is a proper answer.”

Her eyes widen slightly.

“You’re properly into him.” she cackles, and you cover your face in embarrassment.

“Shut up. That would be bad for everyone involved.”

“You’re not denying it.” she counters, and you nod.

“I’m not, no.” 

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

September 14th, 10:42

“Louie, you made it!” you exclaim excitedly, rushing to the door.

He hesitates in the doorway, and you frown.

“Don’t just stand there like an inspector, come on.”

He pauses, his brows furrowing.

“Wow, this is a lot. Very pink. Very cute.” His nose scrunches judgementally, but you just whack Oscar’s shoulder and pull him in by the forearm. You smile unintentionally when his eyes meet yours, but if he notices, it doesn't show.

“That was the intention. Go on, sit.” you command, gesturing to a quaint table by the window covered with a chequered tablecloth and a small vase of flowers.

“Do you not find this place a bit cliche?” he asks, not judgementally, but seriously. 

You stop to think, as you imagine Autumn might.

“Maybe, sure. But a cliche is a cliche for a reason, no? Beside, it attracts people. People with an ounce of whimsy in them, at least. Anyway, what do you want? On the house, naturally.”

He gives you a skeptical grin.

“Just a coffee will do, thanks. Black, no sugar.”

You hold back a laugh at his serious expression.

“You’re no fun, you know that Louie? But whatever you want.” you reply dutifully, with a dramatic sigh.

You return with a chipped mug, handing it to him carefully.

“So, what do you think? Is this what you were imagining?”

Oscar’s gaze falls to the couple sitting beside you on the nearest table.

“It’s bright. It’s very optimistic, I suppose. And busy, listen to all this.”

You shrug. “They’re just happy, Louie. You could try it sometime, you know? Instead of scowling so much and playing sad jazz.”

He jutts his jaw, offended.

“Not really my thing. I’ll stay how I am, thanks.”

Your voice becomes softer now. “It could be, if you try. Like opening a window. Let some light in.”

He meets your eyes now, warm and unsure.

“What if the light reveals things better off kept in the dark?”

You give him a gentle laugh. “Of course you’d say something cryptic like that. But in all seriousness? Then you deal with them. For the record, you wouldn’t have to do it alone.”

Without thinking, you reach across the table, taking his hand in yours. He tenses, and you can’t tell if it's in surprise or in character. But once he relaxes, rubbing a thumb over the back of your hand, your stomach flips.

You pull away carefully, giving him a lazy smile to try and hide whatever the hell you just felt, before getting up.

“Now, I made a new pastry this morning. It’s dark, and overly bitter. I think you’d like it.”

After hearing her cue, Aurelia crashes in with a tray of desserts, twirling from table to table, before landing at yours.

“Louie, this is Isadora. Closest thing to a sister I have.” you introduce, and he nods up at her.

“This is Louie, huh? I’ve heard a lot.”

He gives her a skeptical look.

“All good things, I hope?”

She doesn’t give him the satisfaction of a response, instead just placing down a tart and walking away with a sly grin.

“Ignore her. I haven’t said anything.” you assure him, but his lips curl upwards.

“Are you just going to abandon me here?”

“I have customers. I’ll be back.”

His hand twitches on the table, like he’s thinking about reaching out again. Like his palm already misses yours.

With that, you walk off, satisfied.

When Alex calls out, he sounds pleased, and Janie is beaming.

Oscar catches up to you, placing a gentle hand on your shoulder.

“You’re brilliant.” he murmurs, unprompted. Genuine. 

Your cheeks warm instantly, but you flash him a proud smile nonetheless.

“We’re brilliant.” you correct, with some finality, and he nods in agreement.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

September 28th, 12:12

The rumours start circling in a way you find must be more vicious than sharks- they haunt your every breath.

Constant accusations, whispered truths of Oscar Piastri finally finding the person to melt his cold heart. No one could’ve predicted it would’ve been you, but they’re ever so convinced it is.

If the unspoken confirmation of your non-existent relationship reaches Oscar, you don’t notice it in the way he acts, on set or off. 

Except for, when his hand accidentally brushes yours in run-throughs, or when you grip his arm for balance walking down the studio stairs, it seems he lets the touch linger long after it should have passed.

And when his fingers twitch towards yours, it doesn’t seem to be a character thing. It just becomes part of your energy, of the way you mould and morph into one entity. 

And slowly, gently, the lines between Louie and Autumn blur, and you forget what it means to be watched by a camera.

You realise, after a torturous few weeks of this back and forth, of careful glances and flushed cheeks, you’re well and truly fucked.

There’s no need to tell Aurelia, or Janie, because you know they can see it written all over your adoring face. You just hope, to keep a shred of pride, that Oscar hasn’t noticed.

Or, if he has, that he’s being kind enough to ignore it, to keep going on as if nothing has happened. As if you’re not secretly glad that your relationship on the screen is developing as to have a reason to stay close to him, to stay wrapped in his warm arms.

What you don’t realise, is that somewhere deep down, he’s starting to feel the same.

He notices it after that initial tug at his heartstrings- the way you cradled Aurelia with such unwavering joy, such devotion, that he for a second, he saw it.

He understood it, when you spoke of love. 

He watched it unfold, flow out of you as easily as oxygen. As if it was just as crucial to your survival as your blood. Maybe it was in your veins too. It sure seemed that way.

And for that fleeting moment, the world brightened. That weight on his chest, it felt more like an embrace than something crushing him slowly. Something daring his ribs to snap.

He chased it, after that. Any chance he could, anything to feel that again. That disgusting optimism which had seemed to fade with age; the very same thing that had made him watch an interview of yours, and hit pause. 

In jealously, maybe? He didn’t know.

But it was curiosity, it was appreciation, that had made him hit play again.

And here he is, watching you carefully, and waiting for his breath to catch in a way that was shy, and earnest, and nothing close to a heavy exhale.

“It’s your favourite time of the week!” you exclaim teasingly, waving your unlocked phone around.

He fakes a groan, pairing it with a begrudged eye-roll, but his stomach warms as you blink expectantly.

What he’ll never admit, to anyone, is that he does enjoy this. The easy banter, even if it means stupid videos. Even it means his face dropping slightly when he watches you falter at the comments about you two being together.

He reads them all, and he doesn't hate them. Which is disgusting, and endearing, and terrifying, and nothing short of indescribable.

Based on the book, you figure you must be nearing halfway through the story. It’s sweet really, where Autumn is. Her evidently falling. A piano sits in the corner of her bakery now, wooden and old. Completely out of place.

Completely perfect for Louie.

And he blames it on that, says he had an argument with the bar owner, as for why he spends so much time around.

When you look at Louie, you see Oscar. And to someone who isn’t an actor, that probably seems logical.

But when you’re pretending to be crushing, hard, that’s not ideal at all. If anything, it’s horrific, and totally daunting.

Still, it’s not like you to lock it away. You don’t hold it against him, this unrequited mess.

You just wear your heart on your sleeve, as you always do, and keep smiling.

You ignore the pitying looks that Aurelia offers you on the days he seems to be out of it, brows furrowed and arms folded.

You hate to say it, but you don’t like him any less, even though you’re not sure you fully understand him.

Oscar, however, does not do the same. Instead, it’s a visit from Logan that makes him decide what to do.

“Hey, Oscar, mate. You’re everywhere, you and your co-star. Never thought you to be the rom-com type, but look how it’s working out. They love you!” Logan announces cheerfully, sauntering into his apartment. He claps the Australian on the back, before sitting beside him.

“Yeah, yeah. It’s big. It’s good. Definitely a new experience.” Oscar replies casually, but his fingers are twisting nervously.

Logan clears his throat awkwardly.

“You wouldn’t mind if I asked her out, would you? We met last year, but nothing really happened, I don’t know. Seeing her everywhere has made me rethink it.” he confesses, and Oscar bristles.

“Why would I mind?”

“Cause, you know. For the image of the film?”

It hadn’t even occurred to him that he should be thinking about that.

“Oh, oh yeah. Good point. Maybe talk to her, and if she seems interested, she can ask for the green light from Janie, and Albon.”

Oscar doesn’t quite meet Logan’s relieved eyes.

He gets up, to rummage through Oscar’s cupboard.

“Are you sure it’s all good, like with you? I wouldn’t want to make it awkward, you being my best mate and all. I can lay off it until you’re done with promo, that’s okay. If it would be an inconvenience.”

It’s greedy, and mean, what Oscar does next.

He looks up at Logan seriously, giving him a slow nod.

“You know, that would be helpful, thanks mate. Once we’re done, she’s all yours to ask. But we’re so busy, it probably wouldn’t work right now anyway.”

Logan makes a muffled sound of agreement, shovelling in crisps and throwing the rest in a chipped bowl.

Oscar gives him a gentle smile, but there’s something ugly brewing behind it. Some guilt, some unknown reason as to why he stopped him.

But when he returns to set the next day, waving to you warmly, he shoves that down.

Somewhere dark, hidden, somewhere too hostile to ever be visited.

He tells himself it’s the proximity, the relentless schedule.

All of this? It isn’t real.

How he feels about you?

It’s just acting.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

October 11th, 14:32

It all explodes, one afternoon.

It had been going so well. Too well. 

Bottled up feelings and blurred lines butt heads until they get the tension to snap, so it was bound to happen.

You just weren’t expecting it to happen quite like this.

It’s a quiet day on set, just a few domestic scenes. You’re sitting on an aged couch, legs stretched out, headphones in.

When the door swings open, it takes you a second to register Oscar entering.

He gives you an exaggerated wave, and you beam, getting up to greet him.

It was routine, at this point. He would come bearing an extra pastry (ironic) or a coffee, and you’d welcome him in with a tight embrace and a new song for his playlist, or some drama between the costume designers.

This time, as you move towards him, he looks distracted, unfocused.

And once his stuff is on the floor, drinks on an end table, he turns to you.

But instead of outstretched arms, his lips meet yours, in a way that feels new and beautiful and dangerous.

There are no cameras. There is no audience. You are not Autumn, you are simply you.

And kissing you, right now, is not Louie.

Oscar Piastri’s hands are planted on your hips, and your arms snake around his neck, and that is whose mouth is pressed on yours.

It tastes a bit like victory, with a hint of everything you’ve ever wanted.

And then, just as a pleasant laugh bubbles up your surprised throat, he pulls away.

Not in a gentle way, in a way that suggests that was a mistake.

And when you meet his panicked glare, you feel your heart shatter for the very first time.

“Shit, I’m so sorry. I wasn’t thinking straight, and I was just reading the script on the way here-” he begins, faltering, but you just shake your head.

“Don’t worry. Sorry, I should’ve pulled away sooner. Kind of forgot we aren’t on set.” you reply quickly, and he runs a hand through his hair awkwardly, giving a polite chuckle.

“Your ridiculous drink is on the left, by the way.” he mumbles, walking off, and when you exhale, you feel an alien weight pressing on your chest.

After Oscar gives himself a moment of composure, shooting begins. And it kills him, that you’re looking at him with an expression he doesn’t recognise. Something bordering on mistrust. Something desperate. 

And he wants to reach for you, so badly. 

And so, he does. Hidden under the piano playing, the brooding, the deceit, he stands as Louie Jones.

And Louie Jones can reach out to Autumn Mavers, and brush the hair from her face, and plant a kiss to her cheek, and no one will care. No one will question it.

And so, maybe he is overstepping. Maybe he is dancing with a line that shouldn’t be crossed. 

But in this moment, he doesn’t care.

He thinks of that roar in his chest, the horror, at the idea of seeing you on Logan' s arm.

So one with more roar, he is greedy again. He chucks out stage directions, and kisses you mid sentence, all breathless and brave.

He hopes it tells you what he wants to say.

But when Janie’s face is happier than yours, he wonders if somewhere, something went wrong. 

If he lost more than he realised by one careless mistake.

The arguments begin after that. You tell Janie that you think the audience needs to connect to the characters individually, so you post videos alone. His playlist stops growing, you finally pay him back for the drinks. It’s little things, how you think the scene should be done. Asking him to step back, or forward, or not move at all. You stop giggling at his muttered jokes.

Luckily for you, you’ve reached where their relationship falls apart anyway. The conflict, before an optimistic resolution. Their bickering, when Autumn finds out Louie was being serious about not believing in love. That all of it, whatever it was, was only ever true to her.

She gave him so much, she gave him all of her.

Her love, her time, her broken strength.

Unrelenting, unrequited, unappreciated.

You try not to recognise your own faults within her. You stop seeing Oscar, and start trying to see the jazz musician who has just broken your heart.

It’s one and the same.

After an excruciatingly long time, an eternity (more like six days), Oscar begins to realise he may be losing his mind.

He reaches a conclusion he finds to be very logical; you have no interest in him, and he blew it.

He made you uncomfortable, and then ran away, and didn’t apologise. And so, he would do the mature thing.

“Hey, can we talk?”

Your heart twists at the nerves in his shaky tone. You want to say sorry, tell him it’s fine, you’re being irrational. But instead, you nod.

“I’m sorry about last week. We’ve been so off since. I should’ve apologised more sincerely. It wasn’t my intention to make you uncomfortable, I promise. It was lazy of me, I was just not paying attention. I got so used to having you around me, you know? With all the closeness of the scenes we’d been doing.”

You listen to him intently, and you pause. You could say it’s alright.

You don’t.

“It didn’t feel like a mistake.”

You know what that means. It’s big. But it’s also truthful- it felt right. 

Like to kiss him as a greeting, to admire his eyelashes, to commit the curve of his lips to memory- it seemed right. 

But to him, that is not what you are asking. Your tone is accusatory, your eyes narrowed in anger and not vulnerability. You know how he feels, and you don't feel the same, and view him as a coward for hiding behind the idea of making an error.

“It was, I promise. I didn’t mean to.”

Didn’t mean to, or didn’t want to? You’re desperate to ask, but you can’t. 

You bite your tongue and take the rejection. 

And so, with that, being in love with someone becomes an act, and not just an extension of everything you are.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

November 24th, 15:23. The last day of filming.

The filming process was still fast by industry standards, but you’d long missed the mark Oscar had set before. Instead, it stretched eighty-one days, to today. No one can pinpoint exactly when your scenes together went from one take wonders to gruelling hours, but it happened. And with each reshoot, each kiss you had to do again, that weight in your chest grew ugly. 

You despised how you still found comfort in the heat of his arms around yours.

“Okay people, this is it. The final scene. Feels dramatic to say. Janie?” Alex shouts, brandishing his clapboard.

Janie coughs.

“I’m ever too sentimental for this. Thank you everyone for this momentous project, for your dedication and passion. It’s been an honour. And you have my whole-hearted gratitude, you two, for bringing my words to life. To watch Autumn and Louie fall in love again, in a way that feels both new and old, was nothing short of breath-taking. I hope through this, somehow, you have found a way to have more faith in the existence of love, Oscar.” she sniffles, giving Oscar a tight embrace, and he looks a bit stunned.

Then, she turns to you. And just as she had when you’d first met, she plants a kiss to your damp cheeks.

“And I hope for you, that you have found you are deserving of love. Just because you give it so readily doesn’t mean you do not need it back.”

She casts Oscar a sly glance.

“And I suspect, you search for it so intently, that you often can’t see it when it’s staring at you.”

You’re not sure what she means by that, but that’s because you don’t turn to the left.

For there, Oscar is standing, looking directly at you. And Janie’s words swirl in his head,

‘The existence of love.’ And then your voice joins hers, ‘I know love exists, because I’m full of it…It’s everywhere, if you’re brave enough to look.’ His empty response, saying he can’t see it. But he can, because he can see you.

He can see you now, tears leaking from your eyes, but not in sadness. In something more bittersweet. He can see your tattoo, for your brother. The matching one with Aurelia on your knuckle. The way you learnt every cast member's name, how you asked Doriane for a postcard when she went to France for a weekend. The way you embraced people as if it was more natural than breathing.

He sees you.

And so, as his eyes finally catch up to his heart, he realises something he should’ve come to terms with a long time ago.

Oscar Piastri believes in love now, because he’s in love with you.

It’s just a shame that after today, you will disappear, for you never felt the same.

And he will shrink back into his idea of safety, into darker films where his tone is bitter, and the days his heart stopped feeling so heavy will become a distant memory.

The set has changed- it’s a stage of sorts, thrown between foliage and flora. A piano stands in the centre, with stools surrounding it. Oscar sits proudly, but his fingers show nerves. His first two performances are with a group of saxophonists and other instruments. He’s searching the crowd for you, and when his eyes meet yours, you give him a small wave.

At this point in the story, it’s all gone to shit. But Autumn was never one to give up on Louie so easily, just because she was hurt. And so, she shows up.

When he sees her, her face contorts into something painful.

Soon, it turns to one of concentration, as his solo piece begins.

Maybe you’re biased, but you think it might be the most beautiful melody you’ve ever heard.

Something to rival Rachmaninoff, you conclude.

Tears well in your eyes at the familiarity of it all, the way he glances up at you between chords, to check you’re still watching.

To check you still want him.

When it ends, and the crowd of extras explode into applause, that’s your cue to leave.

So you turn gracefully, pushing past a branch, back out into the street.

But before you can make it any further, a warm hand grips your arm.

When your eyes meet his, the look is real. Not some polished version of how love ought to look like.

You wonder if he can see it now. 

It’s just a shame it might be too late to come back from. There is something exhausting in the way pining eats at you. The way giving up all your love without it feeling returned drags you down to somewhere deeper than you thought possible.

“I love you.” he confesses, his voice breaking.

You know how you would respond. Maybe you’d move away, ask him to sit and talk it out.

But it is not you, it is not him. It is Autumn and Louie, and you did not write their story- Janie did.

“Did you only just realise?”

It’s a stupid line. It’s a barbed one.

“Yeah.”

Oscar’s voice is strained in a way you know will get him nominated for an award no one would expect from a romance film.

You can’t help but admire his talent.

“I love you too.”

When his arm stretches across your back, hugging you towards him, it feels like the beginning and the end rolled into one.

You press your lips to his gently, carefully. Almost like he’s a stranger.

When Alex calls to wrap, you pretend you don’t hear him.

You give yourself one more minute, enveloped in some bizarre world where your feelings become something you can’t fully trust, instead of your compass. 

Oscar obliges, keeping his body firm around yours, and when you break away innocently, his expression is unreadable.

You know there’s no point in saying goodbye, but you say it anyway.

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December 8th, 18:12

You flick the ends of your hair nervously, staring in the mirror. The room smells of vanilla perfume and steam, and your neck gleams with a small strand of jewellery. 

It had been a while since you’d been on a first date, and you were admittedly on edge.

Even though the person wasn’t a stranger at all, you still felt like it was all new.

The knock on the door made you jump, as you opened it.

You broke out into a smile on instinct, eyes dropping to a nice bouquet of flowers in his hands.

“Hey, Logan.”

He gives you a polite nod, while you take the peonies gratefully, and you welcome him in.

“Just give me a sec to find a vase, and we can go, ‘kay?” 

“Of course. You have a really nice apartment, you know?”

You laugh. “Thanks. I love it.”

He looks around, admiring the pink cushions and framed film posters.

“Can’t get away from Oscar, huh?” he quips, eyebrows raised at the depiction of a drum on your wall, his name in bold underneath.

“Apparently not. But we don’t have any sort of promo now until February, anyway. So I haven’t seen him much.”

Logan pauses.

“I think you had a big impact on him. I’m no gambler, but I’m willing to bet he misses you.”

You give him an undignified snort.

“I doubt it. Anyway, I’m only one call away.”

“Oscar’s a proud man.” is Logan’s quick response, like that’s meant to mean something to you.

“Sure. Anyway, let’s go?”

He takes your hand as you walk down the city streets, averting your eyes from your own face staring back at you.

When he turns the corner, you realise where he’s taking you.

You really can’t get away from him, it seems.

By the time you get home, the photos of you two are everywhere. Laughing, hand in hand.

You stare at the posts carefully, analysing your wide smile and his adoring eyes. 

It looks right. He looks stable. He is stable.

You think about your parents. A classic story, meeting in high-school, never quite giving each other up.

Maybe, they settled for stable. Maybe, they might not be soulmates.

But they’re definitely in love. Maybe that’s good enough.

Your fingers hover over his name, wondering if you should call. Logan Sargeant, a future boyfriend?

You think back to something he’d said just as the waiter had refilled his glass.

“Oscar had actually indirectly asked me to back off, a while ago. Some bullshit about the image of the film. I didn’t want to push, so I waited. It paid off.”

You hadn’t asked if he’d got his blessing now. You didn’t want to know.

It made you shut your phone off, though.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

December 12th, 11:08

“So, fans are fuming at the new discovery of you and Logan Sargeant. I saw someone say they blocked Gracie Abrams because of it, and another go as far as to say that they broke up with their partner because their whole conception of love is destroyed. For a romance film, is that the image you want? Were the fans seeing something that wasn’t there?”

You inhale.

“That’s a big question. I’d like to preface by just saying that Autumn and Louie are very much in love, even though Oscar and I weren’t. That's kind of how these things go. It’s easy to see things, because we want you to see them. They’re there to be noticed. I would hate to be at all to blame for any emotional distress, though.” is your calculated answer.

The interviewer sits up straighter, her leather trousers squeaking slightly.

“So, everything the audience saw in interviews, you were just putting it on? Even the hand incident?” she says it like it’s something dangerous, and you laugh.

“Well, yeah, sure. Brushing hands on an armrest was an accident, I’ll give them that.”

You swallow, your expression hardening slightly.

“I know that, for me at least, there could’ve been something there. It didn’t feel so much like acting. But again, it’s just part of the industry. Like my tiktoks, they were fun, but he hated them. We were really different. He was a pleasure to work with, though.”

She deadpans.

“So you did have a thing for him. They’ll go crazy about that.”

Your brow furrows, thinking of the blonde boy back home. The way your relationship dynamic is unspoken, unsure if you’re together or something in between.

“It’s pretty common, especially with the nature of the film. Hard to not feel a little funny about the person you’re spending weeks pretending to be in love with.”

The interview gives you a deep nod.

“Of course. So, about the film…”

Oscar switches his phone off then, dropping his head into his palms.

It’s impossible to tell if you’re telling the truth, but he knows he has to find out.

He grabs the first coat on his rack, slamming his door shut and hailing the nearest cab.

He isn’t nervous when he reaches your door, he’s something else entirely.

His fists are loud on the wood, and it swings open instantly, but it’s not you he’s grimacing at.

Instead, it’s someone else he recognises.

“Mate! What are you doing here?” Logan asks cheerfully, but his arms are crossed.

“Where is she?”

He hesitates.

“I don’t know, she’s out somewhere. Said she wanted a coffee, and she left.” he replies, and Oscar doesn't stick around- he turns and flings himself back down the stairs, into the pavements.

He doesn’t live here, doesn’t know where you’d go for coffee.

But you’re near the studio, and he remembers the small cafe he’d visited every morning.

So he barges in, a flurry of limbs and desperation, and there you are.

You have those same headphones in, wearing a faraway expression, and the sight of you hits him square in the chest.

It’s a view he’d got accustomed to, overly eager to see.

Like that flutter in your chest when you viewed the sunset; it was the same phenomenon.

He sits down, uninvited, and you make a little ‘o’ with your mouth when you notice him.

“Oscar, hi. What are you doing here?”

He pauses, only to breathe.

“Did you mean it?”

You tilt your head in confusion.

“Did you mean, what you said? In that interview?”

He shoves his phone under your nose, and you wince.

You meant it. You’re sure he knows you meant it.

But when you look up, his expression is ugly. Something almost angry. And you’re scared of what that means. If he might hate you, for dragging him into this. 

So a white lie slips from you, in a way they never did before.

“I did it for Doriane. She was fighting for her life when Logan and I got spotted.” you say, matter of fact. You’re hoping your shallow breaths aren’t giving you away.

“Alright. So I’m okay to do the same?”

“What?”

“I have a radio show tomorrow.”

He doesn’t offer any more context. He just gets up, and leaves, before you can say anything else.

﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌﹌

December 14th, 12:14

“So, Oscar. ‘The only exception’ is set to release in cinemas on Valentines Day. Any advice on who to watch it with, and if it’s a good idea for first dates?”

Oscar gives a courteous laugh.

“I’m not really one to speak on dates. But you can go with anyone, there are so many different dynamics explored throughout this film, beside the obvious.”

The radio-show host clears his throat.

“Speaking of that first part, did you hear what your co-star recently said about you? It sparked more debating online, about a supposed secret relationship between you two during filming. Are you allowed to comment on this?”

“Allowed? Of course I am. Yeah, sorry to disappoint, but we never had that kind of relationship. I did hear what she said, though. And she articulated it brilliantly. Especially because I haven’t done this kind of intimate onscreen relationship before, not in this respect of being completely head over heels, it was natural. I was taken by her, sure. Could you blame me?”

You replay it, finger sliding left, over and over again. Until the words are burned into your mind.

You know it’s planned. You know it’s fake. He even had the courtesy to warn you, as an offering after what had made it all go wrong in the first place.

Or maybe you were clinging to something that had never existed at all, and it didn’t go wrong. You just stopped thinking it ever could’ve been right.

“What’cha watching?” asks Logan lazily, walking into the room, and you hesitate.

You sit down, gesturing for him to sit next to you, and he does. His fingers draw curves on your knee, and you give him a sad smile.

“Logan-” you begin, but he sighs.

“You finally realised?” he asks carefully, and you pause.

“Realised what?”

“That you’re in love with Oscar.”

You scoff.

“I already knew that, I guess. I just thought I was over it. And then I decided you were right, he’s going to be haunting me for a while. And it’s not fair to use you as a shield.”

It’s an honest answer, and not coated to be kind. He appreciates it.

“If you stop being plagued by Oscar shaped ghosts, you’ll call me, right?”

“Of course.”

Less honest, but kinder. He appreciates that too.

He doesn’t try to kiss you, or even hug you goodbye. He just leaves, like he was almost never there to begin with.

On his way out, his shoulders brush with someone else’s on the stairs.

“You’re fucking unbelievable.” Logan claims quietly, his eyes locking with familiar, dark ones.

Oscar pauses, giving him a confused glance, but he shrugs.

“Don’t fuck it up.”

“Logan?” you call, hearing the door open. You were just about to lock it, but had taken a second to breathe.

“Not Logan.” he admits, and your eyes widen.

You stand, and turn, but you know who it is.

“Oscar.”

He nods.

“Why are you here?”

He glances at the door.

“I don’t really know.”

You fold your arms, taking a tentative step towards him.

“That’s a shitty answer.”

“You’re right, it is.”

You let the silence settle like dust, waiting for a better response.

And so, he begins.

“What does being in love feel like?”

You let the question engulf you, before choking out a reply.

“I don’t really know.”

And it’s true- you don’t. You love, but being in it, disgustingly so? You weren’t sure.

You thought you’d felt it, once. And that once, is standing right in front of you.

“Oscar, why are you here?” you ask again, your lips pursing, and he runs an exasperated hand through his unruly hair.

“I was reading the comments, and I just, snapped. I don’t know.”

You give him an incredulous look.

“I thought Oscar was heartless, and now he’s changed. Wow, now I’m sure love exists. Can’t believe my favourite female actress is now huge, because she made Oscar Piastri blush on live television.”

He hesitates.

“No way Oscar Piastri fell in love and fumbled it, and his girl got taken by his best mate.”

You raise an eyebrow.

“That was the one that got you? It took Logan to rile something up in you?” you tease, but your eyes don’t soften.

“You got me. You had me. It was you. I was so convinced love was just one elaborate fakery, and you became the only exception.”

“What are you saying?”

He sighs.

“I think you know the answer to that question. You made me fall in love with you.”

“I made you do no such thing. That was all you.” you retort, giving him a lazy smile, and he laughs.

“For the record, I may have loved you since we were fifteen, when I-”

“-tripped over the only hazard on set? I remember. I remembered when I stalked you, y’know?”

“Naturally.”

He moves before you, pulling you into something deeper than a hug.

“I’m sorry I didn’t say anything. I kept just pushing it down, because I didn’t know what it was. I was scared.” he admits, murmuring into your hair.

“It’s okay. You get why I didn’t say anything, right?”

“Because you were scared too?”

“Something like that.” you reply, pressing a gentle kiss to his neck.

“Are we obligated to let Janie know about this?”

You laugh into his chest.

“She already does.”

And, as if summoned, your phone rings. Her name, flashing on it, a welcome interruption. 

“Hey, Janie. What’s up?”

“Darling! Lovely to hear from you. Oscar wouldn’t pick up, of course.”

“Hi, Janie. I’m here.” he croaks sheepishly, grinning.

“Ah. I won’t ask. Well, I will. In a minute. How would you feel about a second film? I’m planning on dropping the sequel book right after the release.”

You scoff.

“Do you understand the concept of taking a break?”

“Nonsense, no such thing. But are you both happy to pretend to be in love again?”

You give Oscar a nod, a silent question, and he nods back.

“Think we’ve still got time to run?” Lily says as the two of you walk up the driveway together. The way she’s widening her eyes makes her look even more like a Disney princess, if that’s possible. You only just met the girl when the two of you stumbled out of matching Jeeps, but something about her sensible wedges and the way she’s clutching her suitcase like a lifeline make you feel a little less out of place. It’s comforting to know there’s a kindred spirit here, assuming neither of you bolt before the producers usher you into the house. 

You glance down at your own white-knuckle death grip on your suitcase. “Normally, I’d say we could make it to the gate before security tackles us, but not in these heels.”

She laughs, a bright sound that does absolutely nothing to hide the nerves beneath. “Guess we’re stuck humiliating ourselves in HD.”

“Guess we are,” you reply, smiling. When you walk through the doors, you catch your reflection in the sliding glass, and it looks more like you’re baring your teeth for battle. 

The villa stretches out in front of you, an imposing monstrosity of cobbled limestone and manicured gardens. Producers have clearly been studying the Instagrams of people much cooler than you, because everything here looks like it was designed to be photographed for a brand trip. The infinity pool gleams, jewel-like, in the center of the backyard, those stupid expensive flamingo floats that seem to crop up like a rash at every hen party you’ve ever attended bobbing lazily on its surface. Bright magenta and yellow beanbags are dotted strategically over a lawn so green it can only be artificial, leading up to the infamous white marble firepit.

In the distance, the ocean sparkles, Photoshop-perfect. You think absentmindedly that somewhere under all the cheeky neon signage telling you to eat, sleep, crack on, repeat! and the garish fluorescent photo panels the producers have slapdashed together, it's probably a beautiful house.

“Oh my god, the last girls are here!” a high-pitched voice screams from behind you, and without warning you’re swept into a swarm of tanned arms and blinding smiles and a cloud of coconut sunscreen so big it could probably melt the ozone layer all over again. 

Names come at you rapid-fire; you’re confident you’ll remember absolutely none of them in ten minutes. There’s Samie, a bubbly blonde primary school teacher who gives you a terrifyingly firm hug. Then George, a financial analyst from Norfolk who seems to have lost his shirt the first second he could. Oscar hangs back from the crowd a bit, flicking his swoopy bangs out of his eyes like he can’t quite decide if he wants to say hello to the two of you, but Gemma, a stunning brunette girl with a full sleeve of tattoos up her arm, bats her lashes and starts chattering away like you’ve known each other for years. 

And then there’s the smile. 

It’s the kind that stops you in your tracks, bright and boyish, almost too big for the face it comes on. A nice face, objectively — tan, deep dimples, eyes the color of seaglass framed by the kind of lashes that men never appreciate enough to deserve.

“Hey, I’m Lando,” the face says, extending a hand that’s warm when you shake it. You realize it’s not just the smile: there’s something disarming about him, the way he seems genuinely curious about you rather than just sizing you up as a potential couple option.  

“Nice to meet you, Lando,” you say, surprised to find you actually mean it. “What do you do?”

“Content creator,” he says cheerfully. “Mostly travel and lifestyle, but y’know, a bit of this, a bit of that. Nothing too serious.”

It feels like the words flip a switch inside you. Of course he is. You can just imagine him in the fluoro room where you’d filmed your intro clips, smiling into the camera with that same ridiculous grin: Hi, I’m Lando, I’m twenty-five, I’m an influencer from Glastonbury. My type is… a girl who doesn’t take things too seriously. I’m looking for… a bit of fun this summer, and we’ll see where things go. 

“Sounds fun,” you lie politely. But you’ve dated fun before — fun just broke your heart, actually. Fun is messy, unpredictable, has you riding high until it leaves you when the going gets tough. Fun is not the plan this summer. No matter how nice of a smile it has. 

“What about you, then?” he asks, eyes twinkling. If he’s seen your walls go up, he’s not showing it. “Let me guess. Something that requires actual qualifications instead of knowing which ring light angle makes a hotel breakfast look most appetizing?”

You smile despite yourself. “Something like that.”

“Brilliant,” he says, with no trace of irony. “Let me guess. Spreadsheets? Data? Proper grown-up stuff, I reckon.”

“As opposed to your improper not-grown-up stuff?” you ask, the words coming out more teasing than you intended.

He grins. “Exactly. Though I’ll have you know I take my not-taking-things-seriously very seriously indeed.”

He’s charming, you’ll give him that; there’s a kind of effortlessness to his chat that probably works wonders on most girls. But you’re not most girls. Not anymore. 

You’re opening your mouth to respond when you hear it — the familiar ding! of the Love Island phones. “I’ve got a text!” Lily cries, pulling out her newly issued villa phone. “Islanders, it’s time for your first coupling ceremony. Please gather around the firepit immediately. Hashtag love at first sight, hashtag crack on,” she reads. 

“Here we go,” you mumble under your breath, glancing around nervously at the other islanders. Half of them you haven’t even properly spoken to yet, and ten minutes from now you’ll be coupled up with one of them.

“Well, it was nice to meet you,” Lando says, grin still playing at the corners of his heart-shaped mouth. “May the odds be ever in your favor, and all that.”

“Bit dramatic. This isn’t the Hunger Games,” you reply, even though your heart is thumping heavily in your chest. 

He’s already walking away, but he turns, flashing you that devastating smile one more time as he calls over his shoulder. “Isn’t it?”

The firepit looks even more intimidating up close. They’ve arranged you on stone benches that look like they were nicked from the world’s most expensive spa, boys on one side and girls on the other. The host struts in, eerily gorgeous in a shimmery dress that probably costs more than your rent with a smile that manages to be welcoming and predatory all at once. You can’t look too hard at her; you find yourself scanning the shadows, instinctively hunting for the cameras you know are lurking somewhere. From across the fire, Lando waggles his eyebrows at you before jutting his chin at a bush, where you finally catch the sun glinting off a barely visible lens.

“Hello, my beautiful islanders!” the host trills, and you snap back to attention. “Hope you’re all settling in nicely to your new home. But before you get too comfortable, we should tell you we thought we’d shake things up a bit this year.”

Your stomach drops to your ankles. You thought you knew what to expect, but of course there’s a twist. There’s always a bloody twist.

“This year, instead of choosing your own couples, you’ve been matched by our experts based on your applications,” the host continues. “They’ve analyzed your answers, your partner preferences, and your relationship histories to create the perfect matches.” She pauses, clearly relishing the collective anxiety rolling off of the ten of you in waves. “So let’s see who you’ll be sharing a bed with tonight, shall we?”

She pulls out the first card with theatrical flair. “Gemma, your perfect match is… Charles.” One of the guys you didn’t get the chance to speak to steps forward, a tall brunette with the kind of messy hair that tries to look effortless but probably took forty-five minutes and half a tub of pomade to achieve. He murmurs a hello with an accent you can’t quite place and she meets him with a bright smile, looping her arm through his as the host continues.

“Nicole, you’ll be paired with George,” the host says next. A stunning redhead with perfectly contoured cheekbones practically glides across the decking like she’s walking Paris Fashion Week. George lopes towards her, what he lacks in grace made up for in enthusiasm. They shake hands with awkward politeness, standing next to Gemma and Charles.

“Lily, your perfect match is Oscar,” the host reads, and you squeeze your friend’s hand tightly. She shoots you a quick glance, something almost like relief flickering over her face as she walks carefully around the firepit. Oscar gives her a shy smile, and they hug quickly before standing together. Even across the deck, you can see the identical pink creeping up both of their cheeks.

“Samie, you’ll be paired with Lando.” The blonde practically bounds off the bench, beaming at Lando. He smiles back with the same ease you already recognize, and she links her arm through his.

“Which leaves our final couple, you and Carlos,” the host says, smiling kindly at you. When you look across the firepit, the boy you’ll be sharing a bed with for at least the next week is already walking towards you. 

You send a mental thank you to your friends, because he’s exactly what you would have imagined if you’d filled out the application yourself — tall, tan, dark hair, big brown eyes that crinkle at the corners when he smiles warmly at you. “Hello,” he says as he reaches you, and you catch the hint of a Spanish accent that makes the simple greeting sound like poetry. 

“Hi,” you manage, suddenly very aware of the camera in the bush and the idea that your first conversation with a cute guy is going to be replayed on national television tomorrow night. He pulls you into a brief, respectful hug, your cheek brushing against his linen button-up.

“Don’t you all look cozy,” the host says, clapping her hands together. “Now, you’ll have some time to get to know each other. But remember, this is Love Island,” she adds, mischievous glint in her eye. “Surprises might be coming sooner than you think.”

She’s gone before you know it, producers trailing out behind her, and the group begins to disperse. “So,” Carlos says, hand resting on your back comfortably as he speaks in a tone low enough that it sounds like it’s saved just for you. “This is a bit odd, yes? I have never had my love life decided by people I have not met.”

You laugh as he leads you over to a daybed. “Definitely weird. Though I have to say, they could have done worse.”

“Could they?” He raises his eyebrows as he sits, something playful in his expression. “You do not even know me yet.”

When he pats the mattress next to him, you sit, legs crossed. “So tell me about yourself. Let’s see how well the relationship experts did.”

He launches into an introduction, leaning forward and talking with the kind of eye contact that makes you a little bit dizzy. He’s an architect from Madrid, living outside of Oxford; he’s athletic, the kind of guy who bikes to work every morning and plays padel matches with his coworkers. He’s smart, close to his family, reliable. You can already tell he’s the kind of man your friends will approve of and your mother would love. You glance away for just a moment, eyes scanning over the lawn. Lily and Oscar are deep in conversation by the pool, and in the kitchen, Lando is trying to teach Samie an elaborate handshake, waving his hands wildly through the air as she giggles. 

“Already scoping out the competition?” Carlos says, following your gaze with an amused smile. 

“What? No,” you protest, cheeks pink. “Just… people watching. Occupational hazard.”

“What is your occupation, then?” he asks, tilting his head. 

“Market analytics,” you explain. “I spend my life figuring out what people want before they want it themselves.”

“Ah,” he nods, leaning back on his elbows. “Useful in here. So you are studying us all like lab rats.”

“Maybe a little,” you grin. You're surprised by how easy it is to talk to him already, the way the conversation flows despite the knowledge that every word is probably being recorded. He asks all the right questions, admires your ambition in a way that feels genuine, doesn't glaze over when you get a bit too passionate about your work. His English is almost perfect, but there's something charming about the way he occasionally pauses to search for the exact right word, the slight Spanish inflection that makes even mundane topics sound more interesting. You barely realize how much time has gone by until the sun starts falling over the infinity pool.

“I hate to say it, but I think the experts might know what they are doing,” Carlos says, brushing his shoulder against yours.

“Don’t jinx it,” you scold, smiling as you say it. “I have to admit, it’s going better than I expected.”

He gasps, putting a hand to his heart. “You wound me.”

“You know what I mean,” you say gently. “It’s mental, isn’t it? To get matched up with a complete stranger on a reality TV show and expect it to work out?” You glance around the villa, cameras winking at you mercilessly from the shadows. “But somehow…”

“Somehow it might work,” Carlos says softly, slipping his hand into yours. His palm is stable, steady, the kind of touch that feels like a promise. It’s all exactly what you wanted.

You think.

About a week into villa life, you begin to understand why people sign up for this.

It’s not just the endless sunshine, or being surrounded by beautiful people 24/7, or the fact that your biggest decision every day is whether to wear the blue bikini or the orange one. There’s a strange instantaneousness to everything that you love. Every moment feels weighty and important. Conversations that would normally take months surface over breakfast, and you find yourself genuinely caring about people you met five minutes ago. 

Your relationship with Carlos has been nice. Really nice, actually. He makes you cafe con leche every morning, a tradition you’re starting to enjoy even more than the simple mint tea you used to prefer. He cuddles you at night, holds your hand during dinner. You’re taking things unbearably slow, in Love Island terms — you haven’t even kissed yet, outside of pecks during challenges. But he never pushes you for more than you’re comfortable with; there’s something refreshingly mature about the way he approaches things, like he’s letting you take the lead. It’s still early days, and you’re trying to let yourself trust again after the disaster of your last relationship. Somehow, in the safety of him, you think you might get there. 

But it’s the friendships that have surprised you the most. 

You knew you and Lily would get along, but she’s become more like a sister over the past week; the two of you had hidden out on the terrace together in the middle of Charles and Gemma’s third screaming match of the week, and spent the evening giggling and trading dry one-liners. The two of you have been attached at the hip ever since — that is, when she’s not wrapped up in Oscar. The two of them are almost sickeningly sweet together, and you can tell that the dreamy look he gets on his face every time she even glances his direction is going to melt her heart before long. 

Samie was more of a wild card, but you’ve become fast friends too. She’s got an infectious energy that makes everything fun, even mundane villa chores. But she’s also the one who found you crying in the bathroom during a particularly homesick moment and sat with you for an hour without asking any questions. She has the purest heart, which is why it makes you ache to watch her try to make things work with Lando when it’s not quite clicking.

Which brings you to the biggest surprise — the boy who has turned out to be absolutely nothing like you expected.

“Twenty quid says Charles and George get distracted halfway through and start showing off for G,” Lando says, poking you in the side. You’re both sprawled on one of the daybeds near the pool while the boys line up at the edge for a race. Georgia, the new bombshell in question, is sitting close by, long legs swishing in the water. 

“Not taking that bet,” you respond, rolling onto your stomach as you watch Carlos adjust his position, all focused intensity as he prepares to dive. “Those two share one brain cell. And it’s on holiday, too.” 

“Somewhere very far away,” he agrees solemnly. “Probably got a budget flight to Koh Samui with its other brain cell lads. Gonna have a proper fiesta, maybe meet a nice nerve ending and have a summer fling…”

You cackle, loud and unfiltered. “Stupid,” you say, wiping a tear from your waterline, and Lando smiles like making you snort with laughter was his entire agenda for the day.

“Ready, set, go!” Georgia calls then, and the boys dive in. Well, Carlos and Charles dive — George plugs his nose and jumps, so he’s already half a lap behind by the time he surfaces.

Carlos starts pulling ahead almost immediately, arms cutting through the water in clean, efficient strokes. “C’mon!” you call, cupping your hands around your mouth as he swims towards your end. 

“Showing off for his girl, isn’t he?” Lando says lightly, bumping his shoulder against yours. 

“He’s just competitive,” you say, but you can’t keep the smile off your face. “But yeah. Maybe a little.”

“Good for you,” he says, and when you look over his eyes are glued to the race like it’s the Olympics. “Carlos, I mean. He’s good for you.”

Your stomach twists at the flatness of his tone. You’re not sure what to say, how to be grateful for your own connection without feeling like you’re rubbing it in the face of two of your closest friends here. It’s not Lando and Samie’s fault things haven’t clicked between them. 

“Thank god I didn’t take the bet,” you say instead, bumping his shoulder back and pointing to the pool. Charles has started showboating, doing a stroke that is definitely not regulation as he passes Georgia. 

Lando looks over at you, eyes crinkling at the corners as he tries not to smile, and then like clockwork the two of you dissolve into giggles. “Oh my god. Called it,” he wheezes, watching as Charles realizes he’s fallen behind even George and swiftly tries to course-correct. “What an absolute muppet.”

“Nah, look at Gemma,” you gasp through your giggles, tilting your head across the lawn towards the gym where the brunette is doing an increasingly aggressive set of burpees, pretending not to stare murderously at Charles in plank position. “She’s actually going to kill him.”

Lando grins. “Do you think his murder will make Unseen Bits?” he teases, just as Carlos touches the wall, hauling himself out of the pool. He’s grinning triumphantly, water streaming off his body in rivulets. 

“Did you see, cariño?” he calls out, slightly breathless as he jogs over to the two of you. “I won!”

“We saw, champion,” you tease, tossing him the towel he’d left at the bottom of the daybed. “Beating Dumb and Dumber. Very impressive.”

He ignores the towel, picking you up and sweeping you into a damp hug that makes you shriek. “Mi premio,” he says to Lando, grinning smugly.

“Carlos, ew, stop, you’re all wet,” you protest, wriggling in his arms. 

“Worth it for the win,” he corrects, kissing you on the temple, and you beam up at him. From the corner of your eye, you see Lando look away.

“Am I interrupting?” a honeyed voice says from behind you, and when Carlos spins around with you still in his arms, Georgia’s standing there, perfectly posed and undeniably gorgeous in a way that makes you acutely aware that this is the third time you’ve worn this bikini already. “Just wanted to pull Lando for a chat.”

Lando flicks a glance from you and Carlos to Georgia. “Yeah, alright,” he says, sitting up straighter. “Shall we?”

She smiles and grabs his arm, pulling him toward the beanbags in the center of the lawn. You realize with a sinking feeling she’s positioning the two of them directly in Samie’s eyeline; you can see your friend frowning all the way from the kitchen.

“Good for Landito,” Carlos mumbles against your neck, but you’re only half-listening, watching as Georgia throws her head back laughing at something Lando’s said. He hasn’t actually made a joke, if the polite and slightly overwhelmed expression on his face is anything to go by. 

You hum noncommittally in response, motioning Samie over, and she bolts from the kitchen, ducking into the house and taking the long way around so she doesn’t look too obvious. 

Carlos sits the both of you down, finally loosening his grip, and you roll off his lap to face him. “You do not like Georgia,” he observes. Not a question, a fact. 

“I don’t not like her,” you lie. You’re not confrontational, and the villa is far too small for outright warfare, but there’s something about Georgia that’s rubbed you the wrong way since the moment she stepped in the villa. You don’t trust someone so calculated, someone who treats people as either obstacles or opportunities. And you definitely don’t like exactly how clear she’s made number one on both those lists. 

Carlos raises an eyebrow at you, and you sigh. “Okay, fine. There’s just… something. I don’t know. She’s very strategic.”

“Most people here are.”

“Not like her,” you say, watching Samie emerge from inside just as Georgia leans closer, resting her hand on Lando’s thigh. 

To her credit, Samie manages to keep her face from crumpling until she makes it to the daybeds. “You two enjoying the show?” she says as she sits down next to you. Her voice is carefully controlled, but you can see the hurt flashing in her eyes.

“You okay, hun?” you ask softly. 

She lets out a hollow laugh. “Brilliant. Just brilliant. Why does Georgia get more than friendly bants out of him? God, what am I doing wrong?”

“I’m going to go,” Carlos whispers, clearly uncomfortable with the girl talk he’s about to be swept into if he stays. He presses a kiss to your cheek as he gets up, wandering over to George and Charles, and Samie sniffles as she watches. 

“Aw, Sam,” you sigh, sneaking a look over at the beanbags again. You can see Lando glancing around like he’s trying to see if anyone is watching the conversation, but he’s engaging nevertheless, giving Georgia that easy, charming smile of his. “You haven’t done anything wrong.”

“I keep thinking maybe if I just try harder, or give it more time, something will click,” she says, and there’s an unsteadiness to it that makes your chest ache. “But he treats me exactly like he treats everyone else. Like a mate.”

“He cares about you, hun,” you say gently.

“I know,” she sighs. “I just don’t think it’s the way I want him to.”

You’re about to respond when Georgia squeals from the middle of the lawn. “I’ve got a text! Islanders, it’s time for a challenge that’s all about following your heart. Girls, you’ll be blindfolded. Boys, you’ll enter one by one and kiss the girl you’re most interested in getting to know better. But here’s the twist: we won’t reveal who kissed who. Hashtag love is blind, hashtag secret admirers!” she screams, voice rising to a fever pitch.

The reaction is immediate and completely chaotic: Gemma declaring loudly that she better get a kiss, which you suspect is entirely for Charles’ benefit; Oscar wrapping an arm around Lily and whispering something in her ear that makes her blush; Georgia pulling out a tube of gloss and coating her lips, loudly smacking them together to blot them. From across the lawn, Carlos sends you a wink, and you feel a surge of relief to be with someone so uncomplicated.

“What if no one kisses me?” Samie whispers, face bloodless.

“Then they’re idiots,” you say fiercely, throwing your arm around her shoulders. But your stomach is already twisting again with anxiety for her, because you can see exactly what she's seeing: the way the coupled-up boys are already gravitating toward their partners, the way Georgia is practically radiating confidence, the brutal mathematics of five kisses for six girls.

You think this might be the moment that breaks everything wide open.

The setup is ridiculous and dramatic, which you suppose is sort of the point. They’ve arranged the girls in a circle on the lawn, and the six of you stand at attention as they slip gold headphones over your ears and a ridiculous silk eye mask over your eyes. The world goes dark, and for a moment, all you can hear is the pounding of your own heart. Without your sight, it feels like every other sense is heightened; you can smell Gemma’s coconut sun cream from across the lawn and the faint scent of jasmine from the trees outside. Even with the headphones on, before long, there’s an unmistakable sound of someone settling tentatively in front of you, feet scraping against the grass.

He leans in slowly, hand cupping your face and thumb brushing gently over your cheekbone before soft lips meet yours. It’s a nice kiss, sweet and warm, and you can just hear the small sound he makes as he presses more firmly against your mouth. His other hand rests lightly on your hip until he pulls away, brushing his lips over your forehead before he disappears. 

You barely have time to process the kiss before there’s another set of footsteps weaving their way through the circle. You’re expecting them to keep moving, to hurry past you. 

You’re not expecting a second kiss. 

There’s no hesitation this time. Whoever it is, he’s on you immediately, lips crashing against yours with an urgency that nearly knocks you off your feet. There’s something about the kiss — not just technique, though the guy clearly knows what he’s doing. It’s something deeper, something that sparks through every nerve ending in your body. You find yourself pressing closer, pulling him into you, and the way he sighs and threads his fingers into your hair in response sends heat burning straight through you.

When you finally break apart, you’re both breathing hard. His forehead rests against yours, just for a moment, and you have to resist the wild urge to pull him back in again, to lose yourself in him. But like a flash, he’s gone, leaving you literally and metaphorically in the dark.

It had to have been Carlos. The passion, the spark — that was him showing you how he really feels, when you’re not holding back from him. The way your body responded to him, the electricity, is exactly how you imagine it feels to kiss the right guy, the magical, elusive one for you. It felt like falling off a cliff and coming home, all at the same time. 

You barely register the rest of the boys making their way around the circle. All you can think about is The Kiss.

When you pull off the blindfold, the afternoon sun is blindingly bright. You blink rapidly, letting your eyes adjust as you begin to catch expressions around the lawn. There’s Carlos giving you a soft smile, eyes sparkling. Lily, cheeks pink and looking absolutely radiant. And devastation on Samie’s face as she squeezes your hand like she’s trying to hold herself steady and whispers, “I didn’t get any kisses. Not a single one.”

“What?” you breathe, the words snapping you out of your daze. While you were basking in the magic of that second kiss, your friend was getting systematically passed over by every single boy in the villa.

“It’s fine,” she says quickly, bottom lip trembling. “I just — just need a minute.”

She’s gone before you can stop her, walking towards the villa with her head held high and shoulders shaking. 

“Bloody hell, she’s dramatic,” Gemma says, not bothering to lower her voice.

Lily’s by your side before you can say anything in reply. “Don’t. Let’s just go check on her,” she says gently, and you nod. 

The two of you find her in the glam room, staring into her vanity mirror and aggressively applying concealer under her eyes. “Sam, we’re so sorry,” you say, sitting next to her and wrapping your arms around her. 

Lily sits to the other side, rubbing her back. “Totally,” she agrees.

“It’s fine,” Samie says, voice tight as she drops the Beautyblender. “I mean, it’s not, but it is what it is, right? Can’t force someone to fancy you.”

“It doesn’t mean they don’t fancy you,” Lily says quickly as the other girls start filing in. “Maybe they were being respectful. Or maybe they were nervous, or —”

“Lily,” Samie stops her, gentle and firm, classic kindergarten teacher tone. “You don’t have to make excuses for them. I’m a big girl. I can handle the truth.”

“Well, the truth is that they’re idiots,” you soothe, petting her blonde curls. “All of them.”

“I didn’t get one either, Samie,” Nicole says quietly from the other side of the vanity tables, and the room falls into an uncomfortable silence. You can feel the divide immediately — those who got kisses and those who didn’t, and the guilt of being on the other side of that line.

“Wait,” Georgia says suddenly, mascara wand stopped midair. “If two people didn’t get kissed, then someone got more than one. Who got kissed twice?”

There’s silence, and you can feel the heat creeping steadily up your neck. What would be worse: to tell the girls a truth you know will hurt, or lie right to your friends’ faces?

“I did,” you say finally. The admission hangs heavy in the air, Samie’s shoulders tensing under your touch.

“Lucky girl,” Georgia says, smiling just a little too sweetly. “I’m pretty sure I know who mine was. Very familiar energy, if you know what I mean.”

“Georgia,” Lily says, cutting a glance between Samie and Nicole, who are both studiously avoiding eye contact with anyone. 

“What? I’m just saying, it’s nice to be properly appreciated —”

Samie stands, grabbing a towel and storming out of the room. The door slams shut behind her as Nicole lays on the ground, groaning and holding a pillow over her head. 

“Awkward,” Georgia sing-songs, finally applying her mascara. 

“Oh, bore off, G,” you bite out before you can think better of it, leaving the room to follow your friend.

Dinner is more subdued than usual. You’d finally managed to calm Samie down enough to get her dressed and ready for the evening. She and Nicole both put on brave faces, but there’s something brittle in both their expressions that makes your chest tight. You’d pulled Georgia to apologize for snapping at her, too; she seemed mollified by your groveling, but there’s still a tense veil drawn over all the girls. It’s as if someone’s liable to explode if you put a foot wrong, so you’ve all just decided not to speak much at all. The boys are completely oblivious, of course, making jokes and chattering on about football as if they didn’t turn the villa upside down hours earlier.

As night falls, you’re about to go check on Samie when Carlos’ arm sneaks around your waist. “Can I pull you for a chat?” he teases, pinching your waist. “Just us?”

You smile, relieved. In all the chaos, you’d almost forgotten about the good part of the challenge, the way Carlos had tilted your whole world on its axis with that kiss. “I’d really like that,” you say, leaning into his touch as he leads you over to the firepit. 

You sit beside each other, and it’s quiet as you listen to the soft sound of the water lapping against the pool walls. “Quite a day,” he says finally, thumb stroking over your knuckles. 

“Definitely,” you sigh, relieved he broke the silence as you rest your head against his shoulder.

“How was the challenge for you?” he asks, and there’s a note of nervousness to his voice that thrills you a little.

“It was alright,” you reply coyly.

“Just alright?” he laughs, wrapping his arm around you. “I was hoping for a better review.”

“It was a nice kiss,” you smile. Understatement of the year. When your mind wasn’t occupied by the drama of the afternoon, you haven’t really stopped thinking about it.

Carlos tilts his head. “Just one kiss?” he says, curiosity in his voice. 

“Yup,” you hear yourself say, and you’re immediately confused by your own words. Why did you just lie? 

Carlos hums, wrapping his arm around you. “George is not saying who he went for, in the challenge,” he says, leaning in conspiratorially, like it’s all a fun game. “I thought maybe he had kissed you.”

“No, just you,” you repeat, doubling down. Your heart is beating faster now, and not in a good way. “Nothing too dramatic for me. But really nice.”

He smiles, and it’s so genuine and warm that your guilt feels like it doubles in size. “I was thinking, cariño, maybe we could have our own little challenge here,” he says softly, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and the butterflies erupt in your stomach. 

“I think I’d really like that,” you murmur. 

“Good,” he whispers, cupping your face in his hands as he leans in. “Because I’ve been wanting to do this since the moment I met you.” He leans in and finally, finally presses his lips to yours, and —

You should be melting into him. You should be burning from the inside out. But as his lips move against yours, sweet and tender, realization crashes over you like you’ve just been launched headfirst into the pool.

This is the first kiss. The perfectly pleasant, entirely forgettable one. Which means the person who set your world on fire wasn’t Carlos at all.

When you break apart, Carlos is already smiling, eyes twinkling as he looks at you. “What’s your review? Better than the challenge?” he asks. 

You manage a smile, mind still reeling. “Much better. This was real.”

“Exactly,” he says, pulling you into his side. “No games. Just us.”

You focus on the warmth radiating from his body, trying to process what just happened. It was a lovely kiss, really — genuine and romantic. It wasn’t The Kiss, but that’s okay, isn’t it? Maybe you’re overthinking it. Butterflies die eventually; this is steady, reliable, what you’ve always wanted. And you like Carlos, you really do. He’s kind and handsome and patient, and there’s something there. You know there is. 

If you think about that second kiss and who gave it to you all night, nobody needs to know.

When the text comes the next morning declaring a recoupling on the horizon, you’re not shocked. It’s been nearly a week, and there was enough drama stirred up by the challenge for the producers to know they’ll have good material to work with. What’s surprising is that Lando listens to George read out the announcement, and instead of celebrating with the other boys on the lawn, turns on his heel and promptly disappears back into the villa.

You find him on the terrace, remembering something he’d said about how he used to hide out in the treehouse his dad built him when he was a kid and figuring the higher you could go, the better. He’s curled into the corner of the sofa, hands pressed to his face, looking like he hopes the pink and purple throw pillows will swallow him whole. 

“Penny for your thoughts?” you say gently. 

He looks up at you, and the expression on his face is so pitiful it makes your heart twist. “Think you’re overpricing them.”

You sit, folding your legs beneath you, and go for a teasing tone. “You really are a drama king, aren’t you? Built for reality TV.”

“Oi,” he pouts exaggeratedly, throwing his feet into your lap. “Be nice. I’m emotionally fragile right now.”

You raise an eyebrow when he plays along, a surge of pride rushing through you at managing to make him feel slightly less horrible. “Why are you stressed? It’s boys’ choice. And you’ve got Samie and Georgia both desperate to couple up with you.”

“That’s the problem. I just —” he blows a gust of air out of his cheeks, flopping backwards onto the couch. “I know no matter what I do, I’m going to disappoint someone. And they’re both great girls. I just don’t know what I want.”

“Okay, then what do you not want?” you say, shrugging your shoulders. 

He pushes up on his elbows to look at you. “Huh?”

“Market analytics, remember?” you explain. “Sometimes it’s easier to rule out the bad options.” You lean back against the pillows, the afternoon sun warming your skin as the rumblings of a classic Charles and Gemma fight begin below. “For example: I definitely don’t want that,” you say, pointing a finger down through the bougainvilleas on the railing.

Lando snorts. “Don’t think anyone wants that. Even them.”

You smack him lazily on the shoulder. “C’mon,” you say. “Try it.”

“I don’t want to hurt Samie,” he says. “She’s sweet, and a great girl, and she deserves the world.”

“Good. That’s good,” you confirm, as encouraging as you can muster when there’s so obviously a but coming down the highway that’s liable to turn Samie into romantic roadkill. “What else?”

Lando’s quiet for a moment, fidgeting with the throw pillows. “I don’t want to pick someone because it’s safe, or because everyone else thinks I should, or because it’s convenient. That’s not what I’m here for.”

“What do you mean, convenient?”

“You know, the easy choice,” he says, pushing his sunglasses off his face into his unruly curls. His eyes look impossibly green against his tan. “Someone who’s obviously interested. Someone who fits what everyone expects.” He squints, even though the sun is behind him. “Someone who won’t make things complicated.”

“Someone who’s right, not someone who’s easy,” you echo.

He sits up. “Exactly. I dunno. I’m scared I’m just convincing myself into a choice because it’s what I should want. Not what I actually want.”

You’re quiet for a moment, thinking about Carlos and his smile and the way he holds you at night, like he’s afraid to break something so precious. “Sometimes the easy choice and the right choice can be the same thing.” 

His eyes don’t leave your face. “What if they’re not? What if you know they’re not?”

There’s something in his voice, vulnerable and almost aching, that makes you hesitate, heart beating hard in your chest. “Then I guess you have to decide what you’re willing to lose.”

“Right,” he says, jaw tightening. “Yeah. Makes sense.”

“Is this about Georgia, specifically?” you ask tentatively. “Because honestly, Lan, if you want my opinion, I think Samie —”

“It’s not —” he interrupts, like he can’t hold the words back, and then catches himself mid-sentence, straightening his spine and smiling too stiffly to be real. “Nah, I think you’re right. Good points, mate.” He slides his sunglasses back on, and you have the strangest feeling that behind the lenses, he’s looking right through you. “I should get ready. Boys have been bugging me to help them with their recoupling speeches.”

You wince. You can picture Charles and George down there, complete messes. You don’t even know who they’re going to pick, and honestly, they probably don’t either. “Yikes,” you say, feeling grateful you have Carlos. 

“Yeah,” Lando says, standing before you can say anything else. “Good luck tonight. Not that you need it,” he adds hastily, disappearing through the sliding door. 

By the time evening rolls around, there’s a nervous energy humming in the air, and it’s not just you who’s feeling it. Lily curls and recurls a strand of hair, biting her nails even though she has to be the safest girl in the villa. Gemma sprays her perfume over the entire glam room, claiming it’s her emotional armor for the ceremony. You take your time with your makeup, more to have something to do with your hands than anything else. 

The air feels heavier than usual around the firepit. You stand between Samie and Lily, squeezing both their hands. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” you whisper to Samie.

She smiles ruefully. “Easy for you to say, hun.”

The host’s voice cuts through the air with her trademark mix of warmth and gravity. “Islanders, tonight’s recoupling will be boys’ choice. One by one, you’ll step forward and choose the girl you want to couple up with. The girl not chosen will be dumped from the island immediately.” She smiles at the six of you before turning her attention to the boys. “Oscar, you’re first.”

Oscar stands, clearing his throat. “Right. Uh, I want to couple up with this girl because this whole thing is sort of mental, but she makes it feel like the most normal thing in the world. She’s kind and smart, and it’s only been a week, but being with her feels like I’ve known her forever. I’m excited to spend more time with her. So the girl I’d like to couple up with is Lily,” he finishes with a soft smile, as if anyone is surprised. Lily practically floats over to him, absolutely glowing. 

“Carlos, you’re next,” the host says, and he stands. You’re not nervous, really; you know he’s going to pick you.

“I would like to couple up with this girl because she has been lovely to get to know this week,” he says softly. “From the moment she stepped into the villa, she’s been one hundred percent herself, good and bad, whether it’s checking in on people when they’re feeling down, or getting cranky before her coffee in the morning. She’s funny and passionate and real. And stunning, obviously. All the small things add up to a perfect package.”

When he says your name, you walk around the firepit to him, and when you lean up on tiptoe to kiss him, your heart jumps promisingly. The two of you sit, Carlos’ arm resting around your shoulders. 

“The speech was good?” he whispers to you as the host starts speaking again, inviting George to stand. 

You nod, something warm blooming in your chest. It really was a nice speech — you had no idea he was paying so much attention to the details in here. “Perfect, actually.” 

“I’m glad, cariño,” he says, dropping a kiss to your hair and giving Lando a subtle thumbs up.

Halfway through George’s speech, which is (of course) a paragraph longer than everyone else’s, you realize it’s not about Nicole. You actually gasp out loud when Gemma’s name falls from his lips, bracing yourself for a tirade, but she actually looks somewhat pleased as George ducks his head to kiss her cheek. 

Charles, on the other hand, is clearly fuming. When he’s called next, he can’t stop cutting glances at George, and his speech is filled with entirely perfunctory statements about how the girl he wants to pick is ‘nice to chat to’ and ‘seems like a good person.’ He picks Nicole, and if nothing else, the two of them are striking together. You’d whisper a joke to Lando about how their hypothetical children would be the world’s first baby supermodels if he didn’t look positively queasy staring across the fire at Samie and Georgia.

“Lando, you’re up,” the host says softly, and you know this is the moment the producers are counting on, the chance for the first real drama of the season. 

Lando shifts, rubbing at the back of his neck. “I’d like to couple up with this girl because she’s made things feel different since she came in. She’s sharp. Funny. Surprising. And proper fit, too. Someone told me earlier to make the right choice, not the easy one,” he says, voice soft now, and his eyes dart to you for the most infinitesimal, blink-and-you’ll-miss-it moment. “And I guess this girl is the right choice, right now. So the girl I’d like to couple up with is… G.”

Georgia beams, practically launching herself into his arms, but you’re not really looking. You’re staring at the girl standing alone across the firepit, watching her heart shatter in real time.

“Samie, as you have not been chosen, you are now single and have been dumped from the island,” the host says gently. 

The blonde swallows hard, nodding. “Right then. It’s been a lovely week, guys,” she says, a slight wobble to her voice. The next few minutes blur together: there’s tears as she packs her bag, hugs, phone numbers written with eyeliner exchanged on scraps of tissue paper. Samie handles it with grace, emotion kept simmering beneath a placidly beautiful surface.

“I’ll miss you so much, hun,” you sniffle, throwing your arms around her as she finishes zipping her suitcase.

“Love you, babes,” she whispers back, returning the hug. “Don’t let these boys mess you about. Just — follow your heart, ‘kay?”

The other islanders are gathered at the bottom of the stairs when she’s finally ready to go. Samie starts making her way down the line, hugging and chatting with everyone as she tugs her suitcase behind her. You find your way back to Carlos, heart heavy at the thought of losing one of your first friends here. 

“She will be okay,” Carlos says, squeezing your shoulder. “She’s a tough girl.”

You watch as Lando hugs her and she whispers something in his ear. His cheeks go slightly pink, eyes wide, and then he nods, ruffling her hair with a sad smile. “Yeah, she is,” you say, though your chest feels tight as you wave her out.

The doors slam shut behind her, and for a moment, even with Carlos’ arm around you, the villa feels just a little bit colder. 

You find them lounging on the beanbags, bickering like brothers.

“I’m telling you, mate, you can’t just eat the green ones and leave the rest,” Lando says, chucking a grape at Carlos. It bounces off his chest, skittering across the lawn towards the pool.

“Why not, cabrón? They taste better,” Carlos says, plucking another off the stem and tossing it into his mouth.

The banter is easy, practiced, like they’ve been friends forever instead of three weeks. “Swear you’re spending more time with Carlos than I am, Norris,” you interrupt, flopping onto the beanbag between them. “Do I need to be worried?”

Carlos’ hand finds yours immediately as he laughs, wide and warm. “He has his hands full with Georgia, I think.”

“Ooh. How is that going?” you ask, waggling your eyebrows as Carlos takes another grape and feeds it to you. It’s not like you don’t know — you all share a bedroom and Georgia's a loud kisser. Plus, you spotted the suspicious bruise where his neck meets his jaw as soon as you sat down, but you want to hear it from him.

Lando’s ears go pink. “It’s good,” he says cheerfully. “Nice girl.” He pauses. “Carlos only brought G up so you’d distract us from the actual argument. Which I was winning, by the way. If you only eat the greens, it leaves these half-eaten grape carcasses behind. You’re ruining the aesthetic of the fruit bowl, mate.”

“Spoken like a true influencer,” you say teasingly, and something passes across Lando’s face like an errant cloud in the endless blue sky above. 

Carlos squeezes your hand, eyes sparkling with mischief. “Not Landito. You know he does not just run around taking pretty pictures. He has a whole business.”

Lando groans, tipping his head back. The sun floods his face. “Don’t start —”

“It’s true,” Carlos says, looking far too pleased with himself. “Staff, sponsors, contracts. Everything. His job is more complicated than mine.”

You watch Lando, the way he seems to be actively trying to disappear into the beanbag rather than be the center of attention. “Seriously?”

“It’s not that big of a deal,” he mutters. 

“Not a big deal?” you echo, laughing in disbelief. “Lando, that’s so impressive. I thought you just, like, messed about in front of a camera.” Something shifts as you study his face, the picture you’d painted in your mind of a charming, polished surface tilting to make room for something messier, deeper, more real. 

He gives you a sheepish grin, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, most people do.”

“Guess I’ll have to start taking you more seriously, then,” you say, voice low. His eyes flick up to yours, quick and uncertain, cheeks going pink under your gaze.

“Are you actually serious right now?” Gemma’s voice carries through the air, and Lando bumps your shoulder and points across the pool to where she’s standing with her hands on her hips. George is lounging on a daybed with Max, one of the new bombshells, looking entirely unbothered.

“What?” he shrugs. “You asked what I thought about your story. I told you. Would you rather I just nod my head and agree with everything you say?”

Gemma opens her mouth, and you brace for an impact that doesn’t come. Instead, she tilts her head, studying George with sudden interest. “Actually, no.”

“Good,” George says. “That’d be awfully boring.” 

She actually laughs, and you watch the way their faces transform with unexpected softness. If you were to guess the story here, it’d be this: local girl meets her match.

“I give them two days before they start trying to drown each other in the pool,” Carlos pronounces.

“Nah,” you and Lando say at the same time, and he gives you a delighted smile before he continues. “They’re sort of weirdly perfect together.” You nod, feeling a strange sort of pleasure in being the only two in the villa tuned to the same frequency, like two stars aligning.

After that, the chat falls into the easy rhythm you’ve developed over the past few weeks; Lando starts talking about a trip to Madrid, and Carlos lights up about his hometown. From there, it’s all how perfect the weather will be, the places he wants to show you, the restaurants he wants to take you to when you visit. 

Except somewhere in the conversation, visit becomes… something else entirely. 

“My family has a beautiful place in the city,” he says, eyes bright. “There’s such incredible energy in Madrid. You will really love living there.”

You blink hard. “What?”

“Yes,” Carlos says patiently, like he’s speaking to a child who’s not quite catching on. “I am not planning on working for Vowles Designs forever. Someday I will go home. And it is not like you have anything tying you down to London.”

Lando goes very still on the beanbag next to you, watching the two of you with careful eyes. “I —” you start, then stop. Carlos is your type on paper; the kind of guy who makes perfect sense. So why are you hesitating? “I guess we haven’t really talked about what happens after the villa.”

“She is overthinking,” he says to Lando breezily, reaching for your hand. The touch feels safe, comfortable, easy. “Don’t worry, cariño. We’ll figure it out as we go. But Madrid is perfect for us.” Something about his certainty itches, like sand catching under your bikini straps. Does he really think it’ll be that easy for you to leave your world behind, to reshape your life entirely around him?

“I got a text!” Charles yells then, cupping his hands around his mouth, and for the first time the words feel like a relief.

You flip over on the beanbag so you can see him, sipping from your water bottle as he begins to read at the top of his lungs: “Islanders, it’s time to get each other’s pulses racing in tonight’s challenge, Hearts on Fire! Please head to your dressing rooms to choose an outfit to participate in. Hashtag fanny flutters, hashtag heartstopping!” 

Selecting outfits is more cutthroat than you’d anticipated; no one’s really taking the time to rifle through the rack that mysteriously materialized in the dressing room sometime in the past half hour, instead just grabbing whatever they can get their acrylics around. You’re nearly the last there, spotting what looks like a French maid outfit and horrifiedly grabbing whatever the other one is before Nicole can. It turns out to be a naughty nurse costume, emphasis on the naughty — it’s barely a scrap of fabric, designed to be unbuttoned halfway down your chest. At least there’s props, a stethoscope and thermometer to hide behind. 

“Trade me?” Georgia wheedles Gemma, who’s got a two-piece teal costume thrown over her arm. “I always wanted to be a cheerleader.”

Gemma tilts her head, considering Georgia’s costume, which is definitely meant to be a cat but is really just a skintight black leather bodysuit with a pair of Party City ears and a tail. “Fine,” she shrugs, shoving her pompoms at Georgia. “I’m more of a cat person, anyway.”

Lily’s pulling a comically large pair of wings and a halo out of a bag, as Molly, the other new bombshell, unearths sparkly red horns and a tail from an identical one. “Girl, we’re matching!” she giggles, pointing her pitchfork at Lily. 

“Fitting,” Nicole smirks from the other side of the room, clearly aiming for teasing but putting just a little too much bite into it. 

“Lily’s an angel?” Georgia laughs, peering over at the costumes. “Oscar’s gonna cream his jeans.”

Lily splutters. “Georgia! Oh my god. That’s not even —”

“Babe, please, it’s a good thing,” she continues matter-of-factly, teasing her hair and puckering her lips in the mirror. “The whole innocent, ‘I look like woodland creatures dress me in the morning’ angle clearly does something for him.”

Lily’s cheeks go red, covering her face with her hands, and you decide to jump in before things get any more ridiculous. “Anyone got any ideas on how to wear this?” you ask, waving the dress through the air. You know Georgia’s a sucker for any opportunity to style someone, and sure enough, it diverts her attention long enough for Lily to tuck the costume out of eyesight and give you a grateful smile.

The producers have decided the boys will go first, which on one hand means more time thinking about all the ways you might embarrass yourself on national television, but on the other hand means you spend less time in the costume, so it’s basically a wash. They promptly whisk you all out to the firepit, which has been completely transformed, red roses covering every available garden surface and cascading down the sides of the benches.

“Stay calm, ladies,” Gemma instructs, but next to her, Georgia’s practically vibrating in her seat. 

“Bring out the boys!” she chants, clapping her hands, and honestly, the whole thing is so nervewrackingly ridiculous that you can’t help but join in. She shoots you a surprised look that morphs into a pleased smile as the rest of the girls follow your lead. 

Some bass-heavy song starts pouring through the speakers, and Charles trots down the stairs in what looks like a leather skirt and a cape, a plastic sword in hand. You have no idea what he’s supposed to be, but he’s pulling it off. The firelight reflects off his skin, and you suspect the producers have subjected his chest to a fair amount of body oil. 

“Are you not entertained?” he calls when he gets to the edge of the deck, and it clicks. Gladiator. “Because I’m ready to enter your arenas.”

You burst out laughing. You’re not sure whether you’re hoping no one else will do an entrance line that cheesy, or everyone will.

Charles makes his way around the circle, moving with the confidence of someone who knows he looks incredible and has lost the ability to feel shame. His routine for you mostly involves moves with the sword and hip thrusting, neither of which set your heart racing too much, but you scream joyfully when he twerks for Molly, grinds against Gemma, and kisses up Nicole’s neck in quick succession. 

He bows when he leaves, and Molly fans at herself as you all giggle. The song changes, something with more of a sultry beat, and George jogs across the lawn in a pilot’s outfit, all starched tight white shorts and a short-sleeve button-up.

“Welcome aboard Russell Airways,” he says, grinning at you all. “Please fasten your seatbelts, because you’re about to experience some serious turbulence.” He promptly rips the shirt open, shimmying his long limbs and bare chest towards the six of you. He’s both more nervous and less coordinated than Charles, who is whooping from the balcony; he mostly focuses his attention on Gemma, picking her up as she wraps her legs around his hips. When he kisses her, you all cheer, and it seems to spur him on, pressing her down into the couch. He retreats up to the balcony after that, but not before he places his hat slightly askew on Gemma’s head.

“What a dork,” she mutters, but you’re surprised to see a blush coating her cheeks as she touches the brim gently. 

Max comes out next to a rap song you’ve never heard, dressed as a construction worker in a fluoro mesh vest, hard hat, a pair of distressed denim shorts, and work boots. “Get ready girls, I’ve got all the tools to get your hearts racing,” he calls, flexing his biceps. It’s all a little on the nose for a scaffolder, but he just about makes it work. 

He basically skips over Molly, since they can’t couple up, but from the moment he reaches Gemma, you can tell he’s bringing it with a higher level of intensity than the two that came before him. He takes her hand, dragging it down his chest, before he leans in and kisses her neck. “Someone’s grafting!” Nicole cheers delightedly, and he clearly takes it as encouragement, lifting her into the air before he sits, reversing their positions. She straddles him, squealing as his hands roam her curves. 

He makes his way down the line, approach more raw confidence than finesse. You have to hand it to him for trying with every girl, even if Lily looks like she wants to melt into the floor from the attention after he practically swings her around like a ragdoll. When he gets to you, he makes you hold the prop hammer above your head, swiveling his hips against yours without breaking eye contact. The whole thing is a bit much; you can feel your cheeks burning as you silently thank God that Carlos isn’t watching. When he jogs up the stairs to the balcony, you scan the couches for reactions, and smile when you see Nicole looking genuinely flustered.

The song changes again, some house music track this time, and Oscar makes his way down the stairs in a cowboy costume. “Howdy, ladies,” he says, and you can already see the blush on his cheeks. 

“You know what they say: save a horse, ride a cowboy,” you lean over to tease Lily. 

“Shut up,” she whispers back, but she’s watching Oscar run across the lawn in his chaps like it’s primetime television. 

For someone who is clearly mortified by the entire ordeal and looks like he’d rather die than dance in public, Oscar does a surprisingly okay job. He keeps it respectful, all two-steps and hat tipping, and when he clasps your hand in his and do-si-dos you around the firepit, you sort of just want to give him a hug. He saves Lily for last, and actually attempts some proper moves, scooping her into his arms and spinning her around before dipping her into a kiss. 

“So sweet,” Molly coos in a tone just this side of condescending as he leaves. You don’t think Lily notices; she’s watching him go like he just lassoed the moon for her personally. 

The music shifts, smooth and sensual, and you already know who’s coming next. This could only be Carlos, and when he appears at the top of the stairs, you know you’re in for it. He’s a firefighter in tight black shorts, red suspenders, and work boots, and even the ridiculous plastic hat can’t make him look anything less than incredible. “Time to turn up the heat,” he calls, and you whoop joyfully in your seat. 

He keeps things respectful with the other girls; maybe he can feel your gaze on him, bright and burning against his skin as he moves. He picks Lily up effortlessly, throwing her over his shoulder in a classic fireman’s carry and toting her around the fire. It’s Georgia next, skipping over you; he eases her to her feet and grinds against her briefly. Then he moves to Nicole, giving her a lap dance that has her fanning herself frantically. With Gemma, he goes playful, letting her grab the suspenders as he rolls his hips. By the time he gets to Molly, it’s a slow body roll, her hands sliding down his chest as he moves to the beat. There’s no lingering contact, no kisses — just enough heat to remind everyone he could have them wrapped around his finger if he really wanted.

Finally, he comes back to you, and it feels like the world narrows to just Carlos and the way he’s looking at you, raw with want. “You’re looking a little overheated, cariño,” he smirks, hands finding your waist, pulling you up from the bench and holding you close as he moves against you, slow and deliberate and absolutely filthy. 

When he finally kisses you, it’s desperate, aching, your hands tangling in his hair as he presses himself against you. The effect is overwhelming; you’re dazed when he pulls away, a satisfied smirk on his face. The boys on the balcony are whooping so loudly you can barely hear yourself think. You know you’re biased, but you’re not sure how anyone could top that.

Then a Megan Thee Stallion song starts blaring from the speakers, and Lando struts out of the villa in taped-up glasses, a sleeveless button-up shirt with a plaid bowtie, and suspenders holding up the tiniest pair of plaid shorts you’ve ever seen. 

“What’s up, ladies,” he grins, adopting a ridiculously dorky lisp, and you can feel the smile spread over your face before you can stop it. “Who wants to see my PHD?”

The boys are already laughing from the balcony, and Lando’s eyes sparkle as he approaches the firepit, the sound seeming to spur him on. He goes for Lily first, ripping the shirt buttons so the linen flutters loose around him and making her touch his abs. When he pretends to adjust his glasses and winks at her dramatically, she lets out a giggle.

You’re next, and Lando pulls a calculator from god knows where, approaching you as he types something with exaggerated concentration. “Check out my latest formula,” he grins, wiggling his eyebrows as he turns the device around so you can read the screen: 80085. 

“You are actually twelve years old, oh my god,” you say as he comes closer, placing one hand on your shoulder and the other on your hip, but you’re laughing so hard you can barely get the words out. 

He rolls his hips against yours, leaning forward to whisper in your ear: “Having fun yet?”

You’re so close you notice he’s wearing his actual glasses, with costume tape wrapped around the nose bridge, and something about it makes your heart thump in your chest. “Always with you,” you whisper back before you can stop yourself, and the smile he gives you in return is absurdly bright.

The moment is over quickly; he kisses you on the cheek and jumps up, skipping Georgia and moving on to Nicole. He hands her the calculator like it’s a reward before straddling her and grinding against her so exaggeratedly that it has her shrieking with laughter. Gemma’s next, and he keeps leaning into the bit, spinning her up from the bench with a playful tug and then shimmying his body down hers, the bowtie straining around the muscles in his neck. Molly gets a full show of body rolls, and it’s clear that he’s being totally unserious about it, but there’s something about his confidence that makes it all tick.

He finishes by doubling back to Georgia and lifting her effortlessly off the bench as she wraps her legs around his waist. When he kisses her, bouncing her against him with her hands tangling in his hair, you cheer with the others.

“Right, girls, time to return the favor!” Charles yells from the balcony as the boys jump around, high-fiving and chest bumping each other. 

Fifteen minutes later, you’re on your way to a panic attack. 

Like the boys, you’ll be going out one by one. You’re smack in the middle, which suits you fine. You’re already freaking out — going first or last would up the stakes exponentially in a way you know you definitely can’t handle. You can barely even look at yourself in the mirror; the short white dress hugs every curve dangerously and the red lace push-up bra has your tits sitting somewhere around your collarbone.

Lily goes first. Gemma follows her, wielding her tail like a whip. Then Nicole. You can’t see their performances, but you can hear the cheers, the laughter, all the boyish exuberance from outside as each girl dances, and it makes your palms sweat against the plasticky fabric. How are you going to compare?

“You’re up,” one of the producers says as you hear the music start back up and the moment you’ve been dreading arrives. They practically have to shove you out the door, but as you walk down the stairs on shaking legs, a thought occurs to you: Lando was silly and didn’t pretend to be sexy. He was completely himself, and it completely worked. 

You can do that. You think.

You saunter slowly across the lawn, swinging the stethoscope above your head like a lasso. “Hi, boys,” you say, popping the buttons one by one down your chest, and they whistle and howl accordingly, hyping you up. “I hear you’re in need of some medical attention.”

Carlos’ eyes are wide as you reach the firepit, raking over you unabashedly, but you head to the other side of the benches first. You have to make him wait, even if it kills you. 

Your decision means George is up first. “The love doctor has arrived,” you grin, wrapping the stethoscope around his neck and planting one foot next to his lap. You wind your hips, using the prop to pull him closer, and he splutters with surprise. 

Oscar’s sitting next to him, but that’s a no; it’d be like grinding on your awkward younger cousin. You blow him a kiss as you go by on your way to Max, and he gives you a little salute in return.

You sit on Max’s lap next, his hands encircling your waist as you pull the thermometer out of your bra and place it on his tongue. You wait a moment before taking it out of his mouth, winding your hips as you pretend to read it and affect a gasp. “Oh my god,” you say, small grin on your face as you fan yourself. “It looks like he’s got the hots for me.”

The boys absolutely lose it. Lando lets out a cackle, covering his mouth with his hands, and George literally doubles over, clutching his stomach as you move on to Charles. “What’s my diagnosis, doctor?” he says cheekily, grinning up at you with an eyebrow cocked. 

You grin, bracing your knees on either side of his waist, and his breath hitches. “Breathing seems… irregular. I think it might be terminal,” you say, pouting as you roll your hips. You glance over at Carlos; he’s staring, eyes fixed on you, and a current of something electric zips beneath your skin. “But don’t worry, I’m very experienced with bedroom — I mean, bedside manner.”

You kneel in front of Lando next, pulse racing under Carlos’ gaze. Taking the stethoscope from around your neck, you slide it from his heart down his abs to his hips. “Seems like I’m getting your blood pumping,” you grin, crawling up and bouncing your body against his in time with the music. To his credit, he moves his hips in time with you with a smirk on his face, eyes bright. “Or maybe something else pumping.” 

The firepit erupts, and you swear you can hear Gemma screaming from the balcony. “Absolutely ridiculous,” Lando says fondly as you straighten up, kissing his cheek. 

When you turn to Carlos, his eyes are molten. 

“My star patient,” you say, voice low and actually sultry in a way that surprises you as you reach your hand out to him. He immediately tangles his fingers with yours, something possessive and hungry in his touch. You pull him to his feet, and his hands immediately go to your hips, so close to you that you can feel your skin prickle. Once you’ve walked him back to the other side of the firepit, you place a hand on his chest and push, just slightly, and he falls back, hitting the deck and looking up at you as you drop slowly to the ground in front of him. 

“I think he looks a little sick,” you say, eyes glittering as you look towards the other boys. “What do you think? It looks like he might need mouth-to-mouth.”

The cheers are deafening as you slide on top of Carlos, straddling his hips. His chest rises and falls rapidly as his hands find your waist, gripping onto you like it’s the only thing keeping him on this planet. “Feeling better yet?” you tease as you lean down, lips just brushing over his.

“Not even close,” he murmurs, pulling you into a searing kiss, hands sliding up your back as you roll your hips against his. When you finally break apart, breathing hard, there’s something wild in his eyes, and you know you’ve put on a good show. You blow him a kiss as you get up, walking slowly across the lawn, and he holds a hand over his heart.

Carlos is still lying on the deck when you emerge onto the balcony, breathless, and the girls pull you into a hug. “You killed it!” Gemma squeals against your hair.

“Oh my god, I think I blacked out for the whole thing,” you giggle, letting the adrenaline of the moment drain out of your body. “How did yours go? Anything exciting?”

“It was kind of fun, actually? George looked absolutely gone for Gemma, as per. Thought he might have a heart attack. And Nicole was proper brilliant,” Lily chimes in. 

“You looked quite cozy with Charles there,” the redhead sniffs, ignoring the younger girl’s compliment as she turns her focus on you. 

Before you can tell her you’re very happy with Carlos and aren’t going to get your head turned by a guy who hasn’t cleaned his water bottle once in the three weeks you’ve been here, the music starts pounding through the speakers again. Georgia goes cartwheeling across the lawn, straight into a split that has the boys yelling before she even hits the deck. She’s got dancer’s confidence, all hair flips and effortless rhythm as she winds her hips in a way that makes your stomach twist. Molly follows with even more bravado, living up to her costume as she dances for everyone, even Oscar. By the time she makes it to Carlos, dropping her hips to the ground and sending him toppling back against the bench, hands behind his head, you feel ridiculous for ever thinking you could compete. You’ll be lucky if you even raised Carlos’ heart rate the most.

Once Molly’s finished, the producers summon the rest of you down to the firepit again. The air is buzzing with nervous anticipation; you find Carlos at the end of the benches, and the second you sit down his arm slides around your waist, grip tight as he pulls you possessively against his side. 

George’s phone buzzes and he pulls it out. “Time for the results. George, your heart rate went highest for Gemma,” he reads off his phone, and you clap, giving Gemma a thumbs up.

“Your heart rate went highest for Lily,” Oscar reads. “No shock there,” he adds with a grin. 

Max is next, and since he’s single you find yourself genuinely interested in who it’ll be. “Your heart rate went highest for Georgia,” he states, flicking a sheepish glance at Lando. 

“Fair play, mate, she killed that,” Lando replies, a wide, unbothered grin on his face. 

“Your heart rate went highest for Molly,” Charles says next, and Nicole goes deadly still. “Well, she was last!” he tries, but she doesn’t look at him, just keeps staring into the fire.

Lando unlocks his phone when it buzzes. “Lando, your heart rate went highest for —” He stops, blinking down at the screen like the words have gone fuzzy. “Uh, you,” he says, the tips of his ears going pink as he looks directly at you. 

Carlos’ arm tenses around you, and you laugh, a high-pitched, uneven thing. “Well. Thanks, Lan,” you say, voice hoarse. He just nods in response, rubbing the back of his neck. 

It’s back to the beginning, then: Gemma’s heart rate goes highest for George (which he seems immensely pleased by), Lily’s for Oscar, and both Molly and Nicole for Carlos. 

“Three out of six?” you whisper to him. “Save some sexiness for the rest of us, yeah?” He grins bashfully, and the tension in your chest loosens. 

Georgia goes next, and her heart rate went highest for Charles. Lando keeps a smile on his face, shrugging his shoulders like he couldn’t care less. Then your phone buzzes, and you read out loud: “Your heart rate went the highest for Lando.” 

Wait. What the fuck?

By the time the words process in your brain, the firepit has already erupted into chaos. Carlos doesn’t say a word, but the way he pulls his arm away from you feels like a statement in itself. Your cheeks are burning; you can barely stand to look at Lando, but when your eyes flick his way he’s already staring at you, eyes wide. 

“Interesting,” Georgia snarls, smile razor-sharp as the rest of the islanders thin out across the lawn, eyes pointed anywhere but the four of you.

You laugh nervously, heart rate higher than it’s been all night. “It’s just a challenge, G.”

“Is it though?” she says, eyes narrowing as her gaze bounces between the two of you. 

“C’mon, Georgia,” Lando says, low and soothing. “It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Right, of course it doesn’t,” she snaps, hand tightening around his arm possessively as she yanks him up. “Because nothing’s ever serious with you.”

You think you’re probably the only one who sees his expression crumple. He barely has time to shoot you an apologetic look before she pulls him away from the firepit, voice going shrill and carrying all the way across the lawn until they enter the villa. 

It’s just you and Carlos then, and the ache on his face makes you wonder how such a silly challenge could make everything so complicated. “So,” he says, posture rigid as he sits next to you. “Lando.”

You sigh. “Carlos. You went right before him. My heart rate was probably still going mental from that kiss. And Lando’s my friend, and he made me laugh. That’s it. It was just — weird timing.”

“Timing,” he echoes, voice hollow. 

“Exactly,” you say, tugging at his hand; he lets you intertwine your fingers with his, but there’s a vacancy to the act that makes you even more determined to convince him. “The whole thing is stupid anyway. You know there’s nothing between me and Lando. I bet those monitors aren’t even accurate.” 

You can see how badly he wants to believe you. But there’s still something stubborn in his expression, a suspicion that makes your chest tight with frustration.

“It’s just a game, Carlos,” you say softly. “I’m with you. One challenge result isn’t going to change that.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, staring into the darkness. The fire casts strange, angular shadows across his face. Then he sighs, running a hand through his hair. “Sorry. I’m being stupid,” he says, resting his head against your shoulder.

“You aren’t,” you reply automatically, even though part of you kind of thinks he is. “I get it. But you don’t need to worry. You know that, right?”

He nods, skin warm against yours, and when he lifts his head to look at you there’s a hint of a smile on his face. “I know.” 

“Good,” you say, smiling back. “Now stop being daft about this stupid challenge and kiss me properly.”

He leans in obediently, and you meet him halfway. The kiss is soft, sweet, built to reassure. But even after everything, you can still taste the doubt on his lips. 

“We’re good?” you mumble into the kiss. 

He pulls away, but not before pressing one more kiss against the corner of your mouth. “We’re good. Bed?”

“You go,” you say, waving your hand. “Just gonna sit for a bit.”

You stay out long enough for the night to stretch, for the fire to turn to embers and die under your gaze. As you make your way back towards the villa, you catch a glimpse of movement in the kitchen. Lando’s standing at the stovetop with his back to you, shoulder tense as he watches the kettle boil. 

“Hey,” you whisper as you pad into the kitchen. 

He turns, and you’re surprised to see his eyes are rimmed red. “Hey.” 

“I’m sorry,” you start hesitantly. “About earlier. I should’ve said something to G, I think. Or to you. The whole heart rate thing was —” you pause, not exactly sure where you’re going. “I feel bad.”

He grabs another mug without asking, placing it next to his on the counter as the kettle begins to whistle. “Nothing to be sorry for. Not your fault the monitors are mental.”

“How are you holding up?” you ask, hopping onto a stool.

He shrugs, turning off the burner and pouring the water with a practiced hand. “G’s furious with me. Says I embarrassed her since my heart rate wasn’t fastest for her.”

Your eyebrows knit together. “But her heart rate went fastest for Charles.”

“Believe me,” he says dryly, sliding one of the mugs across the counter to you, “I pointed that fact out.”

You take a sip, the familiar mint taste soothing over your tongue. “I’m sure that went well,” you say, lips twitching before both of you lapse into exhausted giggles. 

“I dunno why she got so upset,” he sighs, scrubbing a hand over his face. “It’s not like those things are actually scientific.”

“That’s what I said to Carlos!” you say, and the way he understands you without explanation makes you feel like you can breathe properly for the first time since the challenge ended. “I mean, it’s so ridiculous. They literally design these challenges to stir up drama. I wouldn’t even be surprised if the results were rigged.”

“You mean reality TV isn’t real?” he says, smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Could’ve fooled me.”

You laugh, and it hits then, suddenly and without warning — the terrifying certainty that sitting here in the dark kitchen with him, steam curling off your mugs, is the realest moment you’ve had in weeks.

“Georgia will come around,” you say firmly, shaking off the thought. “She’s going to feel some type of way. The whole challenge is made to mess with people’s heads. But you’re good together.”

“You think?”

“Look, G’s not one of my favorite people here. But you are. And she makes you happy,” you say, shrugging. “Things will get back to normal.”

Something flickers across his face then, but it’s gone too quick for you to analyze it. “What about you and Carlos? You okay?”

You sigh. “Yeah. He was like G, taking the whole thing a bit too serious, but we worked it out. He just needed a little reassurance that it was meaningless, you know?” 

“Meaningless,” he repeats cautiously, like he’s testing the word on his tongue. “Yeah. Right. Well, that’s good. Glad things got sorted.”

There’s silence for a moment, light from the neon signs glowing pink against his cheeks. “I’m glad I have you, you know?” you say eventually, almost a little shy, like you’re unlocking some small part of yourself just for him. “It’s just nice to have a friend here. Someone who doesn’t make everything so complicated.”

He watches you over the rim of his mug, eyes crinkling at the edges as he takes a long sip. “Yeah. It is,” he agrees, and the two of you finish your tea in a comfortable, peaceful quiet. 

“I should probably go. Carlos is waiting,” you say, getting up to rinse your mug in the sink. 

He nods, letting you brush by him as you turn the water on. “Thanks for this,” he says softly.

You look at him, and you can tell he doesn’t just mean for the tea. “‘Course. What are friends for?”

When you slip into bed next to Carlos, he pulls you into him, reassuringly familiar. You turn it over in your head like a mantra: it doesn’t matter what the monitor said. You know where your heart really is.

You just need to keep reminding yourself of that.

It takes you about a half second of consciousness to realize Carlos isn’t where you left him. 

Your eyes shoot open, and when the lights flicker on, you sit bolt upright in a cold and empty bed, eyes scanning the room in a mental tally. Six girls. No boys. Your friends forced you to watch enough of the show before you left to know what that means. 

Casa Amor has arrived.

There’s a beat of stunned silence, and then everyone starts talking at once — carefree laughter, confused murmurs, groggy protests that it’s too early for this. You push back the covers, adrenaline rising in your chest. Everything is gone. Even Carlos’ name has been scraped off his dresser. You can only hope you’ll be more permanent in his mind for the next four days. 

You might be a little bit in shock, because even though you were the first to wake up you’re the last to make it into the dressing room. The girls are already comparing the gifts the boys left behind; Lily’s slipping on Oscar’s leather bracelet with a soft smile on her face and carefully placing a photobooth reel of the two of them into her phone case while Georgia and Gemma shriek with laughter in the corner because apparently, Charles only left Nicole a pair of his boxers with a handwritten note ‘so you remember how fit I am, chérie’.

Neatly folded on your chair is Carlos’ gift: the navy hoodie he always throws on in the mornings, well-worn to the point of softness. It still smells like his cologne, and you smile and hug it to your chest, warm despite the AC blasting through the room. It’s nice. Nothing over-the-top, of course — that’s not Carlos’ style — but it warms your heart to know he was thinking of you, especially after all the tension last week with the heart rate challenge. You’re about to pull it on when your fingers brush unmistakably against a folded piece of paper in the front pocket.

Your heart leaps at the gesture, fingers scrabbling for purchase as you pull the scrap out. But when you unfold it, it’s not Carlos’ neat block handwriting; it’s something messier, rounder letters, script just uneven enough to feel sincere. 

i know you hate when people leave without saying goodbye, so… consider this my goodbye 4 now!! don’t spiral too much ya muppet, i’ll keep an eye on carlos for you xx - L

You read it once, twice, a third time, warmth spreading through your chest. Trust Lando to remember an offhand comment you’d made at least a week ago about your mum leaving for business trips without saying goodbye, how you hated waking up to find people you cared about gone. 

You fold it up carefully and slide it back into the front pocket, pulling the hoodie over your head. Today, you’re keeping both your gifts close to you.

You don’t even pretend to entertain the new boys, really. Franco tries to flirt with you, but he rolls his R’s the same way Carlos does, and you can’t stomach the conversation without feeling like you’re cheating, trying to replace something you haven’t even lost. Lily makes a half-hearted attempt to get to know one of the others, a gangly curly-haired boy named Ollie who’s awkward in a way that’s almost charming. But her hands keep fidgeting with her new bracelet, and when nighttime rolls around, you’re both on the daybeds, string lights twinkling above you as you curl up in Carlos and Oscar’s hoodies and hope against hope that they’re thinking about you too. 

Georgia, on the other hand, is having the time of her life.

She’s flitting between the new boys like it’s the first week all over again. First Yuki the sous chef is making her breakfast, and she’s giggling as he feeds her bites of pancakes on the terrace. Then she’s starting a splash fight with Liam in the pool, shrieking when he dunks her under the surface. All of it irritates you more than it should.

You catch her in the kitchen on day three, when you’re cleaning up from dinner. She flounces in, refilling her water from the spigot as you dry the dishes. “So,” you say as casually as you can, “where’s your head at, with all this?”

“Exactly where it should be,” she grins smugly. “I’m exploring my options, aren’t I?”

“But what about Lando?” you say, stacking plates in one of the cabinets.

“What about him?”

You flinch, turning back around to face her. “He really likes you, you know,” you say carefully. “And you’re going to get him dumped from the villa if you keep cracking on the way you are.”

She blinks at you, hand on hip. “It’s Love Island, babe. It’s not like I’m sending him to the guillotine or something. Honestly, you and Lils act like I’ve murdered someone every time I have a conversation.”

“It’s not about the conversation,” you scowl. “You’re leading someone on, G.”

Her eyes narrow just a little, and for a second, something colder flickers through her usual bubbly persona. “And you’re not?”

You stiffen. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

She takes a long swig from her water bottle, then flashes you a saccharine smile that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “Just don’t get righteous with me, babe. You’re not exactly the picture of honesty, so maybe worry about your own couple before mine.”

Before you can answer — or ask her what the fuck she’s on about, since you’ve been loyally sleeping on the daybeds all week — she turns on her heel and prances off like the conversation never happened. 

The words echo in your mind the entire night, long after the lights of the villa go out. You lie awake listening to the buzz of mosquitos and Lily’s snores, crinkling Lando’s note between restless fingers as your hoodie bunches uncomfortably under your cheek, until the morning sun bleeds golden over the island again. 

The villa’s strangely tense all day, everyone walking on eggshells like they know the end is coming. When the text comes to gather around the firepit immediately, it’s almost a relief.

Molly goes first, unsurprisingly; she wasn’t coupled with anyone before, so she’s had her pick this week. She goes with Yuki, who’s refreshingly outspoken for a Casa boy, enough that you’d wager he actually likes her and wasn’t just going for the only truly single girl. You give her a thumbs up, sending a silent thank you to the universe that you won’t have to eat any more of Charles’ sludgy overnight oats now that there’s an actual chef in the villa. Max high fives her when he comes back with Camilla, a mild-mannered nurse with the prettiest goddess braids you’ve ever seen; you like her immediately, as soon as she gives Molly a hug like she’s known her for ten years instead of ten seconds. 

Nicole’s after her, choosing Franco. Apparently the boxers hadn’t helped her remember Charles much at all. Not that he seems bothered, though — he comes strolling through the door with Chloe, a redhead with chic blunt bangs who looks like her natural habitat is chainsmoking outside a Parisian cafe with a sketchbook. They fit together, you suppose as you clap politely.

Gemma gets a text then, and you’re surprised to see her switch to Liam. He doesn’t seem her type, and you’d thought she and George were pretty solid. When he walks back in with someone on his arm, too, a stunning girl named Meg with glossy curls and legs for days who’s beaming like she just won the whole show, you think you must have misjudged. That is, until George starts staring daggers at Liam’s frosted tips and you clock the way Gemma’s smile doesn’t quite reach her eyes. 

Georgia’s phone buzzes next. She stands up with a slight smirk, clearly reveling in the drama. “I’ve decided to switch,” she announces breezily, and you try to ignore the way your heart drops as she links hands with Jack, the Aussie PE teacher who’d been following her around like a puppy all week. 

A moment later, Lando comes bounding in, solo. You can see the familiar bright grin on his face from a mile away, which also means you can see the exact moment it falters when he registers Georgia seated next to someone else, the loss rippling through the air like an aftershock. 

“Happy for you,” he says to the two of them, exceedingly polite, and sits down at the edge of the firepit, knee brushing against yours as he stares straight into the flames.

Lily’s next, and you squeeze her hand supportively as she stands up. “I’m staying loyal to Oscar,” she says, twisting his bracelet nervously around her wrist. “Some things are worth waiting for.” The pause feels endless, until Oscar appears alone in the doorway with a bashful smile tugging at his lips. She bursts into tears the second she sees him, and he doesn’t even wait for the producers to text their OK before he sweeps her into a tight hug, both of them clinging to each other like there’s no one else in the villa. 

And then it’s just you, standing in front of the firepit with shaking hands and a lump in your throat you can’t seem to shake. “I came here to find something real, and I have,” you say, voice steady even if your heart is anything but. Your fingers toy with the sleeves of his sweatshirt, warm over your cocktail dress. “So I’ve decided to stick with Carlos.”

The wait feels like the longest thirty seconds of your life, until Carlos rounds the corner and even in your panicked state, you can see he’s alone. Relief courses through your body. He stayed loyal. You both —

He turns back, extending his hand. Another figure steps into view beside him, and you discover what it feels like to have your heart break in under a minute.

She’s petite, blonde, brilliant blue eyes, a nervous smile that suggests that she’s overwhelmed by the attention of the moment, uneasy with the way the girls seem shocked and the boys seem entirely unsurprised. Her name is Emma. At least that’s what you think she said. You can’t quite hear her over the ringing in your ears. Your face feels so hot you think you might genuinely overheat. It’s not helped by the fact that you’re still wearing his fucking hoodie. 

The moment stretches, warps, splits at the seams. You’re only pulled out of your daze by the familiar, cruel ding! of a text message beside you on the bench. You blink hard, not even remembering when exactly you sat down. 

“The two of you are now single and vulnerable,” Lando reads off his phone next to you, and you know exactly what that means. Vacation is over, in the most humiliating way you can possibly imagine. 

You take a deep breath, blinking back the tears gathering at your waterline. You can save them until you leave the villa, at least — long enough that Carlos won’t see you cry over him, over everything you thought you had before you let the rug get pulled out from under you yet again. 

And then your phone buzzes in your lap. 

You unlock it with shaking fingers, eyes scanning over the text. “But now you have a choice,” you read out loud, voice low and overly controlled. “You can either leave the villa immediately, or the two of you can stay in the villa as a new couple.”

You can hear the gasps, the low murmurs around you. But all you see — the first person you look to — is Lando. 

“It’s up to you, okay?” he says immediately, voice low, fingertips ghosting at your elbow. The firepit makes his skin glow golden. “Whatever you need. We can go right now.” 

Your eyes flick instinctively to Carlos, across the firepit. He’s not looking at you, instead staring at the decking under his feet with the level of intensity you’d imagined he would save for the newest copy of Architectural Digest. Lando catches your chin with his hand, gentle, and when you turn back to him his eyes are soft. “Hey. It’s not about him, yeah? It’s about what you want.”

You shake your head once, almost imperceptible, eyes wide with panic. “I don’t know what I want, Lan.”

The truth is, you never thought you’d be here. You’d been so sure you were coming back to something steady. To something real. To someone who was waiting for you, too. Not to a beautiful blonde ambush and a man who can’t meet your eyes.

“Okay,” Lando says patiently, thumb grazing your jaw like he’s trying his hardest to keep you anchored into the moment, out of your rapidly spiraling thoughts. “Okay. Market analytics, then. What do you not want?”

The question catches you off guard, words tumbling out before you can stop them. “I don’t want to go like this,” you whisper. “I don’t — I dunno, I don’t want him to think he’s won.”

Something flickers across Lando’s face. At first you think it’s anger, a flash of heat across his boyish features at the idea that both of you have been cast aside like nothing, like losers. But when you look closer, it’s something else entirely. Pride, maybe. Or recognition. Like he sees the fight in you because it lives in him too.

And then he smiles. 

“Good,” he says, throwing an arm around your shoulders. “Because I didn’t really fancy the idea of going home just yet.” His eyes are cold as he stares across the fire. “We’re staying. Think we’ve both got some unfinished business here, don’t we?”

There’s not much anyone can say after that. 

The second the ceremony ends, you bolt from the firepit — not knowing quite where you’re going, just trying to make it to the dressing room closets or the shower stalls or anywhere that has four walls and zero cameras so you can let out the tears that have been threatening to fall for the past hour.

You’re only halfway across the lawn when you hear it, that determined tone that you once found endearing and now makes your stomach twist with panic: “Cariño, wait.” 

Your body tenses, heart hammering against your ribs as you keep moving. “Please,” Carlos says, and he’s right behind you now. You silently curse the fact that you chose to wear stilettos; if you weren’t sinking into the lawn with every step, maybe you could have avoided this confrontation. “Can we talk?”

You would rather suck on Charles’ musty water bottle straw, actually. “Carlos, I —” you start, but he already has his hand on your elbow, spinning you to face him. He’s giving you the look that used to melt you, head tilted just so, softness in those big brown eyes like he hasn’t just stomped over your heart on national television.

“Just five minutes,” he says, voice low. “Don’t I deserve five minutes?”

You freeze, words cutting through you like a knife. He’s acting like you owe him something, like even after the humiliation ritual you’ve been through tonight, somehow you’re the one being unreasonable. You’d thought you’d gotten used to the weight of a million eyes on you, but you’ve never felt so small as you do right now under his gaze.

“Everything alright here?” Your head snaps to your left to see Lando approaching. His demeanor looks calm, but you catch his eyes scanning over the scene with sharp focus, taking in Carlos’ hand on your arm and your eyes, glassy with unshed tears.

“We’re fine,” Carlos snaps, and you blink in surprise at the shift in his tone — clipped and defensive, nothing like the easy banter you’re used to hearing between them. “Private conversation.” 

Lando raises an eyebrow, stepping closer to you, and you pull your arm out of Carlos’ grasp. “Not very private, mate,” he says coolly. “Since you’re doing it in front of the whole villa.”

Your gaze flicks between them, realization dawning. Whatever happened at Casa changed something, their fast friendship curdling into something bitter and unresolved. 

“This is between me and her,” Carlos says, hand slicing through the air like he’s swatting away a particularly unpleasant gnat. “It’s not your business, cabrón.”

“Funny thing about that,” Lando replies, positioning himself cleanly between the two of you, close enough that you can feel his presence like a shield. “When the girl I’m coupled up with clearly doesn’t want to talk to you and is trying to get away from you, it becomes my business.”

Carlos’ jaw tightens, hands clenching at his sides. “She’s a big girl. She can speak for herself.”

“I don’t want to talk to you,” you blurt, surprising yourself with how fast the words come out. 

He opens his mouth to reply, but Lando pipes up first, voice dangerously calm. “There you go. So here’s what’s going to happen now. You’re going to respect her decision not to have this conversation. And if you can’t do that, if you keep pushing when she’s clearly upset, then she’s going to go inside and us two are going to have a very different talk.” He smiles flatly, something final in it. “Are we clear?”

Carlos stares at the two of you for a long moment, eyes flashing, and you can see the moment he realizes he’s not winning this battle, not if it’s two-on-one. “Fine,” he spits, turning on his heel and marching back towards the firepit, posture rigid with frustration.

The second he stalks away, your lungs start working again, and you let out a shaky exhale. It’s like the whole villa was holding its breath along with you; you can hear the buzz of conversation around you kicking back up, islanders meandering across the grass again like someone hit a restart button on the night. Lando turns to you, all the fight draining from his expression in an instant. “You alright?” he says gently. “Want me to get Lily?”

You nod in response to his first question, even though you’re not sure it’s true. “Just want to go to sleep, honestly,” you manage. You’re not so selfish as to interrupt your friend’s happy reunion, even if your own evening has turned into a complete nightmare.

He glances over towards the rest of the islanders, then back to you. “Go,” he says, voice soft. “I’ll hold everyone off for a bit.”

Fifteen minutes later, you’re standing in the bedroom in your pajamas, staring at the beds like they might gain sentience and rearrange themselves out of pity. The producers, clearly hoping for some drama, have sandwiched the two of you directly between Carlos and Emma on your left and Georgia and Jack on your right. 

They’re all smiles as they filter into the room, no regard for the emotional chaos they’re creating as they giggle and flirt in voices that aren’t nearly hushed enough. You, on the other hand, are staring pointedly at the ceiling and calculating the odds of the universe taking mercy on you and striking you down with a lightning bolt.

Lando comes back into the bedroom dead last, hair damp from the shower. You watch as he comes closer, wait for the flicker of pain that crosses his face when he realizes the situation, but it doesn’t come. He just keeps his head down, taking his glasses off and neatly folding them on the nightstand before he clambers in next to you, like a bizarre sort of sleepover.

The lights snap off, and he promptly pulls the duvet up and over both your heads, cocooning the two of you in white cotton as he faces you with a deadpan expression. “Are we in hell right now?”

You exhale, rolling onto your side to face him. “I was thinking the world’s worst middle seat.”

“I’m going to have to full on pterodactyl screech if I hear another bed squeaking noise in surround sound,” he whispers faux-seriously. “Or if Carlos tries out the sexy Spanish whisper again. Like, it’s not that impressive, mate. We all know how to say mi amor.”

You laugh for real this time, sharp and surprised, tension finally loosening in your chest. You can tell he’s just trying to make you feel better, but it works. You think it’s the first time you’ve laughed in days. At least since the boys left for Casa. “Right? Though I think I’d take cheesy Spanish over a loud kisser. I mean, Georgia, babe. Does the whole room need to hear your lips smacking?”

Lando smiles, pleased and a little triumphant. “There she is. Thought I’d lost you for a minute.”

The silence stretches between the two of you for a moment. “D’you know what the worst part is?” you whisper, flopping onto your back. “I actually thought he was coming back for me. Slept on the daybeds the whole week. How pathetic is that?”

“S’not pathetic.” He shakes his head, heart-shaped mouth twisting down at the corners. “I get it. Thought Georgia and I had something, you know?” He laughs, humorless. “It took, what, three days? And she’s recoupled with someone taller, more muscular, less… well, less me, I suppose.” 

The defeat in his voice makes something crack white-hot and angry in your chest. “Less of a personality or a working brain, too,” you say, vicious on his behalf, and he musters up a half-laugh. “Lan, you can’t start comparing. You can’t do that to yourself.”

“Bit rich, coming from you,” he sniffs. “Saw you sizing Emma up from the minute she walked in on Carlos’ arm.”

You sigh, because for a guy who’s only known you a month, he’s annoyingly good at reading you. “Touché. I just… I never thought he’d recouple. I thought I knew him, you know?”

Lando’s voice is hard. “Clearly neither of us did.”

You glance over at him. “What do you mean?”

He sighs, tongue poking against the side of his mouth. “After seeing him at Casa, I think you might’ve dodged a bullet.” He pauses, shifts on the mattress like he can’t physically sit with the information he’s holding back. “He kept talking like he could explore and didn’t have to worry, because he knew you’d be waiting. Got in a bit of a row with him about it, actually.”

You picture them on the lawn, the coldness in Carlos’ eyes, the barely concealed disdain on Lando’s face, and the puzzle pieces click into place. He’d stood up for you. Even when he didn’t have to, even when you weren’t there to hear it, even if it meant he’d lose Carlos.

“Thank you,” you whisper, voice choked with emotion. “For everything. Seriously.”

His gaze softens, and he pulls you into his chest, arms wrapping around you. Maybe it’s the emotional exhaustion, or the strange intimacy of being the only two people in the world who understand each other’s situation right now, but you can feel yourself relax for the first time in days. “Always,” he says, words muffled against your hair. “What are friends for?”

“I’m glad it’s you,” you mumble. He’s warm and solid and steady beneath you, and despite the heartbreak and the humiliation and the hundreds of cameras probably pointed at you right now, you know you’re safe. “Really. Think I’d be losing it if it were anyone else here right now.”

His arms tighten around you just slightly as your eyes drift shut. “Me too,” he says, voice softer than you’ve ever heard it. The last thing you think as you sink into sleep is that neither of you are okay yet, not by a long shot.